"Two days, Little! Two! Are you nervous?" Harriet asks John. She is all but vibrating, she is so ecstatic for him. Seeing John's eye roll at the endearment she laughs. "Don't worry, I'll not use it around Himself! Sherlock needs no new ammunition on you."
John has met his sister at the bistro around the corner. It is actually nice to be out with her before all the madness the upcoming extended weekend would hold. In two short days, everyone would converge on the Holmes estate for the four day soiree, culminating in their nuptials Sunday mid-day.
"Ta, that man can be so very smart-tongued, he needs no help, let me tell you..."
"So are you two happy? I mean really? It's all so fast."
"Big, I promise, I am content. Sherlock, well he is Sherlock, and I believe I make him happy. Now, enough of this, tell me again about how fabulous your wife looks in her dress..."
"John!" Mrs. Hudson affectionately calls down the stairs. "Welcome home! Is that lunch for us dearie?"
John knows she is so blessedly doting, and worries that Sherlock was going to become very bored with John gone for the few hours he was, which would be horrible for their flat. She must have come up and was keeping Sherlock company. He notices as he climbs the stairs that the two were talking about the news telecast that is on as background for Mrs. Hudson to clean by.
Mrs. Hudson, once again, pipes in from tidying up in the kitchen, "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."
Oh goodness gracious these boys were going to be a handful, she could tell.
"Well, we most certainly can ask Lestrade as soon as he comes in to visit."
"Mrs. Hudson," John queries as he unwraps her lunch and settles it for her on their table, starting in on Sherlock's next. "Here's the sandwich and pasta you ordered, I hope you enjoy it."
"Oh, thank you dearie! I believe I will."
"Hmm, Four!" Sherlock calls out as he is minding the street below as the other two busy themselves in the kitchen. "Four! There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time otherwise our dear DI would not be on our doorstep in a marked car."
"Where?" Sherlock questions the D.I. that came trotting up the stairs unceremoniously stopping at the entrance to their living room. "What's new about this one? You wouldn't be here if it was the same."
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?" Lestrade asks coolly. "You know how they never leave notes? Well this one did."
"I will go to the crime scene," He peppers right back to the D.I. "But not in your car. I'll be right behind."
Adrenalin had won over petulance; Sherlock weighs his options already feeling the rush like no other beginning to course through his body. He barely hears Lestrade as the D.I. calls out his thanks over his shoulder as he bounds back down the stairs.
"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides! And now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He twirls around the room as giddy as a schoolgirl. He picks up his great coat and scarf and kisses Mrs. Hudson on the cheek.
"Mrs. Hudson! Impossible suicides? Four of them?" Sherlock wraps his hands around her shoulders hugging her. "We will be late. Might need some food. Something cold would be nice. Don't wait up!"
Sherlock crosses to his doctor before grabbing, he takes John's hand in his.
"Come along, John!"
Sherlock moves like lightning, thrusting them both out of the flat and onto the pavement at a mind numbing speed; rushing them both into the brisk London air without a second thought. The only thing on his mind is the hunt.
Glorious.
Right.
Exhilaration screaming from every part of the body.
Alive.
Yes, this is what John has missed. This need to be purposeful finally being fulfilled. This is what is right, what he should be doing. Lost in his own thoughts, watching the streetlights flooding London go by, the idea of being useful outside his posting is starting to ghost back into John's life.
It is evident that Sherlock is texting and busy. John does look at him from time to time, but does not interrupt.
No; a quiet harmony between them instead. John thinks, pleasantly content.
"Again, I can give you five minutes." Lestrade fills them in succinctly, hoping to not over saturate John, as this is his first tag-along. "That is all. Her name is Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for her contact details. Hasn't been long. Some kids found her."
The room they enter is devoid of the normal trapping. In fact, it has been abandoned for a while.
Harsh divorce.
Left to die slowly like the marriage that was here previously.
Large holes knocked into the walls with force behind it.
Yet, here.
Single rocking horse.
Far corner.
Could not stand to take it. Yet could not stand to throw away. A child's. Hmm….
Sherlock physically wipes the area in his mind of all the knowledge of the location.
Not here for them.
Here for her.
Behind him, John glances at the woman and his face fills with pain and sadness. If he had died senselessly back in that alleyway, as this woman has here tonight, John would never have been able to possibly help Sherlock find her murderer. Losing himself in his thoughts, John quietly stands until Sherlock's voice pulls him back to the present.
"Doctor, John, I could use your medical opinion." The consulting detective looks back, "It would be extremely helpful. Could you determine cause of death?"
The doctor in John takes over; he kneels beside the body, studying...interesting.
"Yes, dear Inspector," Sherlock states coldly, "There are clear signs; even you should not miss them. It's murder. All of them. I don't know how yet, but they are definitely not suicides."
Sherlock begins to get giddy again.
"We've got ourselves a Serial Killer. I love those! There's always something to look forward to."
Lestrade visibly pales at that last comment. "Why would you say that? Sherlock! Really now!"
Sherlock looks up the stairwell, catching the DI's gaze.
"She never got to the hotel!" Sherlock shouts up, speaking succinctly. "Her travel case! Come on where is it? Did she eat it? No! Someone else was here… the killer must have driven her here and forgotten about it!"
"Then where is it then. Yea?" Lestrade continues, "Where is this 'case'? Why wouldn't the murderer leave it here? The others were left with their things…"
"She's all a right mess, at least in her eyes, isn't she? She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes! She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..."
Out of know where, the information settles into its perfect placement. Like a blizzard in a globe, it creates a beautiful canvas only Sherlock can see.
"Sherlock, I'm telling you one more time. Slowly. There was no case…" Lestrade is already hanging over the side of the rail, trying seriously to convince the consulting detective that he is wrong for once.
