Here's Chapter Four! Sorry it took a while to get it posted. I'm never not busy. Case conclusion time, so set up your bets. Who's the murderer? Or is it murder at all . . . .
P.S. Thanks for all your support with this story. It's still kind of surreal that there are people actually reading my fanfiction. Please feel free to review!
Chapter Four
The few officers that were in the room left when Sherlock entered, leaving the detective, John, and Rhianna alone with the corpse. What a lovely thing to write home to mom about, Rhianna thought as she shut the door behind her. Sherlock began work immediately, John looking about the room like he was contemplating a move from his Baker Street lodgings.
The sight of the body was slightly unsettling, it being her first, but she was not one for being squeamish. Powder burns were on his skin, the gun had obviously been held close at the time of firing. Right against his head.
"This was murder," Sherlock announced out of the blue, shaking her from her thoughts.
"Why do you say so?" she asked, stepping closer to look at what he was investigating.
"Why should I tell you?" he questioned, looking up at her with a matter-of-fact expression.
This irked her, and she showed as much by cocking her eyebrow and saying, "Because I asked you nicely?"
He shook his head. "That's too boring. I got you access to this crime scene, now I want to see what you can figure out by yourself."
"Would my fumbling about amuse you?" she asked, crossing her arms.
"I want to see just how far you can go," he explained, giving a quick smile. "You being lacking in the field of deductive reasoning."
"Fine, I'll try! But stop baiting me. It's annoying."
"Very well." His smile broadened, and John noted it.
Rhianna examined the body minutely, but could find nothing of significance. The man was dead. What more could she add?
"Don't limit your investigation to just the body," Sherlock instructed, gesturing to the rest of the room. "Look at everything. A person's place of residence can tell you scores about their character, past, and possibly their future. You just have to know what to look at and how to connect the dots."
John was about to combust. The first time he had missed something, Sherlock had explained to him that it was because he was an idiot. Now, however, he was acting patient, almost seeming to enjoy teaching her how to use his tricks. He didn't know whether to be disturbed or amazed. The only other woman he had ever taken an interest in had been Irene Adler, but that hadn't stopped him from foiling her plans. Now he believed her to be in witness protection in America with a new identity. It was better than him knowing the truth anyway.
While John was trying to sort out his thoughts concerning Sherlock and women, Rhianna took Sherlock's advice and began peering about the rest of the flat.
It was a nice place, to be sure. The furniture was expensive and the champagne in the refrigerator was a well known brand, one that she couldn't even afford in her dreams. The man was a bachelor, if the absence of a wedding ring meant anything, and the apartment itself showed all the signs of a bachelor pad except for one thing: it was clean. Everything was put away neatly on shelves, straight and orderly.
The bathroom cabinet held aftershave, eye drops, aspirin, and mouthwash. The kitchen had expensive desserts and snack foods. A lot for one man, she mused. In the bedroom the sheets were clean and folded, there being nothing else of much consequence. At first she could come to no conclusion. I mean, the expensive and fancy food could either be the cause of a lady friend he had come over often, or a big appetite on his part. Yet the man was skinny, she remembered.
She could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into the back of her head, making her self conscious. This wasn't her job, so why was he making her do it? Ugh. Then something hit her.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?" he asked, immediately responding as if he had been waiting for the question.
"Do you know if Mr. Williams had poor eyesight?"
"He did not. No glasses, no contacts."
The eye drops. He didn't need them for contact irritation. Allergies? Yet there was no medication for drowsiness or any other symptoms specific to them. Why did he have them, unless, the eye drops were not his.
"Mrs. Lane," she murmured, head snapping up.
"Come again?" Sherlock questioned, getting excited. She was getting warmer. He could practically see the gears turning in her brain.
"Mrs. Lane's eyes were irritated as she was leaving, and she did have quite a lot of makeup on, similar to a – er – woman of loose morals. Do you think she was his mistress?"
