Pink
4
"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out."
Mrs. Hudson, standing at the bottom of the stairs, called out. "Both of you?"
Sherlock turned back from nearly going out the door. "Impossible suicides, four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"
He kissed her on the cheek.
"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," she insisted, but thumped her hand against his shoulder, encouraging him towards the door.
"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock grinned, "is on!"
Walking out to the road, he held out his arm. "Taxi!"
*
{Happy Sherlock = Cute Sherlock}
{Yes, I'm allowed to make little notes like this, it's my story, my transcription, and you're just going to have to deal with it}
Sherlock looked up from his phone, sensing John rather unsubtly staring at him.
"Okay, you've got questions."
Far too many to ask over a cab drive, John thought. "Yeah, where are we going?"
Sherlock gave him an are-you-seriously-asking-me-that-of-all-things look. "Crime scene. Next?"
"Who are you? What do you do?"
"What do you think?"
"I'd say private detective…"
"But?" Sherlock queried, raising his eyebrows.
"But the police don't go to private detectives."
Sherlock smirked. "I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job."
"What does that mean?"
"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
"The police don't consult amateurs," John said, his face showing how ridiculous he thought the idea was.
Sherlock gave him another look.
"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said 'Afghanistan or Iraq'. You seemed surprised."
"Yes, how did you know?"
"I didn't know, I saw."
He thought back to that moment at Bart's.
"Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room-"
'Bit different from my day'
"-said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. When you saw my wings- plumage reflects personality, hence most people are highly unnerved by pure black, which is rather rare- you didn't so much as twitch, which means you've got a basic understanding of the fact that things are almost always not remotely what they seem. You wear a stiff, medical-grade wing cover even though you could go for a more comfortable civilian brand, or have one custom-made. You're used to having your wings uncomfortably restrained, though, so that means that you went into combat at a time when custom-made covers were in such a backlog that you had to make do. Hasty deployment, wounded in action, suntan: Afghanistan or Iraq."
"You said I have a therapist."
"You have a psychosomatic limp. Of course you have a therapist.
"Then there's your brother."
{Your lungs, Sherlock *stretches fingers*}
"Your phone: it's expensive, email-enabled MP3 player. You're looking for a flatshare; you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches, not one, but many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins." By now, he had John's phone in his hand. "The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this. So, it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."
"The engraving."
"Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this in a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now Clara," Sherlock said, his voice low and fiendish, "who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then. Six months old and he's just given it away? If she'd left him, he'd have kept it- people do, sentiment. But no, he wanted to get rid of it- he left her. He gave the phone to you; that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help," an idea I understand entirely, "that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."
"How," John managed, "can you possibly know about the drinking?"
Sherlock smiled. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. The power connection; tiny little scuff marks all along the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them." He handed the phone back to John. "There you go, you see, you were right."
"I was right. Right about what?"
"The police don't consult amateurs."
"That," John said slowly, "was amazing."
Sherlock shifted his wings slightly, looking at him again. "You think so?"
"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."
{Things I Learned While Transcribing, #2: John likes to repeat himself}
"That's not what people who know me say," Sherlock muttered, trying to restrain the flare of pride he felt.
"What do 'people who know me' say?"
{Things I Learned While Transcribing, #3: John likes to refer to himself as either a plural 'us' or as a different person}
"'Piss off!'"
John grinned.
*
"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked, rolling his shoulders. Damn, his wings were still stiff.
John, in comparison, quietly pulled his own into their usual place on his back. "Harry and I don't get on. Never have. Clara and Harry split up… three months ago, and they're getting a divorce. And Harry… is a drinker."
"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."
"And Harry's short for Harriet."
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.
"Harry's your sister."
"Yeah, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"
"Sister!"
"No, seriously, what?"
"There's always something." He walked up to the police line. A woman, dark-skinned with the wings of a tawny owl, walked up to it.
"Hello, freak," she greeted casually.
"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock changed the position of his wings so that they began to stretch out just a touch, the dark-as-night edges complimenting his coat perfectly.
It was an aggressive gesture.
"Why?"
"I was invited," he said stiffly.
"Why," Donovan grated out.