"They take the poison themselves." John chimes in, affirming once again that there is a clear lack of struggle. "They chew then swallow the pill, by themselves. There is never any evidence as to another person being involved. Lestrade has told us this much."
"Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were." Sherlock fires back at the both of them alight with glee. "Find Rachel! The case! It's PINK!" Without another word Sherlock bounds into the depths of the night knowing the proverbial clock is indeed ticking.
After talking theory with the examiner Andersen, John looks around but can see no sign of Sherlock. Wasn't a surprise either, with the childish mirth that was flying off the man as he descended the stairs.
Wonderful.
"Ahm, yea right; where are we?" John asks nonchalantly.
"Brixton" the woman replies.
"Yea. Do you think I might be able to catch a cab? To my place. It's just, well, my leg."
"Hmm, try the main road." She continues, feeling obligated, "You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off."
The doctor flummoxed, takes in what she said. Honestly taken aback; this woman has no earthly idea the man Sherlock truly is. John has seen more in the last two months than any of these close-minded people had in the past few years.
"I don't believe that, not for one second."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
John slowly makes his way back to the main thoroughfare. Finally, the doctor spots a cab and has them bring him back round to Baker Street. He voicelessly thanks the stars he will be able to wash London, fatigue and the memory of that poor woman off himself as soon as he gets in. He flicks on the telly as soon as he gets into the flat and starts the kettle, deciding on a late cuppa. Finally, opening the closet, he begins to change out of his clothes to head for the shower. The news catches his attention. They are at the crime scene he had just left less than an hour ago.
Damn. And Sherlock still isn't in...
John needs to collect his things from his sister's, and officially move some others out of storage. He'd have to write a reminder to do so or have someone take care of it after he is back on base. As he crouches down to get his shoe off properly, John is lost in thought he had forgotten his kettle. It began to boil, piercing the quiet lull of the flat with an ear shattering whistle he is not prepared for.
"Holy Mother!"
He immediately makes himself as small as possible thinking he is under fire again. It only takes him a second to realize he is here, in Sherlock's (and his) kitchen. Grabbing the offending kettle, he swings it to the other side of the room with a vehemence he doesn't realize has been brewing.
"Bloody hells damnation!" John swears again.
"John, are you all right?" Sherlock rushes over, dropping the pink case in his hand onto the floor as he moves immediately to see to John. "Were you burned?"
"No, bloody well, no! I'm off for a shower." John yells, skirting the kitchen table before he realises he is half nude and that his new scar is quite visible as he had taken his vest off. "I'm sorry, I owe us a new one tomorrow, yea? Give me a few minutes and I will be right out, glad you found the case."
Fifteen minutes later John is out of the shower, redressed mostly, and drying his hair when he hears the moan from in the sitting room. The next moment Sherlock is gasping like he has forgotten to breathe.
Oh God, is he ok? John did not need this tonight.
"Sherlock, are you all right?" Worry tints the doctor's question. Dropping his towel, he moves with practiced swiftness and immediately kneels at the couch."What are you doing? Are you alright?"
"Nicotine patches. It is impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork."
"Is that three patches?" John asks haltingly, going to remove at least one of them.
"It's a three patch problem." Sherlock grins serenely. "Now, good doctor, I need your mobile"
Looking up into Sherlock's face with a look of discontent apparent to anyone but the consulting detective, John takes the mobile out of his pocket and gently offers it to the man. He should ask why Sherlock needs the phone, but after the day he's had, he can't be arsed to care.
"Thank you. I'll only need this for a moment."
What happened at
Lauriston Gdns?
I must have blacked out.
Twenty-two Northumberland Street.
Please come.
Sherlock finishes off the text, then, looking around, he decides to haul out the pink travel case throwing it onto the shared ottoman.
"Small amount of day clothing. Coordinated of course," Sherlock unceremoniously throws it open revealing what the woman had packed for her liaison. "Cherry blossom' pink. Matching shoes, day bag; yes. Ah! Here we go! Scantily sheer lace bra with matching bottoms. 'Cherry blossom' and 'cameo' pink... of course, coordinated."
"Again daywear appropriate for a daytime romp. New lover has new to impress. He must have been adventurous. So she liked to be showy for him, interesting. Night time attire. Sizzling. Deep 'magenta' ruche short cocktail dress. Shoes and evening bag dyed to match. 'Tickle-me' pink and pearl accented underpinnings. She had a sense of humor and was quite the seductress. Oh, and this is not exactly a game to me, nor am I the murderer, but you should already know that..."
John looks up, surprise written all over his face, "I never said- Do people usually assume that you are the murderer?"
"Now and then, yes." Sherlock answers, turning his gaze back down to the contents of the travel case, schooling his expression. "It would be perfectly logical to assume, based on the text that I just sent."
"Well I am glad you got back here safely and in good time."
"Not like you, hmm? So are you going to tell me why you were in a right mood earlier before your shower?" Sherlock smiles and looks back up at John before crossing to the doctor, and stands a scant breath away. "Or do I get to try to deduce it?"
"Do you enjoy doing that? Confusing the lines?" John challenges back.
"I don't know, inconclusive." Sherlock smiles. "Maybe I need to formulate an experiment… I know of this quiet little restaurant with the best puttanesca and cabernet and it just happens to be close to the address I texted to our murderer."
Walking over and grabbing their coats, Sherlock returns to immediately invade John's space, yet again. "Oh John, you know you want to come. Danger. Excitement. And hopefully we will be able to catch the killer as well, if you can keep up."
Helping John into his coat, Sherlock gets even closer, enough to ruffle John's feathers.
Just as quickly, though, Sherlock heads out the door and down the stairs.
"Damnit!" John breathes to himself as he feels the heat rise to the tips of his ears. Catching up quickly, they both enter into the night.