"So I'm assuming that Helen Stoner is pretty rich," says John, his eyes wide as his looks at the mansion rife with wildlife in front them.
Sherlock nods thoughtfully. John slows down for a minute, whispers a reverent "Wow…" and then hastens to catch up with the detective's long, certain strides again.
"Yes, I suppose," replies Sherlock, his voice even. His eyes are darting around inconspicuously. John can practically see the cogs in his brilliant brain working, the clues being snatched up and stored neatly in his mind like the world's most wonderful pensieve.
"Right, let me get this story straight. So Miss Julia Stoner dies mysteriously in a locked room, the only evidence of foul play are rope-like bruises around her body. The Aurors are suspicious, but unable to find anything, so her sister, Helen contacts you to see if you can solve her death. You don't think Lestrade should come? He might be able to shed some light on the matter and provide official evidence," says John. They arrive at the impressive, if not ominously dark and grotesque, gates. There is a thick piece of square metal that looks like a lock without a hole in the middle of the gates, joining them together and preventing access, along with the presumable charms and curses protecting the grounds. It seemed like a well-protected house that would have those sorts of things if the unplottable co-ordinates stated by Miss Stoner in the letter were anything to go by.
"I don't see why he should. It doesn't seem like a particularly dangerous case and there's no evidence that they have that I can't obtain myself; I don't think the murder of the young lady has even been investigated properly. Miss Stone said the Aurors have disregarded it as an accident, a spell gone wrong. Which is ridiculous, obviously," replies Sherlock offhandedly. He looks up at the gate and says clearly, "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, and Dr John Watson, here to see Miss Helen Stoner."
A green light flashes and suddenly the square metal on the front of the gate transforms into a silver handle. Sherlock grasps the handle and pushes the gates open.
"Obviously?" says John, as they stride up the driveway. "Why are you so sure it's a murder? Miss Stoner didn't even seem convinced herself."
"She wouldn't write if she didn't suspect foul play. I expect the resignation of her sister's 'accidental' death was because someone was monitoring her. You don't get that sort of nervous handwriting from someone this upper-class; it would be ingrained in them to write perfectly. Unless of course she has a nervous disposition, which doesn't seem right considering the fact that she is hiring us and trying to work out the cause of her sister's mysterious death. That takes courage to do, especially if, as I suspect, her stepfather is as strict as he seems."
"Her stepfather?"
Sherlock smirks. "Yes. Over there. The gates alerted him, I presume. Now we know he was monitoring his stepdaughter's letters, he wouldn't have known who to expect otherwise. We have his profile already."
"I'm not even going to ask how you know that's her stepfather," murmurs John as they walk closer towards the house. The man awaiting them looks grim, stern and a little on the plump side, with a cane clasped between his wrinkled hands. He stands as straight as a man on patrol.
"Good morning, Mr Stoner," greets Sherlock jovially, an overly buoyant smile suddenly plastered on his face. He offers his hand out. The man doesn't take it, but looks stonily at it for a second before staring at Sherlock, his eyes narrowed.
"It's Professor Grimesby Roylott actually," he replies, "And you are?"
Sherlock darts forward and grasps Roylott's hand anyway. He shakes it rigorously, smiling. "Oh, yes, of course, my apologies Dr Roylott. I think you know us, don't you? Otherwise your gate must need re-charming."
A sour expression passes over Roylott's face. He yanks his hand away. "Helen must have tampered with it. You must be the men she owled about her sister."
"Yes, yes, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my assistant, Dr John Watson. We've come on request of your daughter. She wanted us to investigate her sister's murder."
"Her murder?!" splutters Roylott, "The Aurors said it was simply an unfortunate accident!"
Sherlock's smile drops. "Apparently Helen thinks differently. May we speak to her in private?"
"I should kick you off the premises right now! Do you even have any credentials?!"
Sherlock makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat and moves past Roylott. John nods in greeting at him and follows Sherlock.
"I…you can't just…!" fumes Roylott, trotting angrily after them.
If Sherlock gives any indication he's heard Roylott, he certainly doesn't show it, thinks John, making his strides longer to catch up to Sherlock's quick steps.
Sherlock knocks on the door confidently. They only have to withstand a minute of Roylott stamping and swearing behind them before the door is opened by a young lady with a kind face and long brown hair.
"You must be Mr Holmes, come in," she begins, smiling, before she spots her stepfather, red faced and fuming, behind them. "Oh!"
