When John took too long to say goodbye to the Birdy Babes after their performance and rejoin Sherlock, the detective grew even more aggravated and marched off, determined not to be forgotten. He found John in the midst of hitting it off with the dancer who had called him up to the stage. Despite the annoyance boiling inside him, Sherlock put on a relaxed, easy-going smile.
"Oh, there you are, sweetie!" Sherlock called out and stepped in between the two. "I wondered where you'd run off to." And then, to the barely-dressed possibly-a-stripper: "Boys, eh? Sometimes I swear I ought to get a leash for this one!" Sherlock let out an obnoxious stream of fake laughter and put an arm around John's shoulders with a wink.
"Sherlock, just what do you think you're doing?" John whispered angrily.
"What? Am I not allowed to meet any of your new friends?" He turned back to the girl with a grin. "I do apologize for my sugarbuns here, he has a tendency to get embarrassed about all this in front of strangers." Sherlock patted John's arse for effect, which nearly sent the other man jumping a foot into the air. Horrified, John smacked Sherlock's hand away, and considered slapping his face as well.
"Oh, no, you have no reason to be embarrassed!" the dancer promised. "I think it's adorable. The world needs more people like you." She removed her feather headdress and shook out her black, shoulder-length mess of curls. "Anyway, I ought to be heading back to my dressing room. I only have so much down time between performances. It was a pleasure meeting you two, and good luck!"
"Wait!" John called after the woman as she darted away and caught up with her dance team. "I promise you I'm not gay!"
Sherlock pressed a hand against his mouth to keep from laughing, but John's look of disapproval quickly dampened the urge. John jabbed his finger into Sherlock's chest and began lecturing him. "Listen here, Cockblock Holmes, you've done nothing in the past couple days but stomp on every opportunity that's arisen for me to get laid!"
Sherlock looked away defiantly. "She wouldn't have liked it."
John narrowed his eyes. "Isn't this what you wanted? To make me happy again? I'm trying to move on, Sherlock, I really am—but now you won't even let me do that!"
He knew he had no right to get upset. John's love life wasn't any business of his, but it was still painful to watch. Sherlock was suppressing tears as best he could when he next spoke, his voice raised so that everyone in the immediate vicinity could now hear.
"Fine!" he snapped. "Have sex with everyone in this damned casino, for all I care! If a good shag is really all you're after, then by all means, don't let me get in your way!" Sherlock threw his arms out to the side defensively. Several heads turned away, as if hoping to leave the argument a bit of privacy, but most continued to look on with a curiosity that sickened Sherlock.
"Don't be like that," John pleaded, taking a step closer. "What about the case, anyway? Don't you still need me?"
"As if that ever mattered to you," Sherlock muttered half-heartedly. He turned his back on John and made for the exit. "I'll text if something turns up," he said just before turning the corner.
John cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Don't bother!" He sort of grunted to himself and took a seat at the bar, where a bleach-blonde bartender with smokey eye shadow was busy polishing a glass.
"Boy troubles?" the woman asked, hardly lifting her eyes. She sounded Russian, but her accent was only slightly noticeable.
"You don't know the half of it," John sighed. "Just a beer for me, thanks."
In no time at all the bartender had slid a mug in John's direction with a slight grin across her glossy lips. "On ze house, but don't tell my boss, okay?"
John smiled in gratitude. "You're too kind—" His eyes shifted down at the girl's name tag. "—Jessica. Beautiful name."
"Stop it. It is a common name." Jessica pulled a stool out from under her side of the bar and sat down, leaning over the table so that her face was only inches away from John's.
John looked flustered by her approach. "I-I-I'm John, by the way. Just… just in case you were, y'know, wondering."
"Zen it is an honor to make your acquaintance, John. Now, tell me about zis… friend of yours, ze dashing fellow who just left. You two are… staying in ze same room, yes? You came together?"
