"Fire's going to be a problem."
With an inward sigh, Sherlock returned his attention to the present, pausing his reanalysis of the victim and her known history.
"Yes," he agreed, wondering if it would be enough to stop Lestrade speaking about it. What plant life there was consisted mostly of grasses – and enough thistle that he'd snagged his coat several times – which meant they were not likely to acquire the necessary fuel to feed a fire throughout the night.
Not to mention the fact that they would have to stop early enough to use the sun. It was mid-afternoon now; judging by their latitude and the time of year, they had a few more hours of decent daylight – provided the weather didn't change.
In that respect, they had been lucky. So far.
If anything about the situation could be considered lucky.
"We did well enough last night," Sherlock pointed out, pursing his lips in displeasure as Lestrade signalled for them to stop to refill their meagre supply of water.
"In that we didn't freeze to death, yeah," the DI replied as they picked their careful way to the streambed.
"You'd prefer the alternative?"
"I'd prefer not feeling like I've been run over by a lorry," Lestrade said. "Here, drink up." Sherlock consented, if only to avoid further argument on the subject. He'd already declined lunch – such as it was – leaving the DI to eat an insufficient half of a vile-looking protein bar. "Not the best night I've ever had."
"Being drugged and abandoned in the wilderness is not a particularly restful series of events," Sherlock commented dryly.
"You're telling me," Lestrade replied, grimacing slightly as he pushed himself back to standing, tucking the refilled bottled into a coat pocket. "I'm too old for this – though I can't imagine when I wouldn't have been. We had shelter last night, Sherlock. I doubt that'll happen again."
"We've passed several suitable rock outcrops with deep enough recesses to protect us from the worst of the cold," Sherlock sighed. He'd noted that without even trying.
The DI gave a mirthless laugh.
"What?" Sherlock demanded.
"Suitable," Lestrade echoed. "Amazing how fast we shift our definitions."
"If your estimates are correct, we have at best one more night outside, at worst two."
"If I'm right," Lestrade agreed.
"It's been known to happen."
"Ah, if only I had witnesses to that. The great Sherlock Holmes, admitting someone else is right."
"Wilderness survival is not my forte," Sherlock said coolly.
"Never said it was mine, either. Camping gives you some idea, though."
"I wouldn't know."
"What, you've never actually been camping?" Lestrade asked as they moved away from the stream, putting enough distance between them and the water that the ground was firmer. The hills rose like sloping cages, containing them in a way the city never could. Beyond each peak lay the mocking, false promise of civilization, of people who were as unaware of their presence as they were of any others.
"No. And after this, I never intend to."
"Can't really say I blame you, but I doubt I could explain that to the kids and– fuck!"
Sherlock had swooped into a crouch almost before he'd registered Lestrade going down, mind automatically flicking through the details: small animal hole, mostly hidden by the wind-shifted grasses and weeds, the DI clutching his left ankle (and cursing loud enough that if there were someone nearby, they'd certainly be found now), no sound of a snap or crack registering in his memory – cause for extremely tentative optimism.
Ignoring the shouted protest, Sherlock unlaced Lestrade's shoe, easing it and the sock from the injured foot. Ankle already beginning to swell, but when he pressed his thumbs into it carefully, there was no indication of a break.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Lestrade swore.
"We've got to get back to the stream," Sherlock said, slinging the DI's left arm over his shoulder, taking most of the weight as he hauled Lestrade to one unsteady foot. "Come on, slowly." Negotiating the uneven terrain with another man's weight left him breathless in the short time it took to get back; Sherlock ignored the discomfort, settling Lestrade close enough to the bank to dip his foot into the icy water.
"No more than a minute at a time," he warned. Bad enough they would be slowed by the sprain; Lestrade hardly needed to contract hypothermia as well.
"Bloody hell that's cold," the DI muttered, leaning back, face pale.
"It'll help with the swelling," Sherlock said shortly. "And the temperature will numb most of the pain." Lestrade nodded, gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes, gloved hands balling into fists to displace discomfort.
Sherlock's great coat was shucked, his suit jacket joining it; the tear of fabric made Lestrade open his eyes again.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.
"Silk has a high tensile strength. We can use it to bind your ankle, and I can live without my sleeves." Without waiting for further comment, he tore the fabric into long strips, using teeth and fingers, and began to knot the ends together. Far from ideal – but there was nothing about this situation that was.
