(*)*(*)
It's all fine. Really.
"Freak, Doctor," Sally nods, motioning them upwards, excelsior! Up the rickety, formerly grand steps at a gallop. "Right this way."
"Oh, god, you again," Anderson growls, turning on a blue-bootied heel upon the first landing. "Bloody Christ!" But the wanker shifts his worthless arse out of the passageway and falls into step well behind the rest of the team.
"Come along, Sherlock; up here," Lestrade snaps the wrist band of a beckoning gloved hand. Sherlock and John stride and trundle up yet more stairs and along endless hallways, respectively, John hampered by his hastily slapped on clean-suit. "This way. It's a right mess, I have to warn you. Both the body and this place. All falling down around our heads, like. Makes it bloody hard to do any work."
"So I see," Sherlock sets his lips in a thin little line as he ducks a descended Tudor-style rafter and steps over a tumble of discoloured plaster chunks. He glances behind him, mindful of John's slower progress through the half-collapsed remains of the third floor hall. "Mind the nails on that bit of rosette moulding, John, just there. They're all popped out; could cut you."
"Er," John replies from hard by his elbow. He's caught up to Sherlock and Lestrade and peers about him carefully as he goes, picking his way. Their torches dim out all the dark edges of their surrounds. Sherlock blinks fast, concentrating on not missing a single clue."Ta."
"Of course," the detective rejoins suavely, but then his eye is caught by something vastly more of interest: the body, lit up by stands of portable sodium-blue spotlighting. If the falling-down house is a disaster, the victim looks as though a wrecking ball had hit him—squarely straight across the face. It's gone, completely, and NSY had better hope they don't need rely on dental records for identification.
It was a bit of an alright, Sherlock's happy to say—all of it. Were anyone to ask how he feels, but they don't. Haven't. Not Molly, not Mycroft, not even Lestrade—er, Greg. Right, he must remember to address him as 'Greg'.
He could do that.
But not now. Now was all about the work.
"Lestrade," he says, eyes darting everywhere about what had clearly been the master suite, "who owns this building?"
"Don't know yet," Lestrade answers, absently. He's motioning the rest of the forensics team to wait outside the open door. Where it hung, at least, half ripped off its hinges. "Some estate's got it, we think. Locals say it's haunted."
Sherlock snorts. He can well believe the locals would equate falling down and abandoned with 'haunted'. Even if the mansion is still properly located in greater London, it's sitting on an ample plot and quite secluded.
"Bosh!"
How it came about, he means to say, and his return to London not being anywhere near approaching as awkward as he'd –very occasionally—ventured it might be. When he considered it at all, the final result, because of course it wouldn't do to dwell. Counterproductive.
"Weird thing is," Lestrade's murmuring in his ear, "the bloke's decked out in a bespoke tuxedo. All hand stitched, that; Italian wool. Must have cost the Mint, that suit." He nods at the body—male, middle-aged, strong and fit, especially the upper body and limbs, but just begun running to fat. "Can you imagine, him being dumped off here, looking like that? Makes no sense a'tall; should have been discovered at the bleeding Opera."
"Yes, thank you, er…Greg," Sherlock snaps back, mindful of John's listening presence at his back, and hoping John will approve of his foray into making nice with the Inspector. Not that he's a problem with making nice with Lestrade, but…it is a strain, at times, to recall that his circumstances have significantly altered.
He drops down to his knees to have a better look at the man's fingertips. They're calloused, heavily, but nicely manicured as well, and there's an odd white chalky substance caught deep under the smoothed edges of the left-side pinky finger's nail. No!—not just that. Something more, something different. "I can see the chap's clothes for myself; no need to tell me. That's Bert's work; he's down Burlington Street—Anderson & Sheppard. I know him well. Or," he shrugs, "I did, once."
"Oh." The Inspector takes a step back, blinking. He seems mildly impressed. "D'you now? Well." Impressed…but not surprised.
John expels that certain little huff of air through his nostrils which indicates he's amused by something unspoken and Sherlock is all at once fiercely glad to hear it.
Oh, but he's home again. Every small sound from John reassures him of it.
"Just so. " He catches up the dead man's hand and waves it about, watching it flop, gauging any number of items as to flexibility and hand strength, habitual use and rigor mortis. He tries the other, with similar result; lifts both legs and eyes up a pair of expensive footwear. Back to the hand again—there was something. "John! John, come over here, will you? I need your opinion." The body's passed on through rigor already and is pliant again. It's been a bit since whoever it was killed him. No signs of struggle, either. "Right. Time of death?"
With a pleased sigh to be included at last, John hustles up and joins Sherlock on the floor, examining the body.
It's all so familiar, so comfortable, and John's so evidently delighted with his own involvement that Sherlock has to hide a sneaky grin behind a gloved palm. It wouldn't do for Les-er, Greg, to see him too much in alt.
"Oh, er, what with the flaccidity, two, three days, maybe," John replies, fingertips skating over the corpses' joints, poking through rapidly undone buttons and beneath a scarlet cummerbund. He does doctor-y things for a moment longer, finally drawing back to peer up across the corpse at Sherlock's patient expression. "Hard to say, without a rectal temp. But he's been a while, poor fellow."