"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock theorized.
"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"
"Always, Sally." He lifted the line himself and ducked under it.
Then he sniffed the air. "I even know that you didn't make it home last night."
"I don't…" She stopped as he began to lift the tape for John to come through. "Er, who's this?"
"A colleague of mine. Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan… an old friend."
"A colleague," Sally repeated slowly. "How do you get a colleague? What, did he follow you home?" she asked John.
"Would it be better if I just waited-"
"No," Sherlock interrupted firmly, holding the tape over his head.
John slipped under it.
"Freak's here, bringing him in," Sally reported into a radio.
"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock said as a man came out of the building. "Here we are again."
"It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"
"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"
"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."
"Your deodorant told me that."
"My deodorant."
"It's for men," Sherlock breathed.
"Well, of course it's for men, I'm wearing it!" Anderson snapped.
"So's Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock cut in flatly.
He took in a sharp breath. "Ooh, I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"
"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply," Anderson warned, holding up a finger, every dull-taupe feather on his wings beginning to rise-
"I'm not implying anything! I'm sure Sally came around for a nice little chat, and happened to stay over." In the doorway, he turned back. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."
They went in.
"You need to wear one of these," Sherlock said, gesturing at the table with crime scene suits on it for John's benefit.
"Who's this?" Lestrade wondered.
"He's with me," Sherlock commented, taking off his leather gloves for latex ones.
"But who is he?"
"I said," Sherlock suddenly lowered his tone, again spreading his wings slightly, "he's with me."
"Aren't you going to put one on?" John asked.
Sherlock only stared, while Lestrade let himself laugh mentally. Apparently, the man didn't know Sherlock Holmes well if he expected him to give up the ability to flare his coat dramatically.
"So, where are we?"
"Upstairs."
As John followed Sherlock, Lestrade called after them.
"But what about his wings?"
Why does he talk about me like I'm not here?"He's already wearing a cover, can't you see, you idiot?"
*
"I can give you two minutes."
Going up a second spiral staircase, Sherlock followed Lestrade. "I may need longer."
"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long," he added, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock. "Some kids found her."
In the incredibly low-quality room, they found her.
Looking at her wings, Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he held out a hand, palm-down.
"Eurasian Dotterel," John volunteered. "We saw them in Afghanistan occasionally. A type of wading piper infamous for the fact that the female will leave the male to raise the young."
{I knew there was a type of bird that did this. It involved a ten-minute Wikipedia search, and then bothering myself to find the Eurasian species that did it. It gave John usefulness.}
Sherlock's eyes widened. "Thank you."
Then-
"Shut up."
"I didn't say anything," Lestrade defended himself.
"You were thinking. It's annoying."
Lestrade gave John a seriously? sort of look.
Sherlock stepped forward, looking at the body.
Rache, scratched into floor with her own fingernails- n., German, revenge.
Or…
…Rachel?
Chipped fingernails- lefthanded
Coat- wet. Umbrella in pocket: dry. Under collar: wet.
Ring- clean. Bracelet- clean. Necklace- clean. Wedding band and ring—dirty.He looked at the design.
Unhappily married, 10+ years
He slipped the band off of her finger, examining the inside of it.
Clean as a mirror.
Outside:
Utterly filthy.
Frequently removed.
Serial adulterer.
He smiled to himself.
"Got anything?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock stood, taking off his gloves and pulling out his phone. "Not much."
"She's German," Anderson said from the door. "Rache- German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something-"
{Anderson, saying "Rache" was the sexiest thing you will ever do.}
{Things I Learned While Transcribing, #4: Anderson likes to talk with his hands}
"Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock shut the door in his face, looking at his phone.
"Well, she's German?" Lestrade asked.
"Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night, before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."
John's eyes widened. "Sorry- obvious?"
{TILWT, #5: John is very apologetic}
"But what about the message?" Lestrade insisted.
"Doctor Watson," Sherlock said, ignoring him, "what do you think?"
"The message?" John asked.
"The body, Doctor Watson."
"We have a team-"
"They won't work with me."
"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here-"
"Yes, because you need me."
A pause.