"Take your foot out," he ordered. They sat for some time, Lestrade alternating the immersion until Sherlock was satisfied they'd overcome the worst of it. The sudden pang of desire to have John here was difficult to ignore, especially now. His actions weren't uneducated, but field trauma was John's area of expertise.
With Lestrade's ankle bound and his sock replaced, Sherlock helped him back up the slope a ways, trying to find some shelter from the wind.
"Stay here," he ordered. "I'm going to find somewhere more suitable."
Long, slow strides brought him to the crest of the peak, the height contradicting the sinking feeling in his stomach. There was little interruption to the landscape. The distant copse of trees for which he'd been hoping failed to materialize, but there was at least a decent looking outcrop close to the path they'd been on, and not much further.
With the DI on one leg, it took longer to reach than Sherlock had been anticipating, and by the time they arrived, both of them were short on breath. Lestrade slumped to the ground, shifting himself to sit with his back against one of the larger slabs, while Sherlock crouched, evaluating their position.
It would do overnight. There was a small overhang, just deep enough they'd be mostly protected if they curled up. The stream remained in the near distance, a short walk that he'd be going on his own whenever they needed water – and very carefully. They couldn't afford one injury, let alone a second.
"You need to eat," Lestrade said, fishing the half eaten bar from his pocket.
"Hardly," Sherlock murmured.
"Bollocks, Sherlock," the DI snapped. "I don't care what bloody lies you tell yourself about not needing food, this is not the middle of London where you're always within twenty feet of a chippy. Take it."
"That's not food," Sherlock pointed out, raising his eyebrows.
"It's the best we've got. Eat it."
He managed a few bites before it became utterly unpalatable, and brooked no argument about not finishing it. Lestrade's injury would slow them down; they needed to marshal whatever resources they had.
Such as they were.
"I'm going to see about fuel for a fire."
"What, grass?"
"There are some shrubs nearby, and perhaps thistle."
"Won't be much of a fire – at least not for long."
"No," Sherlock murmured in agreement. "It won't."
But it got him up and moving, which helped shake the constricted, imprisoned feeling impinging on his mind. The solitude helped counteract the worn feeling caused by the incessant wind. He was not without distraction – more of his attention than he'd prefer had to be focused on the terrain – but the lack of conversation was a blessing.
His scarf became a sling and, for a moment, he was glad John wasn't here to see this. The fleeting sensation left a sudden ache in its wake; Sherlock set his jaw and ignored it. Speculation was useless, and there was an actual case – with an actual victim – that required his attention.
Who were you really, Sanjana Bhasin, and what was it that you did?
Something about her must have been out of the ordinary. Appearances were deceiving. Sherlock knew that all too well – a lesson that had been repeated far too often. On the surface, a successful solicitor, graduate of Cambridge, well versed in corporate law. Thirty-two, lived with the fiancé (of course the most obvious suspect, but being overseas at the time ruled him out comfortably). On her own time, worked as an advocate for a victim's group.
Found dead in her locked flat by her sister. Cause of death not apparent until the autopsy was preformed. Toxicology positive for drugs – not recreational ones. Deliberate injection. Needle mark between the first and second digits on the left foot, easily overlooked, unless one was looking for it.
Not bound when she was discovered, but bruises on her wrists and ankles suggested she had been ante-mortem. Suspect pool reduced from her office to the center at which she volunteered. A short list of women associated with men who may have felt wronged. Narrowed down ever further to two, including the one they'd been chasing. Locksmith.
Should have been simple. Easy.
Then they'd awoken here.
A locksmith with the resources to do this was unlikely. A connection was missing. The crime scene – Bhasin's flat – spread out before him in perfect detail as his hands worked methodically, violinist's fingers bent to the unfamiliar task of ripping and pulling at resistant vegetation.
The wind brushed a wrist exposed as he worked, jolting Sherlock away from the memory into another one – John's fingertips skimming up his forearm, lips and breath against his ear.
No, he told himself firmly, refocusing on the present.
The case mattered. The case was why they were here. Memories of brief, intimate moments were irrelevant, but once triggered, Sherlock found the sensation unwilling to dissipate from his skin.
He'd never had this much difficulty focussing before.
He'd also never been stranded in the Welsh wilderness before.
With a sigh that was lost to the wind, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, walking slowly through the memory of Bhasin's flat as his feet took him carefully across the alpine meadows. Minimalist and simple, but her taste, not a decorator's. Large windows to let in the light – although the day she'd died, they'd been splattered with raindrops, contrasting the bright sun under which he found himself now.
