I'm posting chapters 3 and 4 at once seeing as they're both very short. I know there's not much action going on in those two. Fear not, chapter 5 on the other hand is a mammoth with one hell of a twist.
Thanks for your interest and kind reviews. -K.
The Long Week
CHAPTER 3: FRIDAY
John doesn't go to work the next day.
He phones Sarah instead and explains to her that they have a new case. It's all done quickly; the poor woman is so used to it by now, she doesn't even require convincing.
The doctor gives a fleeting thought back to the times they used to be together last year. He had sincerely believed she might have been the one. But then again, he did think the same thing of the one who came before her and the one who had followed. He hangs up his phone with a sigh and turns back to the detective who's waiting expectantly for him by the entrance door. Sherlock, his hyperactive, rude, arrogant and a real pain in the behind kind of flatmate: the man he has killed for and the man he has offered to give up his own life for... and the only constant in his life now, it would seem. He happily follows him outside, ready for another day of detective work.
They start with suspect number four: Lord Jeremy Hammond, from Cornwall. Mycroft's files depict him as a respectable middle aged man. He owns a large estate close to the sea, on the North shore, near Newquay. He had been married for a little over thirty years when Mrs Hammond got diagnosed with a severe case of lymphatic cancer. She passed away four months later. They didn't have children but there is a niece, Lord Hammond seems to care a lot for, if the constant pricy gifts he sends too her are anything to go by. Laura Hammond is actually the very reason for the nobleman's current stay in the capital. The twenty three years old girl is studying art and literature at University – she's an above average student with very good grades, the files have revealed - and she's currently working on a thesis on Auguste Renoir.
Knowing that, it comes as no surprise that their stay in London should happen at the same time as a special exhibit in the Tate, dedicated to the 19th century impressionist painter. Nevertheless Sherlock decides they have to be thorough and they trail the uncle and niece from the hotel to a little nearby café. Both flatmates seat at the next table while the duo from Cornwall have their breakfast and the detective listens in to their conversation while John quietly sips at his own coffee. The discussion is boring and it never strays far from French painters and the typical brush strokes of the impressionist movement. Sherlock makes a mental note to delete all of this as soon as the case is over.
When the young woman starts talking about Renoir's periode nacrée Holmes decides he's had enough and he promptly leave the café with Watson in tow.
"I'm not an expert," John starts as soon as they're out of hearing. "But I really doubt he's our killer."
Sherlock hums in reply, before adding with a smile, "And clearly his niece has a very bad taste in paintings," at John's raised eyebrow he continues."Rembrandt did some far more interesting works."
The doctor scrunches his brow in thought, the name is familiar but the details elude him, "Is it the guy who painted the carcass of an ox?" he finally asks after awhile.
Sherlock hums positively again as he hails a black cab. "Makes sense," John mutters thinking that he really shouldn't be surprised anymore.
They quickly move on to suspect number two: the Irish businessman. Richard Gillen is the CEO of Advilla, a company which made billions out of selling advertising spots on the Internet. The company has been created only six years ago but its growth has been really spectacular which warranted them an article in The Mirror.
According to the newspaper they even rank amongst the top five of their branch worldwide. MI5 has linked Gillen to a Londoner company Collatech, a recent start-up that specializes in creating innovating software. They have their office on Regent Street and that was Holmes and Watson's next stop.
They walk in the modern and luminous building posing as journalists and Sherlock turns on the charms as they approach the receptionist. John has to resist the urge to roll his eyes when his friend graces the young woman with his most charming and honey-dripping smile. It earns them an interview with Gillen's PA: Nora Andrews. It only takes five minutes for Sherlock to know over half a dozen different facts about the perky assistant. She's from Cork (her accent); she's got a new cat (claw marks on her left hand); she spent most of her morning on the phone (redness of her right earlobe); she's lost weight recently (the belt around her waist, she's not using the same hole as usually); perhaps due to her very recent trip to Asia (vaccine mark on her left arm); if not, then most likely due to the fact she very recently stopped smoking (pack of nicotine gum on the side of her desk, but still bears yellowish nails on her right hand); and she is really aching for a smoke right now (the way she nervously holds her pen between her fingers; Sherlock sympathizes with her on that one).
However, it only takes John two minutes to notice two other details that completely eluded the consulting detective. Ms Andrews is one hell of a chatty bird and she obviously has something for tall and blue-eyed detectives with high cheekbones. She's only got eyes for Sherlock as she explains to them that Advilla is in town to purchase a new piece of software that is going to revolutionize their advertising system, putting the Irish company well ahead of concurrence and saving them millions. Gillen is dead set on getting that program no matter the cost, she explains to them.
At the end of the meeting she even goes as far as handing Sherlock her business card - with her personal number on the back - should he want to contact her for a follow up. He pockets it automatically and leaves without so much as a goodbye; John chuckles all the way down in the lift at how aloof the detective can be on certain subjects.
John and Sherlock divide their afternoon between suspect number one - Christopher Allerdale, a private banker from New York - and suspect number three - François Deckers, the architect from Bruges.
They take a cab, going east to the City to investigate Allerdale first and discover the banker is in London on a business trip, visiting his company's local branch in town. Sherlock flashes one of Lestrade's Scotland Yard IDs to have a quick chat with one of the bank clerk. The young man confirms to them that Allerdale has been doing meetings upon meetings all week; adding that he has extended his official stay for another two days for sightseeing through the city and was due to leave England on Sunday night.
They get a glimpse of their suspect through the glass doors of a conference room and Sherlock dismisses him from the list of potential killer almost immediately: something to do with his watch and the number of folds in his pants' legs. John doesn't really understand that part, but honestly he is getting more than a little bit tired at this point and he doesn't try too hard. They've been running around London all day looking at the most boring and mundane suspects he's ever seen and he is longing for a quiet evening at the flat with some tea and crappy reality TV.
Their last stop takes them to the centre of town again, two streets north of the Savoy Hotel. They find their last suspect, Deckers, at a business centre where he is attending an architectural four-day long convention. They let themselves in discreetly and John is tasked with distracting the woman in charge of the admittances whilst Sherlock takes a peek at the guest-lists.
Of course with his usual bad luck, it isn't a pretty young woman, but a greying owl that reminds him of one of his most hated teachers in medical school that he has to sweet talk into looking the other way. Makes sense, he thinks bitterly and then a cold shiver runs down his spine as he notices she even has a way of looking at him from above her glasses that is identical to that of Doctor Schriver.
They're out of the building six minutes later - not a minute too soon, John thinks – with the knowledge that Deckers so far hasn't missed a single lecture.
"Are you sure it's one of them?" John asks once they're back in Baker Street.
Sherlock looks up from the papers he has in his hand with a look of indignation as if he'd just been insulted.
"Forget I said anything," John quickly says with a wave of his hand.
"It has to be one of them," the taller man coldly says a little while later; standing and finding himself once again in front of their wall of suspects.
"I don't know which one yet, but he is good," he adds with a faint trace of awe in his voice. "He is very good." It's a tone John knows extremely well. The game is on.
TBC.