"I don't think it," Sherlock beamed. "I know it. Quite a good job you did there, now, can you deduce who the murderer is?"
She thought for a moment. The only person she could connect Conner Williams to with the evidence provided was Mrs. Lane, yet it didn't seem likely that she would kill her lover. When Lestrade signaled for her to be silent back there in the hall, she complied automatically. She seemed passive, hardly a cold blooded killer. Though that wasn't enough to clear her. Who truly knows the mind of a murderer? But what could she possibly gain from killing him? Wouldn't that just make it inconvenient for her? Actually, come to think of it, she hadn't come across any evidence that suggested it even was murder. She was just taking Sherlock's word for it. Yet she hadn't attempted to contradict it. She just took it for fact. Odd.
"No luck?" the detective pushed, trying to break her silent stretch.
"I don't think she's the killer," Rhianna explained, "but I found no evidence alluding to anyone else. Common sense says that the enraged husband would have done it out of jealousy, but that's just conjecture."
"That is making a theory that explains all the facts," Sherlock corrected. "In order to prove that theory right or wrong, we must test it against what we discover. I will take over from here."
"Be my guest."
Nodding, he clapped his hands together and took a deep breath. She felt a lengthy monologue coming on.
"Now, we have already concluded that Mr. Williams was having a clandestine affair with his neighbor's wife, not exactly the brightest idea, but it was done nonetheless. It is clear from the expensive food, ungodly amount of champagne, clean state of the flat, and bottle of eye drops that she was over often, and that it had been going on for some time. Mr. Lane has a job that keeps him late at the office on a regular basis, giving his unfaithful wife ample time to fraternize with their neighbor. It is my opinion that Mr. Lane found out about this liaison and decided to eradicate the problem. Note that the door was not forced and the lock showing no signs of being picked. This led to the police's belief in suicide. However, as we have discovered, Mrs. Morris has a habit of bringing food to her neighbor at all hours, and he always answers the door for her. Mr. Lane no doubt noticed this, and used it as a way to get into the apartment without leaving any signs of his entry."
"It makes sense," John interrupted, "but without evidence, we can't tie down Mr. Lane for the crime. A jury is not going to believe us because an old woman is overgenerous with her cooking. Besides, he has an alibi."
"He says he has an alibi. It hasn't been checked up on yet. Now kindly allow me to finish my deductions," Sherlock spat, causing John to roll his eyes. Sometimes his best friend was way too dramatic. Sherlock went on with his speech.
"Do you see this gun the man is gripping in his hand?"
"Yes," Rhianna confirmed. "What of it?"
"It is a Daewoo Precision Industries K5 military pistol. This manufacturer is founded in – "
"Korea!" Rhianna finished for him.
"Precisely. Mr. Lane is a Korean business man who would have no troubles getting a hold of one."
"Couldn't Mr. Williams have bought one as well?" John asked, trying to cover all the bases.
"The answer to that question should be the most obvious," Sherlock stated, giving John an exasperated look.
"And that would be?"
"The case! Where's the case, John? It's not in this apartment, so where is it? Probably with its owner, Mr. Lane."
"Do you think he has it in his luggage down in the lobby?" Rhianna asked, looking over at Sherlock who nodded.
"He was probably planning to get rid of it once they escaped from the building."
"We've got to go after him then!" John cried. "Lestrade may let him go!"
"Agreed. We've done all we can here."
"The fingerprints," Rhianna started. "I'm assuming Mr. Lane wore gloves and after shooting Mr. Williams in the temple he put the gun in his hand leaving only the victim's prints on the weapon."
"That's how I see it," Sherlock agreed. "Now all we have to do is catch our murderer and see if he has the case."
Without another word the three of them were speeding down the hallway and pounding on the buttons of the elevator (who would not listen to Sherlock's multiple shouts of cooperation). When it opened, Sherlock scared the living daylights out of a woman coming back up to her apartment, eventually pushing her out of the way and leaving John to apologize for his behavior.