"Probable cause?"
John laughs, a surprised bark. "Oh, I should think that should be obvious, mate. Head bashed in by something roundish but sharp. Massive trauma, brain damage, collapsed trachea. Whatever it was was huge and heavy; likely instantaneous. One blow and," John snaps his fingers, "it's all over."
Sherlock knew that, but he nods cordially anyway. "Thank you, John—and this? What d'you say this is, this powder?" He's dug out a sample of the whitish powder and thrust it in a little sac, one of the dozens he keeps readied in his one pocket.
"Dunno," John leans forward, peering through Sherlock's pocket lens. "Looks like…like plaster-of-Paris, maybe?"
"Yes, indeed," Sherlock's quite chuffed. "It is, John! Good work…and I think…I do honestly believe, p'raps also a hint of marble dust. Stone, of some type, at least. See the crystalline nature of the granulations? Been scraping away at the rocks, this one. Looking for something in particular, I don't doubt. And methodically."
He turns the man's hands about in his own, eying every ridge of callous and wear.
"And? Sherlock?" Lestrade prods. "What's that about? The plaster-of-Paris."
"Let me think, will you? Don't fuss so!"
"Sherlock," John murmurs; Sherlock shrugs at him, wrinkling his nose.
"Yes, alright."
A modicum of fuss only, when he'd come back again. Some press briefings (and he'd been happy to note that that bloody wench Kitty What's-her-painted-face-big-boobs had moved on; likely popped off to the States, where they clamoured for her sort, heaven help them) and a few (a very few; he'd been middling out of sorts then) lines of explanation for his absence placed as an update on his own long-somnolent site. Of course John had scooped his words right up and copy-pasted them over to his own blog, as Sherlock had been quite succinct. He'd been flattered, really. There'd been no other, better way than his method to provide the heaving masses of the populace an explanation. It was all about the shift of his personal and professional life back to a steady-state, and with some alacrity.
"Hmm."
In the interim, he's presented a well togged-out gentleman, faceless, a stone-mason's hands, and with an array of clues pointing the way to only a few possible professions.
"He might very well be an archeologist, our victim," Sherlock announces, seconds later. Yes, that would do.
"Eh?"
"Anthropologist, mayhap, but something of the sort—um, what do they call them? An Egyptologist? And a quite notable one, I'd wager. These scrapings look more like what I've seen come off Etruscan sarcophagi, really. University academic, then, by default, to even garner the permissions in this day and age—the Italians are really very jealous over them these days; so are the Greeks; need a sponsor—but also heavily engaged in regular field work, so remarkably well funded. Likely corporate, that. Deep pockets required for the likes of Bertie, you know? Funding on that scale only happens if there's a decent reputation already built up, and prior successes in past digs, so. Yes, definitely. You'll find he's affiliated with a major university, I should think; likely a prof. Sabbatical currently, p'raps, for his speciality, but a paid one, I don't doubt. Who's in that rarified circle's not been accounted for, Lestrade? Any academic illuminati gone missing recently? 'Round the Mediterranean? Italy?"
'Read all about it!' Well, in London there'd been a spot of real hue-and-cry, when Sherlock had risen from the dead. The Mail had commended him effusively for Moriarty's demise; he'd diverted a preoffered knighthood to a later, mythically saner future date by dint of pressing heavily on his brother's numerous connections, but John's quiet observation early on had proved quite correct. Dust did settle, come what may, and the all –seeking Eye of London moved inevitably on.
Holmes and Watson were—are—back in business, full steam ahead.
"Really?' John exclaims quietly, rocking back on his heels, and Sherlock basks momentarily in his expression. Oh, yes—that's it. That's it, exactly what he craves. Or a part of it, leastwise. "All of that simply from a few specks of mouldy old dust under his fingernail, Sherlock? Brilliant!"
"And the callouses, John—don't forget them," Sherlock mutters, ducking his chin shyly. "These are workman's hands, but very well cared for, nonetheless. Conclusion's inevitable."
"Oh, is it?" John's grinning. "You don't say."
"Oh, oi!" Lestrade's grinning, as well, quite pleased with Sherlock, and his eyes fixed on his mobile. He turns the face to show off the screen, where a digital headline flashes unreadably: AP Reuters. "Absolutely, there is, now you mention it. Just on the news feed—see it? That Albert Pevans-Willoughby bloke, the youngest nevvie of old Sir Arthur Pevans—you know of him, right, the famous Cretan scholar? He's passed on, but his nevvie Albert's in the same field as him and he's just now been reported in as a no-show on his latest dig in Minos. Wife distraught, foreman frantic and all that rubbish. Aha!"
"I don't, actually, but I'll take you word for it, Lestrade." Sherlock musters up a small faux smile to match the one brilliantly blooming across the Inspector's features. "Right. Come now, game's safely afoot, John." He rises up rapidly, deftly in the cramped space, a hand out to help up his assistant. "Shall we? Finished here, I think; nothing more of note worth viewing. We can await Les—ah! Greg's –findings just as easily at home."
