Senses were heightened here, rushing to meet memory, to compare and update old information. There was a familiarity to the night air, to the way the breeze teased him with smells and distant sounds. Security. It wasn't a concept Sherlock had considered until it had been gone, until it was only the memory of home that sustained him, not the real thing.
Easier now to ignore that he didn't have the real thing but a faded second best. A ground floor flat that smelled of warmth and lingering perfumes, where he slotted his meagre possessions next to those that weren't possessed anymore, that existed solely to take up space in a space that belonged to no one.
On the street, he could pretend otherwise. He had Baker Street, after a fashion. John was still there. Still looked the same in his casual jumpers. Still smelled the same – shampoo and deodorant and minty toothpaste and tea. Mrs. Hudson may be gone, but Sherlock clung to the memories of final moments, of joy and relief, of shining eyes and the warmth of a hand around his.
Fascinating that he'd missed human contact. That he still missed it, even in the middle of it, rekindling relationships, re-establishing contacts. Suspicions about his identity, about his return, were mislaid with money – it irked him that it came from Mycroft, but he could understand necessity. Tiresome to be in his brother's debt – even if Mycroft wasn't asking for repayment – but soon he'd be on his own again.
Soon. Or maybe a bit later than he'd like, but it was coming. Contacts on the street were one thing, but those who had nothing couldn't pay. Information was their currency of choice, in exchange for the real thing from him. Access to the Met – that would take longer. Rebuilding trust, clearing his name… it was coming but it wasn't here yet. He could taste it, smell it – but not touch it.
Still, he told himself. Still. He was home, even if home was broken. It was still Baker Street. John would come round. There were ways of seeing to that. He repeated that until it became true, a prophecy rather than a prayer.
And with redemption would come paying clients. Money was not an issue – or at least it wasn't meant to be. A distraction. Eating and sleeping were the same. Requirements for living, keeping him from cases.
The buzz of his phone in his pocket was another distraction; with a sigh, Sherlock fished it out, ducking into the relative shelter of a doorway, cupping a gloved hand over the screen in futile defence against the misting rain.
Park Lane. Your expertise needed. There's a car waiting. M
"No police, Mycroft?"
"We have several military police officers inside, but in this area, I think even you can appreciate a certain need for discretion."
"Yes, I'm sure the victim's family is paying handsomely for your 'discretion'."
"I had hoped the past nine months would have altered your views somewhat."
"I'm perfectly happy to leave," Sherlock replied lightly, mind already winding down the paths he needed to take to get his base back – hardly something he could accomplish here in the gilt and splendour – and the subtle, expensive smell – of old money.
"Unfortunately for me, this is precisely the kind of thing at which you excel," his brother sighed.
"Ah. You mean everything."
Mycroft rolled his eyes, tapping his umbrella against the floor, the thickness of the Persian rug absorbing the sounds of the impact.
"We don't have time for this. Come meet Mister Adair."
"Adair? As in The Right Honourable?"
"I'm impressed by your sudden knowledge of our nobility. But no. His son – which rather complicates the situation, actually. As much as you dislike the discretion, I suspect we will not be able to keep him from speaking out against this for long. The sooner you have something for me, the better."
A small library or an office, walls lined with bookshelves – custom made, built into the walls. Desk with a laptop that was closed, powered down, untouched. Empty mug sitting beside the laptop, faint ring half visible beneath it – it had been moved, but not recently. The desk was tidy, pens and pencils stored in a small mug with a broken handle – an odd touch of sentiment in a room that was otherwise impeccably decorated.
"Who found him?"
"The housekeeper. Less than an hour ago."
"I'll need to speak with her when I'm done here. Give me gloves and everyone get out."
What was it about the hesitation at an order? Mycroft repeated it at a murmur as Sherlock snapped the latex over his hands, stepping carefully toward the chair.
Body hadn't been moved. Died where he had been sitting, kept almost upright by the wingback chair. No smell of gunpowder, no residue on the skin. Single entry wound at the temple, no exit wound. A lap desk had fallen when he'd been hit, overturned and scattering papers and pencils around his feet. High quality artists' paper, likely specially printed or limited distribution – something to check on. Pencils of equal quality, but nothing that couldn't be easily purchased for the right price.
Simple sketches – elegant, the product of a talented hand. Sherlock turned that hand over now. Evidence of graphite smudging on the fingers, along the side of the hand where it had rubbed the sheets.
And ink. Blue, dry but not faded.
"He has ink on his hands. He was writing something."
"We found no pens on or around him," Mycroft said. "Part of the drawings, perhaps?"
"No, it's only on the thumb and the middle finger – right where it would be if it were a fountain pen that was leaking slightly."
"Who writes anymore?" his brother asked.
"Him, apparently. At least he did." Quick glance at the fireplace opposite, but it was empty and cold, no hints of ashes. Hadn't been lit in some time – worth checking to see if the chimney was blocked.