"Yes, I do," Lestrade easily admitted. "God help me."
"Doctor Watson," Sherlock repeated.
"Oh, do as he says, help yourself," Lestrade surrendered, going out the door when John looked at him inquisitively. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."
{TILWT, #6: there are a lot of things said nonverbally in this story}
They both knelt down beside the body, on either side. "Well?" Sherlock asked.
"What am I doing here?"
"Helping me make a point."
"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."
"Yeah, well, this is more fun."
"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."
"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."
What have I gotten myself into? John wondered, but pulled his bad leg underneath himself all the same as Lestrade re-entered.
He leaned close to the body, taking a breath, then examining her hand.
"Yeah." He stood. "Asphyxiation. Probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure- possibly drugs…"
"You know what it was. You've read the papers."
"Well… she's one of the suicides?"
"Sherlock, two minutes, I said, I need anything you've got."
Sherlock stood. "Victim is in her late thirties, profession person, I'm guessing in the media, going by the rather alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night, it's obvious by the size of her suitcase."
"Suitcase?" Lestrade asked.
"Suitcase, yes, she's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."
"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up-"
"Her wedding ring! It's ten years old, at least. The rest of her jewelry's been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is cleaner than the outside, hence it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. As for what she does for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so who or what does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."
"It's brilliant," John praised.
Sherlock looked at him.
"Sorry."
"Cardiff?"
"It's obvious, isn't it?"
"It's not obvious to me," John murmured.
"Egad," Sherlock said softly. "What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring. Her coat. It's slightly damp; she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London anywhere in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too; she had it up against the wind. " He gestured vaguely. "She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused. So it's not just wind, it's strong wind- too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but she couldn't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat's still wet. So! Where has there been rain and heavy wind in that distance and time?" He held out his phone. "Cardiff."
"It's fantastic!" John cried out.
"Do you know you do that out loud?"
"Sorry, I'll shut up."
Sherlock mirror the half-nod he'd given. "No, it's fine."
"Why do you keep saying 'suitcase'?" Lestrade prompted.
"Yes, where is it?" he wondered, looking around. "She must have had a phone, or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."
"She was writing Rachel?"
"No, she was writing an angry note in German," Sherlock mocked, going face-to-face with Lestrade. "Of course she was writing Rachel. The only word it can be. The question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"
"So how do you know she had a suitcase?"
"Back of her right leg." He pointed. "Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not present on her left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Couldn't get that splash pattern in any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, it could only be an overnight bag, so she was only staying one night. Now where is it, what have you done with it?"
"There wasn't a case."
Sherlock looked up from his further examination of the body.
"Say that again."
"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."
"Suitcase!" Sherlock shouted, going to the door and down the stairs. "Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"
"Sherlock, there's no case!" Lestrade shouted back, going to the head of the stairs.
"They take the poison themselves, chew, swallow the pills themselves," Sherlock insisted. "There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them!"
"Right, yeah, thanks. And?"
Sherlock looked up from the bottom of the stairs. "It's murder. All of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings. Serial killings." He clapped his hands. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those, there's always something to look forward to."
"Why are you saying that?"
"Her case!" Sherlock cried, stopping his journey down the second flight of stairs. "Come on, where's her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case!" Softer, he seemed to be speaking to himself. "So the killer must have driven her here. Forgotten the case was in the car."
"She could have checked in at the hotel, left the case there?" John suggested.
"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She color-coordinated her lipstick and her shoes, she'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking li-"
He stopped midsentence, raising his hands.
"Oh," he breathed softly. He took another deep breath, stepping back and bringing his hands together with a sharp sound. "OH!"
"Sherlock? What is it, what?" Lestrade demanded.
"Serial killers are always hard, you have to wait for them to make a mistake."
"We can't just wait!"
"No, we're done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we have our mistake! Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"
"Of course, yeah, but what mistake!" Lestrade shouted at him.
Sherlock darted back into sight.
"PINK!"
**
…*dies*
Off to type up Chapter Fifty-Three of The Dark Side of the Moon. Love is appreciated. It makes this thing all worth it.
Highlight of next chapter: a scene from the pilot! YAY!