When they finally reached the lobby, the walking personality disorder smiled with pleasure when he saw that Mr. and Mrs. Lane were still in Lestrade's custody. The Inspector (who was pacing, by the way) stormed over to them when they exited the lift.
"Have you found anything?" Lestrade asked in a rather hushed voice. Obviously the 'Chief in Charge' did not want others hearing their conversation. It wasn't hard for her to conclude that he was embarrassed at having to come to Holmes for help.
"Just the obvious," he muttered, riling Lestrade.
"Was it a suicide?"
"No."
"It never is."
"Inspector Lestrade, I suggest that instead of grumbling about your misfortunes you go and arrest the murderer who is currently twitching with anger at the far side of the room."
The police officer whipped his head around, allowing his gaze to land on their lovely Mr. Lane. When he returned to Sherlock, he was clearly unhappy with the results of the man's investigation. "Tell me that you aren't suggesting that the murderer is – "
"Mr. Lane. Of course," Sherlock interrupted, confirming Lestrade's foreboding.
"But . . . But why?!"
"Take a closer look at the possessions of the victim and the weapon used," Sherlock said.
It was still not clicking with the Inspector. With a sigh and roll of the eyes, Sherlock went through the entire explanation until he had Lestrade nodding with understanding. By the end of the account, Mr. Lane was cuffed and stuffed into a cop car. The gun case had been found buried under layers of clothing in his suitcase, and with no one at his office to confirm his alibi, his game was up.
Mrs. Lane was crying hysterically, but Rhianna figured it was more out of the loss of her husband's expanding business (and the money it rolled in) than out of love. The makeup she had religiously applied to her face was mixing with her tears and coincidentally running down her cheeks. She was quite a sight in her tight black dress and stiletto Pradas stumbling about the complex's lawn.
"Someone needs a sedative," Rhianna mumbled under her breath.
John, however, heard this. "Her husband did just get arrested you know."
"Not before she cheated on him," she returned. "Unfaithfulness is a most vile attribute. If she really loved him, then why was she being shagged by her neighbor?"
The doctor sniggered at her way of speaking. Her vocabulary was educated and unusual, yet blunt and quite crass. It was an amusing combination. His new neighbor, however, just smiled.
"You've got a wonderful sense of humor, Dr. Watson," she commented, eyes twinkling.
"And you an interesting way of speaking, just John, if you please. You should come over for sandwiches more often."
"I would hate to impose, but I do jump at the mention of free food, John," she laughed. "Besides, another conversation with Sherlock would be entertaining. Last time he showed me a remarkable experiment he was conducting on the growth of a colony of rare bacteria. It was really fascinating, though I didn't know the climate to generate growth could be reproduced in a kitchen."
"He did mention you liking that. You have no idea what he can produce in the kitchen . . . and has . . . ."
"Your kitchen is a world of its own I imagine."
"You have absolutely no idea," John stressed, eyes widening. "One time I came home only to find a severed head in the refrigerator."
"A what?!"
"A head. Apparently it had to be chilled in order to measure the coagulation of saliva after dead."
"Bet it did wonders for the taste of the milk," she joked.
"It did have an unusual tang for a while after that," he stated, expression looking as though he was having a disturbing flashback.
Rhianna turned her head to look at the situation of the area when she spotted the dark headed, rat-faced man in the blue bodysuit glaring at her again.
"Okay, do you know who that guy is?" she asked John, pointing over to her stalker. "Every time I see him he's staring at me."
John followed the direction in which she was pointing and sighed at the man in question. "His name is Anderson. He's the head of forensics and hates Sherlock. He's probably just wondering why you're with us."
"He looks like a creeper," she confessed, shuddering.
"I didn't say he wasn't," John added, grinning ever so slightly. "Though he does get along quite well with Sgt. Donovan."
"Sgt. Donovan?"
