Chapter 4 already!
WARNING: This chapter introduces a religious theme – specifically Christianity – and could perhaps be interpreted as a negative portrayal of the religion. I would like to point out that this is not the case, I come from a Christian family myself, and references to it are just part of the plot. No offence is meant to anyone, but I realise this is a sensitive issue, and you have been warned.
Also, I (oddly) don't own ITV, which is mentioned, just so as everyone knows.
On a more positive note, I would like to thank everyone so far who has reviewed/ alerted/ favourited this story, makes me very happy, thankyou for all the positivity :D
This chapter ends with some fairly complicated deductions from Sherlock, and I think it should all make sense, the number of times I've read it through, but if I've missed something, feel free to point it out, and I'll fix it. Enjoy!
Sherlock was abusing the wall again.
This time, thankfully, it was with drawing pins, and not a gun. He'd got a huge, sprawling map of London pinned across it, with photos of the bodies that he'd just taken from their trip to the morgue, joined to where the bodies were found with bits of string and pins; there were notes and deductions and a few newspaper clippings strewn around the outside of the map. In front of this spectacle stood the madman himself, staring at it with intent, and pacing a little with both hands in his hair.
Such collages, John realised, that sprawl across the wall for days on end, are certainly one of the ways that Sherlock can organise his thoughts, put everything together and see what he couldn't before. But they're more than that. John has no doubt that Sherlock could easily come to the same conclusions using only his mind, without any physical manifestation of his thought processes, but he doesn't. He likes the drama of it, the way you walk into the room and are almost intimidated by this monumental piece of artwork – because, to Sherlock, this is an art – he likes the evidence of his intellect on show. Every connection.
John watches Sherlock for a few seconds longer; he's muttering under his breath, pointing to photos and locations, pausing to read a phrase out of one of the newspaper clippings, then growling in frustration, swinging round until his eyes fall on John. He realises, in the split second this happens, that he was meant to be looking up Virginia Smith, and has abandoned it, in favour of just watching Sherlock. He turns back to the screen of the laptop, fast.
"Have you done yet?" Sherlock snaps, pressing his lips together in impatience.
"Yes – almost." John is reluctant to admit that he's been admiring the other man work for the past five minutes. "And anyway," he adds, finding himself a little irritated at Sherlock's impatient tone. "You've already looked her up yourself."
"A cursory first glance," Sherlock tells him, his frustration clearly mounting as he resumes his pacing. "I need as much data as I can get. As unconcerned as you seem to be about actually thinking, I would have thought that you could have at least looked at this as a means to prevent any further murders, as the preservation of human life seems to concern you so much. When I say I want something, it's because it's important."
Sherlock stops, breathing hard. His hands, with which he had been gesticulating violently, he lowers to his hips, and glares at John. John folds his arms, shifts his chair away from the computer, and glares right back.
"John – "
"There you go," he says, getting up, and pushing past Sherlock to get to the kitchen. He waves one hand behind him to indicate the screen. The other grips the counter with unnecessary force, and John grits his teeth together, praying silently that Sherlock will understand that he wants to be left alone. He's rather loath to admit that the reason he hasn't left altogether for a walk, is because he actually wants to help, but right now, he's finding it very difficult to remember why. He wonders, briefly, how his admiration of Sherlock turned so quickly to irritation, but his mind quickly returns to the source of his annoyance.
Sherlock never ceases to shock him in his being demanding and selfish; it's something John often forgets while they're running through London, or stifling giggles at crime scenes, or even arguing amicably over TV programmes – but it's times like these, when Sherlock's mind is set entirely on one thing, that John finds his emotions at odds with each other. Amazement is in constant battle with irritation and exasperation, especially when his flatmate displays his spectacular lack of tact and care. Sherlock gets so focussed on the job in hand that his mind just forgets the tiny amount of social finesse that he possesses: everything is switched off, everything except the data, and the case.
John can't work out if that bothers him.