Roylott pushes past John and Sherlock. "I won't have men without any credentials or any business being here coming into my house, Helen! Do you understand me? I won't have it!"
"They're here to help," replies Helen, staring uncertainly at her stepfather, "They're going to explain Julia's death. I don't think it was a murder, dad, she'd never give anyone any reason to hurt her, but I need to know how she died. I need some finality to it. We can't just go on without knowing what killed her. It's disrespectful to her memory and hard for us."
Roylott glares at Sherlock and John for a moment, before closing his eyes, his brow furrowed like he's doing some very quick thinking. After a few seconds, he opens them and shakes his head disparagingly. "Fine. Okay."
Helen smiles and she gestures for the two of them to go through the doorway. Sherlock steps over the threshold of the house without incident, but as soon as John steps through there is an alarm that rings throughout the house. John freezes, panic clearly etched in his face; he suspects what set the alarm off, and frankly he's had far too much of this, and he doesn't want his condition to ruin their case. Sherlock grasps his arm consolingly.
"What is that alarm for?" shouts Sherlock over the incessant drone of the alarm.
Helen and Roylott look at John suspiciously, but eventually Roylott takes his wand from his belt and waves a pattern in the air. The alarm stops.
"Being a proud Pureblood family, it's necessary that we have certain…precautions when dealing with strangers in our house. For example, that dark detector," says Roylott, still looking at John, who stands strong against his gaze. His shaking hands are the only things that give away his state of mind.
"I can assure you with the utmost confidence that Dr Watson hasn't the heart nor confidence to be able to use any dark magic. I wouldn't worry if I were you," says Sherlock steadily. He gestures for John to walk with him, obviously irritated. John takes a single step before Roylott holds up an arm to stop it.
"I'd like you hear it from your mouth that you mean us no harm, Dr Watson. That dark detector doesn't lie; you have the skills and mindset to use dark magic, or, even worse, you are a dark creature," murmurs Roylott warningly.
John holds his head high. "I give you my word, Professor Roylott."
Roylott eyes him suspiciously.
"There, see? Now if you don't mind, Professor, I'd like to begin the investigation into your stepdaughter's death," snaps Sherlock, his irritation finally getting the better of him. He grasps John's wrist and yanks him past Roylott's drooping outstretched arm.
The room in which Julia was murdered is a low ceilinged, dark, damp room. Aside from the single bed, wardrobe and bedside table, there isn't much furniture that adorns the room. A strange bell cord hangs over the bed, with the rope coming from out of the ventilator. The walls are painted a dark green, and the plains floorboards are dusty to the point of neglect. To call the room dank and depressing would be an understatement.
"I'd never seen Julia's room while she was alive, but I can see why she was unhappy about it," says Helen quietly.
John nods. "It can't have been a nice place to sleep."
"It's awful. I have to sleep in here for the next couple of days."
"What?" says John, looking in concern at Helen, "Why?"
"Dad says I have to sleep in here while my room is being redecorated. I told him he doesn't have to; I like my room just the way it is, and I'll be moving out soon once I turn twenty one and get my inheritance. But he wants to make me feel better, so he said he'll treat me to a new room. I can't stand staying in the room Julia died in. It's awful," says Helen, looking miserable. "It's why I haven't moved any of my stuff in, it would've felt too permanent."
"You can't stay in any other room? It has to be in this one?" asks John, frowning.
"Well, this is the only room with a bed, and dad says he'd really rather not move the bed from this room, as it would be disturbing Julia's memory. I don't quite get it, but if it's for Julia, then, well…"
John looks at Helen's expression and feels a squirm of pity for her. "Don't worry, Helen. We'll find out what happened to your sister. She'll get justice."
"You really think she was murdered then?" asks Helen, aghast. "I didn't really think it, but…Mr Holmes? Have you found anything?"
Sherlock makes a noise of confirmation to show that he's listening, but doesn't deign to respond. His magnifying glass is out (which he insists on using due to the simplicity of the item; it can't malfunction or lie, it does its job, and he doesn't have to memorise new, pointless spells and take up more space in his 'mind palace'), and he inspects the dusty floor carefully. After a minute of silence, Sherlock stands up and tucks his magnifying glass in his pocket. He nods at the bell rope hanging from the ventilator. "Does that work?"
Helen looks up at it and shakes her head. "No. Or if it does no-one's ever heard it."
"Where does that ventilator go?" asks Sherlock immediately, pointing at the metal grating. John can almost see his deductions lighting up in his head.