"The woman you met when we first got here. She let us in."
"Oh, Sally. Wait. You mean they . . . ?"
"Shag, to use your wording? Yes."
"But he's married. Look, there's a wedding ring on his finger."
"Doesn't stop him."
"Obviously. Why do people get married if they're not going to respect the constitution?"
John shrugged. "Lust?"
"Two words: self control. People need to start thinking with their brains and not their genitalia."
"That could be a slogan."
"It should be. We should put it on coffee mugs."
"That would make me thirsty in the morning."
As they were both laughing, Sherlock approached them from behind.
"What are you two laughing about? Is murder amusing to you?"
"No, but that seems to be the case for you," Rhianna cut, smiling.
"As long as it provides a mystery, yes."
The three of them fell alongside each other, making their way out of the crime scene.
"Where to now?" she asked, looking up at Sherlock.
"My work is done here. I'm heading back to Baker Street."
"I've got to pick up some milk," John said. "We're out. Again."
"I was heading back home anyway," Rhianna stated. "Besides, I need to mount that TV."
"Sounds like fun," John commented sarcastically.
"About as fun as grocery shopping," she returned. "Hated it when I was younger, still hate it now."
"We've got to eat," John shrugged. Then, rethinking it, corrected, "Well, at least some of us do."
"I eat when necessary," Sherlock put in, readjusting his scarf.
"You intending on eating today?" she asked.
He didn't respond as John hailed a cab.
"Off to the grocer's then," he announced, jumping in the vehicle and driving away.
The two remaining comrades stood in silence for a while before one abruptly broke it.
"Lunch?"
"What?" Rhianna inquired, looking up at him with surprise. Did he just ask her to lunch?
"I said, would you like to get some lunch?"
"Sure. Any place in particular?"
With a large smile which she did not know the meaning of, Sherlock Holmes grabbed her wrist and said, "Come with me," just before shoving her into a cab, following her inside and shouting to the driver, "Tierra Brindisa!"
)*(
Before she knew it, she was standing on the pavement outside a little restaurant on Northumberland Street. It was kinda cute, not that she would tell Sherlock that.
"Come here often?" she asked, following him toward the entrance.
"I know the owner," he explained, opening the door for her.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
The inside of the cafe was dimly lit, but small and cozy. A perfect place for lunch. True it was now late in the afternoon, but it was lunch to her. If the food was as pleasing as the atmosphere, then she was in for a treat. Just as they walked in, a man came to retrieve their jackets, draping them over his arm.
"Thank you, Billy," Sherlock uttered as he passed over the article of clothing.
Mr. Holmes seems to be familiar with the place, she observed.
Right as they sat down at a window table, a larger, burly man walked over to them, slapping Sherlock on the back and letting out a raspy burst of laughter.
"Sherlock Holmes! What a pleasure! Wonderful of you to come back, and with such a pretty lady! A date?"
"Hello, Angelo," Sherlock stated, dodging the question. Why he didn't just tell the man no she couldn't say, but didn't bring up the matter again.
"Is it safe to assume that you are the owner of this establishment?" This question she directed to Angelo who nodded in the affirmative.
"That's right. Nice little place if I do say so myself." Saying this, he slapped a couple of menus down on the table and stated, "I'll be back with some water," and ran off.
"Interesting man," she commented, looking over at Sherlock who was listlessly flipping through his menu. "You're bored again, aren't you?"
At this he looked up at her, squinting his eyes as though he were looking into the sun. "Why do you think so?"
"Well, for starters, on the night we first met I noticed that you crave mental stimulation almost to the point of totally neglecting your physical needs. To follow up, you were flipping through the pages of your menu quickly and carelessly, suggesting that you are taking no interest in the food and would much rather be doing something that requires you to work out a complex mystery. Am I wrong?"
He seemed dazed for a bit, as though what she had just related was a miraculous discovery. Eventually though, he came back down to earth.