Yes he can. It's fine. It's all fine. Damn it, he actually likes watching Sherlock work. It fascinates him the way the man can turn everything off: absolutely everything – emotions, manners, anything that might slow him down, prevent him from getting where he needs to go. His mind focuses on the data alone. When Sherlock works, he's almost a machine: completely efficient, putting everything unimportant from his mind. What stops that being terrifying, is the sheer thrill he radiates, so strong you can see it running through him as he pours over documents and corpses and chemicals. It's the only emotion he allows himself when he's working. John's glad he keeps that little shred of humanity, and feels his anger at Sherlock begin to ebb away. He might not understand him, but he definitely admires him.
He takes a deep, calming breath, and turns around. His stupid flatmate was very rude at times, but when you lived with Sherlock Holmes, it was to be expected. He hadn't meant harm; his brain just hadn't computed that what came out of his mouth would hurt anyone, because he'd switched that part off. Bloody consulting detective.
John crossed back into the lounge, where Sherlock was bending over his laptop, scribbling onto a pad of paper next to it. God, they needed a printer. Sherlock didn't stop working, but he looked up very briefly with a small smile, and a 'Thankyou'.
John clears his throat, a little embarrassed, and manages a smile.
"No problem." A pause. "Do you need anything else? I want to help."
"You've forgiven me then," Sherlock comments, and John wonders why he does, with remarks like that. He doesn't answer. "Knew you'd come round."
Sherlock still doesn't look up from what he's doing, and John wonders if perhaps it was a rash decision.
The detective scribbles frantically for a few more seconds, then stabs a full stop into the paper with a rather aggressive finality. That done, he picks up both pen and paper, shuts John's laptop, and holds it out to him. His eyes meet John's. John hesitates for a second before taking the computer, giving a small nod of thanks.
Sherlock smiles then, a proper smile, and lets his breath out, his glance switching from his flatmate to the intricate chart on the poor abused wall. John follows the detective's gaze. They both consider it for a few moments, until John breaks the silence.
"Go on, then." He says, jerking his head towards the wall, and settling down to listen in his favourite armchair. He's slightly annoyed that he missed so much today owing to the fact that he had to work, and is eager to find out what Sherlock's worked out in his absence.
The consulting detective moves over to the map without protest, scraping a wooden chair along the floor behind him, and perching on the back of it. He turns to John.
"Fine," he says. "Tell me about Virginia Smith."
They both know that Sherlock has committed every bit of data regarding Virginia Smith to his memory already, but they both prefer it this way: it involves them both, and gives Sherlock both an outside eye and an audience. John clears his throat, and opens his laptop. Sherlock has left the page on the woman open.
"Ok, Virginia Smith…" he scans down the page. "25 years old, currently recording a new prime time TV show, scheduled to be shown on ITV later this year – Faith:UK – presenter and executive producer." John stops, and looks up at Sherlock, who is staring at him rather intently from his perch. "That's good going at her age."
"Correct. Tell me about the programme."
"Alright…" he consults the screen again for confirmation. "Faith:UK…bringing religion to today's youth…relevance in modern society…looking at a wide range of faiths…um. Focuses mainly on Christianity."
"Good," Sherlock says, leaning forward. "Tell me something about Christianity, John."
John falters.
"God gave his only Son to save the world," he suggests, screwing his face up to recall long forgotten Sunday school discussions. "Um…"
Sherlock laughs.
"I meant something relevant to the case."
"Do I look like a priest?" John asks him indignantly, laughing a little himself.
"Think, John! Think." Sherlock reprimands him. "We know that Virginia Smith had a secret relationship with a fifteen year old girl! Not only would the age gap be generally frowned upon, but the fact that she had a same sex relationship is hardly a brilliant advertisement for a Christian show."
John frowns. For once, he's not sure Sherlock's right. It's a rather nice feeling, but he's wary of displaying smugness.
'You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat.'
"I thought most Christians generally had accepted that homosexuality was alright now," he points out. "I mean, with the whole 'everyone created equal' thing."
Sherlock smirks at him.
"I thought you were trying to convince me you weren't a priest," he comments. "That's one of the particularly controversial things about the show…it's promoting 'old school' – as Virginia so eloquently puts it – Christianity. Stereotypes, everything taken literally."
"Teenagers won't go for that," John says, frowning.