"Well, the other end of it goes in my stepfather's room," replies Helen, looking a bit blank at these random questions.
Sherlock gives another sound of confirmation and jumps onto the bed to inspect the grating. He peers inside the ventilator and swipes his forefinger across the metal bars. A smirk spreads across his face and he turns and jumps back off the bed.
"John," he says, extending his hand out and pointing his forefinger up so John can see it, "Look. No dust."
John stares blankly at the finger for a second. His face then clears. He nods. "No dust. But there's dust everywhere else. And the door was definitely locked and charmed to curse an intruder when she was killed; Helen said in her letter. Which means…"
"The killer entered through the grating," finishes Sherlock. His hands fly up to rest palms together underneath his chin. "It would be a tight fit. Which rules out plump Professor Roylott…"
"You thought my dad was the killer?" squeaks Helen, stricken.
"A perfectly logical conclusion to draw, considering your inheritance," replies Sherlock, "Now shush."
"But-!"
"Shut up!"
John looks apologetically at Helen, who looks as if she's going to burst into tears. As much as he would like to scold Sherlock, he knows that the detective is thinking hard, and it wouldn't be wise to disrupt his thought process.
Suddenly, Sherlock's face clears and his mouth turns up in a smile. He claps his hands and exclaims, "I think I have it, John!"
"What is it, Mr Holmes?" asks Helen nervously.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Stoner. I'll be back with your answer by this evening," says Sherlock, striding out of the room. He looks back and smirks. "Come on, John. We have things to discuss."
John nods and claps Helen on the shoulder softly. "Don't worry, we'll be back, with answers to your sister's death."
Helen smiles bravely and manages a small, "Okay."
"Did you deduce that Professor Roylott is rather fond of his plants? When I shook his hands earlier, they were rough with cuts and thorn pricks. In fact, I'd even go as far to say as he collects them. He had numerous novels on his shelf about plants; 'Toots, Shoots 'n' Roots', 'Encyclopedia Of Toadstools, 'One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi', 'Flesh-Eating Trees of the World', etc," says Sherlock quickly, his mouth hurrying to catch up with his brain.
"I didn't actually, but go on," replies John, listening keenly.
"He also had a fondness for rare and dangerous plants. I noted Mandrakes near the Flitterblooms, Leaping Toadstools and Abyssinian Shrivelfigs in the back garden, and even Fanged Geranium underneath the window of all places. I wouldn't suspect him of bringing something as dangerous as Devil's Snare in and raising it among the Flitterblooms, before making use of it."
"Wait," says John, turning his head quickly to look at his friend, "You think that he used Devil's Snare to murder his stepdaughter?!"
Sherlock puffed out a breath of air. "Oh, don't sound so scandalised, John," he chides, "Murdering fathers happen more frequently than you'd like to think. It isn't even that far of a stretch; as soon as I heard that Helen Stoner was to come into an inheritance, and fairly soon I should imagine if she's to receive it when she turns twenty one, I connected it to the natural disposition of her stepfather before he was forced to be nice in order to keep lulling his stepdaughter into a false sense of security."
"That is a bit of a stretch, Sherlock," says John, frowning.
"It's not when you consider his fairly expensive habit, his obvious dislike of the girls who are, or were, to shortly come into a massive amount of money, and the loss of responsibility for them after their mother died. It's written in the house. Julia's room has had little care for it, and she was obviously moved there specifically for her murder, as evidence from the dust. There are no photographs of the girls, no memorabilia, yet there is of his deceased wife, which shows that he does have feelings, but he doesn't care to use them for his stepdaughters, who have been a thorn in his side since his wife's demise. He didn't feel remorse for Julia Stoner's death, and the rubbish about doing up Helen's room to make her feel better is obviously a ploy to get her to stay in the same room as Julia so he can re-enact the well-planned murder that worked so well for him on Julia."
"Which was?"