Clean surfaces – she had been neat and had hired someone to help keep the flat in order. Furniture relatively new, matching or complementary, but with touches of sentiment. An old throw cushion, its now-faded colours reminiscent of brighter and more vivid hues. A fleece blanket draped almost carelessly over a chair arm. A set of tourist coasters from Paris – a gift from the fiancé, before he'd been the fiancé.
More personal touches in the bedroom, a refuge that was rarely shown to the world. On display as officers and forensic techs tromped through it. An odd distinction Sherlock had never understood when his life – his work and John – had bled into all the nooks and crevices of the flat, marking no sharp boundaries because there were none.
Walk-in closet, divided in half, both sides filled with stylish, professional clothing, drawers containing more casual (but still expensive) items. Not overstuffed, but no unoccupied spaces on the racks or the shelves that held empty boxes or pieces of clothing carefully wrapped and stored. No suggestion that boxes had been moved or were missing; the dust had spoken here, but it couldn't tell them anything.
Her eyes had been closed when her body had been found. Odd, that. The drugs would have put her to sleep before killing her. The consideration – compassion – warred with the suggested violence on her wrists and ankles.
Which meant it may have been deliberate, but the search of the flat turned up nothing in the way of bondage that would leave that deep of marks. The fiancé had been appalled by the bruises – not a reaction used to cover embarrassment. Said she'd never bruised easily, either, which made the revelation more complicated. And troubling.
What did you do? Sherlock asked the memory of her still form. On the morgue slab, she'd been statuesque, darker skin paled, like a worn photograph or carved marble. What did you get too close to? What did we get too close to?
Useless to question the memory of a corpse. He'd taken from her all the information he could have, could use it now to glean more.
Without new facts – and no access to them – it might mean nothing. The data he needed were in London, and he was not.
His scarf was full – although not nearly full enough. They could start a fire, and be lucky if they got ten minutes from it. Nothing to be done about it. Lestrade would say it was better than nothing.
It was not better than London.
The DI gave a wry smile at the sight of Sherlock wearing the scarf like a pack across his chest, but a sharp look deferred any comments. Without a word, the detective crouched down, unstrapped the too-small bundle, and set to work.
—
"That didn't last long."
Sherlock gave a non-committal, wordless reply. The fire had lasted long enough to warm hands and feet, and moving to gather more grass – this time to line the floor of their modest shelter – kept the sensation from dissipating. Lestrade contributed what he could, spreading the grass out on the uneven, barren ground until they had a decent padding.
The DI shifted into a more comfortable position, wincing as he rested his ankle carefully on his shoe, and checked his watch with a sigh. Sherlock didn't have to ask to know they had approximately ninety minutes until sunset – the sun was already beginning its westward trek toward the horizon.
"You know, I was supposed to meet with Molly today. Right now, as a matter of fact."
"She's not on the case," Sherlock murmured.
"Not everything's about the case."
Everything had to be about the case. The work was important. Kept him focussed when his concentration threatened to become divided. It was the reason they were here; logically there was nothing at the moment that was more important.
"A date, actually," Lestrade comment. "First in awhile."
"Mm," Sherlock replied, tilting his head back against one of the rocks, hoping his closed eyes would be enough of an indicator that he had no interest in the conversation.
"Hadn't really spoken to her since you got back."
Apparently, the hint was not enough. With a repressed sigh, Sherlock raised his head, eyes narrowing in cold assessment..
"You're angry at her for not divulging a secret that wasn't hers to share – not to mention one that had been devised to save your life. Stupid reason to hold a grudge, Lestrade."
"Yeah, well not everyone's as laid back about lying as John is."
A retort was swallowed with some effort; if Lestrade thought "laid back" applied to John's reaction, he was severely misinformed. The details of their private conversations were hardly the DI's business, but another, less familiar, flare of indignation burned brightly, taking the place of the real flames that had long since died.
"Stupid," he repeated, spitting the word into the space between them. "You had the luxury of time and you've squandered it over some misconceived injury she didn't inflict on you. She saved your life, Lestrade. Not much of a repayment."
"Yours too," the DI pointed out dryly.
"Yes, and mine. I haven't forgotten."
Lestrade stared at him for too long a moment to be comfortable, then gave his head a sharp shake, a sigh gusting from his lips.
"I wanted to tell her that. That I know what it cost her and why she did it – but things don't always work out, do they?" A small, wry smile crossed his lips, vanishing almost before it was formed. "You're right," the DI sighed, leaning his head back against the rock, "it was stupid to waste time."