No smell of alcohol on his breath. Faint aroma of tea, maybe – but if so, it had been some time. Dressed casually – jumper, trousers, shoes with a faint scuff around the toes, just starting to need a decent polish. Nothing to go out in, but he hadn't intended on going anywhere.
Gaze out the window – the open window – to the street. Relative quiet this time of night. The traffic wasn't a steady hum, but the occasional vehicle passing. Long enough gaps for anyone passing to go unnoticed.
"Cameras?"
"We're pulling what footage we can."
The scent of rain coming through the window on the breeze, but no disturbance on or around the sill. No forcing, no marks. No screen either. Just an open window next to a dead man.
This was suffocating.
He needed someone to really talk to.
He needed John.
His brother was watching, but it scarcely mattered. No hope of Mycroft being fooled, and leaving the room wouldn't change that.
Your assistance would be greatly appreciated. Park Lane. –SH
No, no, no, John thought. Not yet. Fingers clumsy from sleep reached around his mobile to shut off the alarm, but it wasn't the signal to begin his day, it was a text. From Sherlock.
The first he'd received in nine months, and probably exactly the kind he should have expected.
Your assistance would be greatly appreciated. Park Lane. –SH
"'Greatly appreciated', even," John muttered to himself as he clicked the mobile off again. The tiny patch of light vanished immediately into the darkness and he curled back under his duvet. As accommodating as Sarah had been about his recent schedule, he had work in the morning, patients who needed him, and no time to run around with a lunatic in the middle of the night.
There was no response, but Sherlock told himself it made no difference. John hadn't accompanied him on all the cases in the past. No reason he needed to be on this one.
With a puzzle to sort out, it was easy enough – easier, at least – to ignore the small, tight feeling that settled in his stomach, just below his lungs.
Emotions were unnecessary for Ronald Adair – he could neither feel them nor benefit from them. Someone had killed him without emotion either. No violence, nothing taken, no damage to the body other than the single gunshot.
Had to have come through the open window, but the angle was all wrong. Sherlock peered through the lamp-lit darkness to the other side of the street. Quiet houses, quiet shops. All beyond the means of ordinary people – but his shooter was undoubtedly not ordinary. Such a skilled shot at such a distance…
"Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter… You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service ..."
Words unintentionally spoken about John over two years ago – the time that had slipped away would have left him reeling internally if the sudden memory hadn't. John, who had shot a stranger without hesitation, without wavering. John, who hadn't answered his phone.
But that was stupid.
It was stupid. But it put him on the right track. Clearly someone with extensive training, so probably military. An experienced sniper – but from whose army and why?
"The window's," a quick check, "six feet off the ground. From a building opposite, he'd want to be above. There are… three– four windows at a good vantage not blocked by the tree outside, but the angle of entry is wrong. The killer had to be below him. Couldn't have been standing just outside – that would leave footprints, and that angle is wrong, too. Other side of the street…"
"In a vehicle?" Mycroft suggested.
"Unless someone's taking to walking around with a sniper rifle and going completely unremarked. Even in the middle of the night, it's too conspicuous. You'll prefer to remain inside, of course."
Distance helped lighten the weight of Mycroft's gaze, and there was something freeing at being outside, where the breeze refreshed everything, where London moved.
An RMP officer was standing near the gate, watching him. Professional curiosity rather than acrimony and the sensation was so odd that it niggled at Sherlock, distracting him. He refocused, moving slowly along the pavement opposite Adair's home, pacing carefully until he'd defined the vantage point from which the shot could have come. Right view, right angle.
But there were no empty parking spaces. A careful, ungloved hand on the hood of each vehicle gave none of them away – they'd all been parked and unattended for some time. Long enough for the engines to go cold.
A better disguise would be a vehicle that hadn't moved. No windows broken, no locks forced. He couldn't count on anyone noting a car alarm sounding – who even heard that anymore?
But there was something wrong with this, too. Sherlock crouched to the level of where a typical seat would bring him, aware of the Redcap watching him with a wry smile. The height would force the angle to be wrong. He'd have to be higher – or closer. He needed data he didn't have. The speed of the bullet as it entered Adair's skull would give him a better idea of where he needed to be.
Buses passed along this road – but a sniper on a bus would draw comment. Even on the roof of a bus, someone was bound to see him.
Sherlock stopped his slow pacing abruptly, listening to the hints and nudges from his mind.
"Back inside," he said abruptly to his waiting chaperone.
"A Land Rover."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows in silent response.
"Likely one with a roof hatch – less conspicuous than crawling onto the roof. The angle and the distance means the shooter had to be about six and a half feet off the ground. You're looking for a Land Rover."
"There must be a number of vehicles approximately the same height. What makes you so certain it's that one?"
"That confident a shot at that distance? We both know we're looking for a military man, Mycroft. Discretion for the family is a good cover, but that's not really why there are military police and no Met officers. Your shooter was military. If he was from our army – and you think he was – a Land Rover would be his vehicle of choice."