"He waited until Julia was asleep in her bed, and then released the Devil's Snare he grown in the dark, dank ventilator shaft. He used his wand to open the latches containing the deadly plant and shone Lumos or another charm of the like at its back, which obviously forced it to go forwards into Julia's room. Aggravated, it heads for the nearest victim. The fake bell cord acted as a bridge for the Devil's Snare to land on the bed and kill Julia. The cord is aimed just right of where the girl's head would have been, so the plant would have strangled her first, cutting off air and preventing her from screaming, which would have obviously alerted her sister or any maids in the house. It then proceeded to squeeze the life out of her, as Devil's Snare is apt to do. Whilst this is happening, Professor Roylott closes the latch on his side of the ventilator, runs into Julia's room, which obviously doesn't curse him as he was allowed access into her room and was the one to cast the spell in the first place, and casts another Lumos to force the plant back into the ventilator. He seals the plant in from Julia's side of the room too and the evidence has vanished, apart from the lack of dust on the metal grating. He can't have sealed it too strongly then, because the dust would've come back by now; it's been weeks since Julia's death. So no, the plant reaches out its tendrils sometimes so stretch, so he's kept it loose because he intends to murder again, which was also back up the fact that he is murdering his stepdaughters to get their inheritance, since naturally Helen is going to be inheriting her sister's fortune too now. So all he has to do is wait until Helen receives her inheritance and then boom! he murders her too and gets all of the money. But now he knows that we're onto him (because of course he knows, he must have researched me and found out I'm a highly competent detective unlike some Aurors) he's going to try it tonight, because he can't risk having his plan foiled. Even if he only gets half of their fortune in compensation, it's better than nothing and going to Azkaban while he's at it. Simple."
John stares. "That's fantastic, Sherlock."
"I don't think I've heard that enough times, John, do continue," replies Sherlock, smiling. "But really, do keep at it; I've started to rather enjoy your compliments."
"Oh, shut it you berk."
They reach the gates and Sherlock lifts the Muffliato charm that he'd cast just after they'd left the mansion. He repeats their names again and the gates open willingly. They step out into the grounds and breathe the fresh air.
"We'll go back tonight to catch the culprit, but I fancy a trip to the Apothecary's," says Sherlock, holding out his arm for John to take.
"As long as I get to sit down with a nice cup of tea, I'm all for that," replies John, linking his arm through Sherlock's.
Sherlock huffs, but turns them on the spot to apparate to the nearest village.
After John's had his tea and Sherlock's practically bought the entire section of Classified Dangerous Ingredients and banished them home, probably much to Mrs Hudson's chagrin, they apparate back to the Stoner/Roylott mansion and hover at the gates.
"What now?" says John, "We can't just walk in through the gates. If we're planning to catch the Professor during the act, we can't notify him that we're here."
Sherlock takes a leaf from his pocket. "Unlike some, I think ahead."
"And a leaf is meant to help us how?" retorts John.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It's a Portkey. Yes I know it's illegal," he adds exasperatedly when he sees John's stern face, "But it's for the greater good. Mycroft can fix it anyway."
"Mycroft is not a solution to all your petty crimes."
"Just hold the leaf; it goes in exactly 5 seconds."
"Merlin, Sherlock!" cries John as he hurriedly holds the leaf and is almost immediately dragged away as the Portkey transports them to practically the front door.
"Christ," murmurs John, picking himself up off of the ground, "You couldn't have picked a better location?"
"The co-ordinates must be slightly off," replies Sherlock distractedly. He sneaks up to the front door and mutters spells at it. The door creaks open and Sherlock enters cautiously, before beckoning John, putting a finger up to his lips to quiet him. John nods and steps over the threshold, holding his breath. When no alarm sounds, he releases it quietly and follows Sherlock stealthily up the stairs and into Helen's room. Sherlock opens the door with a quiet snicker and immediately casts Silencio on Helen, who sits bolt upright in bed and gives a frightened gasp.
"Sh, don't let him know that we're here. Act normal," whispers John, "We're going to save your life."
Helen nods, frightened but determined. Sherlock quietly murmurs the counter spell and Helen, although pale as death, does as she's told and settles down into the bed again.
They don't have to wait long before a dim light shines from behind the metal bars of the ventilator. Sherlock nudges John and gestures to his wand. Helen looks petrified.
"What's happening? What's going on?" she whispers desperately, "What are you doing with your wands?"
Sherlock silences her again and casts Muffliato in succession, ignoring John's pointed look of "Not Good, Sherlock!"
"Here it comes," whispers Sherlock, "Incinerate it."
John holds his wand tightly, the spell on his lips. He gestures for Helen to come to then, which she does almost immediately, scrambling out of the bed to kneel frightened behind them. John reaches round to put a consoling hand on her shoulder, to reassure the shaking woman who currently looks like a little girl in her terror.
"John!"
John whips around to see the Devil's Snare groping for a body, for something to strangle with its long, deadly tentacles.
"Incendio!"
Bright jets of flame erupt from their wands at the much-bigger-than-they-anticipated plant. It shrivels and cowers, but doesn't retreat. Apparently it doesn't much fancy going back through the vent either. Roylott must still be casting his own spells at it from the other end.