The Inspector's already gone away, off to set some poor sod—likely Sally—on the trail of the MIA nevvie of the so-famous deceased Sir Arthur. The forensics team streams in, chattering inanely about the coagulation of the copious floods of cold blood on the tattered carpet, the lack of a reconstructable jawbone, and the dangers of snagging one's clean-suit on the splinters of wood from the damaged furniture. They part about John and Sherlock as if the two were twinned dolmens, standing solidly planted in the river of time.
"Certainly, very good." John smiles, shifting towards the gaping open door. "Let's go. I could positively murder a hot cuppa right about now. Damned house is freezing!"
"Surely." John shivers involuntarily, proving his observation, and Sherlock casually lays a warm hand at the small of his back, hoping his residual body heat will transfer. "Hurry it up, then. Don't dawdle," he scolds, grinning. "Slow top."
"Piss off, you."
Made a bit of splash, Sherlock had, coming home. It had not been without a few passing prurient references to the purported personal paeans of joy experienced by one Doctor John Hamish Watson, 'confirmed bachelor'. The Mirror seemed especially fond of that bon mot.
If one believed the tabloids, they were already lovers, he and John. Had been, for ages. Damned Kitty!
Yet.
He'd felt oddly…grateful. For that. Gossip and twaddle, but it lent a bit of credence to his long-overweening drive to return to 221B, to be vindicated, to reassure John he was, indeed, all that. And possibly more, one day. The idea of 'more' trembled on the precipice of Sherlock's waking dreams, like a sore tooth, throbbing. He'd been ever so lonely, with his faithful blogger separated from him. Lonely and alone as he'd never been before in his whole life, and that was saying something. Who could blame him for wanting it all, every particle possible, when he'd the chance again, tipped like an unexpected Christmas present into his lap?
And, of course, all the evidence indicated John was happy, now. Quite happy.
'Happy' was such an amorphous word. Pitifully personal, and defying absolute definition of the mechanics of it. How one would ensure it, or make it come to be—or deepen its state into one of permanence.
…Still, nothing like having the world taking up for one, cooing over a partnership that stood staid and fast against all encroachments. Oil on the gears, what, and didn't that help his agenda along most excellently well? Oh, yes. Yes, it did. Been cake in the end, all icing on cake.
Fly speck in the icing, though.
'Confirmed bachelor', his bloomin' arse—there was Mary. There'd always been a 'Mary'—a Jane, a Susan, a Moira—but this one. This woman, she was particularly dangerous. A real snake in sheep's apron, this one.
Sherlock would be called upon to tread very carefully. How he hated that!
"See you again, John."
"Cheers, Sally." John's in the midst of stripping off his safety garb and handing it off a convenient constable, one who looks awed to servicing the great Doctor Watson. "Good luck with it."
Sherlock nods toward his semi-nemesis, sharp as anything, but only politely acknowledging. He does not scowl at her at all, though, so points to his tally, yes?
The sergeant does glare at him, from under beetled brows; however, it's only habit.
"And—do have yourself a nice tea, Freak." Sally pulls fully away from the mobile glued to her ear to call out after them as they go, flapping a pretty hand as John clambers into the waiting taxi. "Handing me masses of bleeding overtime. Was my day off; you know? Thanks for that."
"Pfft!"
Remained to be seen, though, the fall-out. Ramifications, long-term results.
"Just see if you can manage to accomplish the task in a correct and timely manner for a change," Sherlock grumbles, under his breath as he's settling into the cab's well worn seat, but not so quietly that Sally couldn't hear him through the drawn-down window if she's still listening. "Like maybe track down the weapon, as it's clearly missing—"
Remained to be seen, as well, what John might want. Who John might want.
"Hush, Sherlock!" John bops him on the shoulder, lightly. "Leave off."
If there was even a choice in the offing. Be just like John Watson to simply let events fall out as they would, allow himself to be sucked without fuss into a life of bland domesticity, now and then spiced up with a soupçon of Sherlock-style adventure.
"Oh!" Sherlock harrumphs snidely, and more for comic benefit. Teasing John is ever rewarding. "Only If I must, John. You know how they are, this lot—lazy as sin. Always afraid of a little legwork. A spot of pointed encouragement will work won—"
"Which that wasn't, thank you, and do shut your gob. It all went well, I think—this crime scene. Very civil, up till now. We don't want to ruin it, do we?"
"No, John."
Sherlock does growl, just a bit, a wordless rumble roiling beneath the buttons of his brand new vintage greatcoat, but John's sideways gleam at him from under wheaten lashes is infectious, and somehow he finds himself unable to stifle a tiny chuckle.
"Of course we don't. It's what they get up to while I'm not standing over them I'm concerned with."
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock bats his lashes, tilts his head enquiringly, all butter-wouldn't-melt. John tries—and fails—to control a grin.
"Yes, John?"
Of all things, Sherlock only wishes to provide what John would want. What that was, though, was a puzzle.