"As if it weren't enough already living with the guy," John muttered, taking a sip of his beer. "I mean, he's brilliant, don't get me wrong, and I know he brought me here because he thought it would cheer me up, but… sometimes it just seems like he's always there, y'know?"
"And you zink hooking up with someone else is going to fix things?" Jessica questioned.
"It certainly would make me feel a lot better."
The bartender bit at her lower lip for a moment. "So, let me get zis straight… You vant to be unfaithful and can't understand why your friend has such a problem vith that?" She, of course, assumed that the two of them were in a relationship and John wanted to sleep around with someone of the opposite gender for a change. Alas, John had yet to pick up on this misinterpretation.
"I wouldn't say 'unfaithful'," he corrected. "After everything we've been through…"
"Your friend, will he be heading back to your hotel room?"
"Likely too busy with his work out here," John shook his head. "Too busy to give a shit about my interests, anyway."
Jessica smiled sympathetically and took his hand in hers. "I get it. Tell you vhat, why don't you take me vith you tonight. I know I do not have much to offer, but I vant to help. I don't like seeing you unhappy."
-x-
Meanwhile, John had been spot-on in assuming that Sherlock would be busy looking into the case further. Still worked up from their fight, the consulting detective had decided to relieve a bit of tension by breaking into Mr. Linderman's office and vindictively hiding the man's stapler and favorite pen while he was out. Sherlock also snooped around Linderman's desktop and cabinet drawers for anything suspicious, but found nothing little besides paperwork and a bottle of gin.
That was when he discovered a cellphone that had been knocked under the desk and abandoned. Curious, Sherlock flipped the old mobile open—surprisingly, it didn't have a lock. He began looking through its received text messages. There were six or seven in a row from a "Jessica Linderman," each dated within the past month. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this; it was more than obvious that Linderman was not married. A sister, perhaps? He selected the oldest message from her:
Just how long did you think you could hide this from me, scumbag?
"Now we're getting somewhere," Sherlock said to himself and scrolled through the next couple texts.
Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Natalie confessed to everything. Now it's your turn.
I want a divorce. We'll talk in person.
So there was an ex-wife. After having read all of the messages, the last being nothing but a cryptic 'they'll all pay for your sins', Sherlock concluded that Linderman's unmentioned ex was likely behind the killings. Whether she was in the field herself or watching her work from afar he had yet to determine.
Jessica, Jessica… Hadn't he seen that somewhere recently? Sherlock sat himself down in Linderman's spinning chair and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall this visual. After a few minutes of meditation and wandering backwards through his Mind Palace, the exact moment he was looking for jumped out at him with flashing lights—there was a bartender downstairs with Jessica on her nametag. Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, but speaking with the woman for a moment might clear a few other things up. Namely, who was this Jessica Linderman and where might he find her now.
-x-
The bar had already closed by the time Sherlock returned to it, a little note card having been placed upon its counter that read 'Try Again Later'. He glanced around, spotted an older gentleman that he recognized from back when he and John were going at it, and tapped the man on the shoulder.
"Uhm, excuse me, Sir, but do happen to know whatever happened to the bartender?"
"Well can't'cha read?" the man grunted. "Sign says it's gone and closed up for the evening! But if'n'ya really want somethin' to drink, I can tell you right now that there are plenty more 24-hour bars located throughout!"
Sherlock made a face. "I do not want a drink, I wish to know where the bartender was headed. I need to speak with her."
The man chuckled, taking a swig from his own mug. "Missed your chance there too, buddy. Yer boyfriend just ran off with her. I reckon they're headed back to his room, judging by the googly eyes they were givin' each other." He laughed again and wiped at his wiry beard with a napkin.
Without thanking him, Sherlock made a dash for the elevator. On the off chance that this was Jessica Linderman, there was no chance in hell that he'd stand by and do nothing. Lilith had already hurt John, but he still had time to stop this Jessica from doing the same. Or much, much worse, given what they'd both stumbled upon at the crime scene.