John stands up and runs out of the room, ignoring Sherlock's yells for him to come back. He holds his wands tightly by his side and breaks into the other room with a well-placed "Bombarda!"
Roylott stands in the middle of the room, red faced with exertion and anger. He seems torn between aiming his wand at the plant and the doctor aiming his wand determinedly at him.
"Lower your wand, Roylott, and I won't hurt you," growls John. His grip tightens on his wand.
The Devil's Snare is creeping back slowly, its tendrils sliding over the walls menacingly. Roylott hesitates, then suddenly fires off spells in quick succession.
"Reducto! Colloportus! Stupefy!"
The Devil's Snare is blasted backwards and half locked in the ventilator, some of its vines still groping angrily. The red stunning spell is blasted at John with surprisingly accuracy. It manages to hit him in the leg as he tries to sidestep it.
"Expelliarmus!" shouts John, just as his leg collapses from underneath him. His spell is so strong and has so much resolve in it that Roylott is blasted backwards, his wand flying in the air. Roylott slams against the wall, his back arching from the rebound and is knocked unconscious just as Sherlock comes rushing into the room, followed by an anxious Helen. He catches Roylott's wand with brilliant timing and rushes immediately to John's side.
"John! Where are you hurt?" asks Sherlock frantically, as he pats John down.
"I'm alright, it was just a stunner," replies John, gently pushing Sherlock away, "Go make sure Roylott can't get away."
Sherlock nods grimly and stands menacingly over Roylott, who just seems to be coming back to consciousness. Roylott squeaks when he's sees Sherlock's thunderous face looming over him.
"It's a damn good thing that you didn't kill my friend, otherwise I wouldn't have let you out of this room alive," snarls Sherlock. He whips out his wand and casts Incarcerous on the cowering Professor.
"Helen," Roylott stammers, struggling against his bonds, "Helen, please, tell these men to stop. I'm innocent!"
Looking absolutely stunned, Helen shakes her head and takes a few steps backwards. "I thought you cared for us. But you murdered her. You murdered Julie."
"No, sweetie, no, these men are just playing with your mind! Trust me, I'm your father!"
Sherlock growls threateningly, his wand raised, but freezes when Johns grasps his shoulder to hold himself up. Sherlock arms drops and snakes round John's waist to keep him upright on his weak leg.
"I think perhaps we should summon Auror Lestrade," says John calmly, "Help me over to the fireplace. I can see some Floo powder on the mantelpiece."
"You most certainly aren't using my possessions after you incarcerate me and falsely accuse me of murdering my own stepdaughter!" shouts Roylott almost desperately. Helen rushes out of the room, her face covered, and Sherlock aims his wands and strikes Roylott with a rather over enthusiastic stunner. Roylott slumps to the ground again, his red face slack.
"A tad excessive, don't you think?" says John, smiling a little despite himself. He throws some powder into the fireplace and asks for Gregory Lestrade of the Ministry Of Magic Auror Office.
"I'll happily stun anyone that idiotic unconscious within an inch of their lives any day, thank you very much," snaps Sherlock. As murderous as the detective sounds, John knows that the bite in his tone isn't directed at John himself.
The fire spins as Lestrade's reluctant face comes into view.
Later, when her two boys are safely back in Baker Street, Mrs Hudson brings up their mail and some tea and cakes for them, natters about the danger they both run into, and leaves them to sit in front of the fireplace in their respective armchairs.
"You're right, you know," comments John lazily, as he rubs his leg, absent minded.
Sherlock doesn't deign to respond properly, only flicks up his eyes in recognition of the comment.
"The money really is better," clarifies John, smiling, "And – I swear I'm going to regret saying this – officially working with you isn't as bad as I imagined."
"Oh, so now you're getting paid, it's official?" replies Sherlock as he flicks through the mail.
John laughs softly. "Of course. Before it was just a hobby running after you. Actually it was more of a chore making sure you weren't hurt in all of those ridiculously chases."
Sherlock huffs. "You love it."
"Yeah, I suppose I do," replies John contently, "Idiotic though. I guess being paid for running after a lunatic is pretty good."
Sherlock just frowns at the letters in his hands.
"What's wrong?" says John, leaning forward to peer at the letters. His mouth tightens when he sees the familiar signature, dripping black. "Is that from…?"
"Our anonymous fan? Of course."
A/N: Sorry for the long wait!