"Apparently ITV disagree, or have been bribed, but I don't want to talk television hierarchy. It's not particularly important, either way." He takes a breath, and John leans back into the armchair. "Now, of course, it's possible that Virginia herself was the murderer, but that is very unlikely. She and Scarlet were clearly caught in some kind of romantic situation by Daniel Yates, so she's not been being careful, and it seems fairly improbable that she would murder the best friend of her lover. So, let's look at who else went missing. A security guard at the studios where the show is being filmed has gone, as has her boyfriend – very sensible, very religious, I should mention – and a seemingly unconnected couple. They're all from London. They've clearly all spotted Virginia and Scarlet, and figured out her dirty little secret. So, they all have to go."
Sherlock pauses, turns the chair he's leaning on round, and sits down.
"I don't know about you, John, but it looks very much like there's an authority figure in the background, pulling the strings." He wrinkles his nose. "Someone like Mycroft."
"Surveying her." John breathes, looking up at the detective in comprehension.
"Obviously. How else would the killer know who needs to be disposed of? This figure has got to be close to her: I would bank on a relative. Look at the facts, John. She's heading up this huge, controversial, almost evangelical TV show, but she's conducting a secret relationship with a teenage girl. If this show were entirely her own concept, surely she'd be presenting a moderate religion that was willing to embrace modern thinking: she's 25, she'll have been well aware for some time that she is not heterosexual. So, there's someone behind her, bleeding their own ideas into this show…she's probably just a puppet. It's definitely an older relative, someone she feels she can't refuse. Unlikely to be a friend – they're easily cast off once they stop fitting in with a person's wishes – and also unlikely to be a younger relative – you don't obey your younger siblings or cousins. Obviously this authority figure has something to gain from this show succeeding, or they wouldn't be doing this. I think it's likely that those surveying her are family too. Our authority figure wouldn't want to employ anyone who has more to gain by selling the story to the media. Family will either love her, and genuinely want to save her reputation – they probably haven't been told about the murders, though – or they too will have something to gain from the success of her programme. Simple."
John stared at him. A part of him notes how Sherlock is so able to dismiss the values of friendship, a little sadly, but he doesn't want to get into another disagreement, and he does want to discuss this case. He tries to put it to the back of his mind.
"You got all that from the fact that she presented a Christian TV show?" John asks, laughing. Then, he stops, remembering something – something Sherlock hasn't. "You've forgotten something."
"No I haven't." His voice has that lazy certainty that's so characteristic of him. Very suddenly, Sherlock leans forwards, and scrutinises John's face. "Have I upset you?"
John ignores the question.
"You," he says, grinning a little, "have forgotten about that gang."
"Gang? Oh, right…they're irrelevant."
"Irrelevant! They're the ones who've been running around doing the actual murdering and branding people!"
"Have they?"
"Haven't they?"
Sherlock leans back in his chair, so that it teeters dangerously on the two back legs, and presses the tips of his fingers together in a pyramid, closing his eyes. He answers with them still shut, John watching him, rather resigned.
"No, they're just a clever red herring…anyone can burn a symbol onto a person's skin. The killer clearly did his research."
John gapes at him.
"But…I thought this authority figure…I thought he was paying the gang to kill these people."
"Yes," Sherlock replies lazily, not bothering to open his eyes. "I thought that too, originally, but it doesn't fit. It was the branding that gave it away – what gang would openly admit to murder? They'd have more to gain by making the story public, anyway, and I don't see the Peckham Boys as particularly willing to do the dirty work of the over privileged."
John manages a little smile. It does, annoyingly, all fit together. Sherlock sits up, drops his hands into his lap, and stares at him, in a way that is quite unnerving. John concentrates, probably in vain, at arranging his face into a neutral expression.
"So that's it," John says, meeting his eyes warily. "You got it."
"Almost," Sherlock corrects him, standing up. He walks over to his map, and stares at a point on it intently, as if by sheer force of will he can disappear into it. "I need to speak to Virginia herself, find out who our puppet master is, and our killer. Then, yes."
"Are you going to tell Lestrade what you've got?"
Sherlock glances over his shoulder, his pale eyes incredulous. He makes no answer, and walks over to the kitchen. John winces at the clattering noises that ensue, and decides he doesn't really want to see what Sherlock's doing.
So, he doesn't look.