"No, you are perfectly right. You catch on quite quickly don't you?"
"If you're referring to my observation, it was nothing extraordinary. Anybody who walked by could have seen you were bored."
"Yes, but you seem to understand my need for mental stimulation, and we only met yesterday. Could it be that you crave it too?"
Was she having lunch or a therapy session with a psychologist? Nevertheless, she answered his question.
"Yes, I do seek mental stimulation, though admittedly not as recklessly as you do. I don't neglect taking care of myself either. Besides, my mental stimulation comes from researching my own little obsessions, watching mystery movies, studying chemistry, reading, and solving a puzzle here and there. Not really much to brag about."
"Your hobbies are ordinary enough," he admitted, causing her to smile and roll her eyes. "However, you are distinctly different."
"How so?" she asked.
Their menus had been completely forgotten as he began his answer.
"You are quite old fashioned, if your Beatles purse accounts for your tastes. Also, your outfit, complete with military blazer and black lace cravat suggests an unusual taste and personality. Not many people wear things like that in public anymore, but the fact that you do suggests that you don't care what other people think of you. You have a strong independent nature, yet you are polite. You are always truthful and extremely opinionated, as gathered from our conversation last night, not to mention your quick-wittedness and sharp mind. I must admit, Miss Arico, I find you fascinating. You're like a mystery in and of yourself."
"And if you solve that mystery would you get bored of it?" she asked, sipping the water which had miraculously appeared before them as she awaited his answer.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Who can say? John's not exactly a mystery to me, but I find his company pleasant. He is one of the few people I can call a friend. He's trustworthy, reliable, honest, and can be a bit blunt if provoked. I like John as a person, so, with or without the mystery, who's to say I wouldn't like you?"
She had to admit, she was surprised at his answer. He didn't seem the type to warm up to anybody quickly (or at all, or that matter), but here she was, having a late lunch with him and listening to him say things that she highly doubted he'd said to anybody else. In a way, she felt special. Like she had cracked the cold mask of this detective of stone. But she didn't want to think too highly of herself. There was much more to Sherlock Holmes than met the eye, and she highly doubted that she had gained his full confidence in less than forty-eight hours.
Before they could say anything more however, Angelo was over to take their orders. She asked for the shrimp pasta and a Coca Cola, while Sherlock ordered a turkey sandwich and coffee. After telling them that everything was on the house, Angelo went away to the kitchen to see that their food was prepared.
"Not much of a heavy eater are you?" Rhianna observed, sipping at her water.
"Food is just transport," he remarked bluntly. "Though John is always concerned with my diet."
"As well he should be. Being alive does help in the solving of cases."
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. The way she put it made sense. Not that it would change his eating habits of course.
"You are a very sarcastic person," he mused, looking at her over the rim of his glass.
"Then that's something else we have in common."
"John has told me sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," he shared.
"John is just jealous of your natural talent for it," she joked, laughing. This caused him to smile.
As the time passed, their late lunch was brought to them and they ate over some fun conversation. He didn't know why, but he was enjoying this. She was fun to talk to, and when he went silent she didn't try to provoke him to speak. It was as if she understood him. Her company was pleasant. He'd even go so far as to say . . . enjoyable. He had seldom found women to be an attraction, but this one had piqued his curiosity. As they drove back to Baker Street in a cab, something in his gut told him that this wouldn't be his last adventure with Miss Rhianna Arico.
Sorry for the late update! School's up again and I have quite the workload. Anyway, the first short mystery has been solved! Granted it wasn't that complicated, but I wanted to start out with something simple to allow Rhianna to get her feet wet. I LOVED writing the dialogue between Rhianna and John. It was just an out pour of funny! And finally, more bonding between Sherlock and Miss Arico. I'm trying to make her smart, but not as smart as Sherlock (since that's nigh impossible). So far I think they're getting along well together. Thanks for all your views, favorites, follows, reviews, and support in general! It really encourages me to write!