Sherlock's Foible
Sophia Conrad
1.4: Suicide at (Fake) Gunpoint?
"Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket."
- Sherlock Holmes
On the ground floor of 221 Baker street, Sherlock finished doing up the buttons of his overcoat and tucked his scarf in before opening the front door. A black taxi cab was parked on the kerb, its driver waiting on the pavement.
"Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes." The cabbie said, leaning back against the cab, looking rather relaxed. Sherlock stepped forward, letting the door behind him swing shut.
"I didn't order a taxi." He told the cabbie, testing the waters.
"Doesn't mean you don't need one." The cab driver, Jeff Hope, told him.
"You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street." Sherlock realized, thinking back and remembering that there had been two people in that cab, the passenger and the driver.
"It was you, not your passenger." He said, his mind slotting together the penultimate pieces of the puzzle. He now knew who, but not why.
"See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer." Jeff told him smugly.
"Is this a confession?" Sherlock asked, glancing up at the windows of his flat, where Kestrel sat watching them.
"Oh, yeah. An' I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise." Jeff said, not batting an eyelid.
"Why?" Sherlock said, eyes narrowing as he titled his head.
"'Cause you're not gonna do that."Jeff told him confidently.
"Am I not?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrow in amusement.
"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes. I spoke to 'em ... and they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing." Jeff said, leaning forward.
"I will never tell you what I said." Jeff promised. Sherlock could only stare at him, and after a moment Jeff straightened, before walking around the cab to the driver's door.
"No-one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result." Sherlock said warily, eyeing Jeff as if debating the risk. Jeff turned to look at him
"An' you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?" He said to Sherlock, before looking away again and climbing into the cab. He pulled the seatbelt across his body and started the engine. Sherlock moved closer to the cab, and bent to peer through one of the windows.
"If I wanted to understand, what would I do?" Sherlock asked, Jeff turned his head to look at the blue eyed pest.
"Let me take you for a ride." Jeff told him.
"So you can kill me too?" Sherlock said dryly. It wasn't a question per say.
"I don't wanna kill you, Mr. 'olmes. I'm gonna talk to yer... and then you're gonna kill yourself." Jeff told him, confident in his prediction. He turned back to face the road in front of him. Sherlock straightened up, tilting his head as he considered the situation. Finally, curiosity won out, and the detective climbed into the back of the cab. Jeff smiled in satisfaction.
From where he stood by the front window, John watched the cab pull away, his phone pressed to his ear.
"He just got in a cab." John said, turning to Lestrade. Lestrade ignored him, focusing on his supposed drug-bust.
"It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab." John repeated. Donovan scowled.
"I told you, he does that." She said tutting in irritation as she looked at Lestrade.
"He bloody left again." She told Lestrade and then walked into the kitchen.
"We're wasting our time!" She shouted to the team. John ignored her, and waved to get Lestrade's attention.
"I'm calling the phone. It's ringing out." John told Lestrade, worried. If the phone was here – why wasn't it ringing? Lestrade watched John pace around the room, his phone pressed to his ear.
"If it's ringing, it's not here." Lestrade said, stating the blindingly obvious fact. Kestrel glowered at him, and John put the phone down.
"I'll try the search again." He told her, reaching for the computer as Donovan reentered the room.
"Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time. All our time." Donovan fussed at Lestrade who locked eyes with her. He held her gaze for a long moment before sighing as she stared him down.
"Okay, everybody. Done 'ere." He shouted to his team. The police put everything back in its place and collected their things before leaving. Lestrade picked up his coat, before turning to John who was still sat in the desk chair.
"Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" Lestrade fussed, John could only shrug.
"You know him better than I do." He told Lestrade.
"I've known him for five years and no, I don't." Lestrade said, causing him to frown.
"So why do you put up with him?" John asked. Lestrade let out a huff.
"Because I'm desperate, that's why." He admitted, putting his hands in his pockets before walking toward the door. He stopped in the doorway, and turned back.
"And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." Lestrade told him.
"He already is." Kestrel said, from where she stood by the window, staring out at the night sky. Lestrade's eyes flickered over to her and he sighed, before leaving the flat.
"How did you find me?" Sherlock asked, looking out of the cab's window.
"Oh, I recognized yer, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock 'olmes! I was warned about you. I've been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!" Jeff told him cheerfully, For a man confessing to be a murderer, he seemed awfully chipper.
"Who warned you about me?" Sherlock said, curious.
"Just someone out there who's noticed you." Jeff waved his hand dismissively.
"Who?" Sherlock pursued, leaning forward in his seat and taking note of the telltale signs in the cab – there was shaving foam behind Jeff's ear, and a photo of two children in the picture frame on the dashboard, a woman, presumably the mother, had been cut out of the photo.
"Who would notice me?" Sherlock asked in an attempt to be humble. It didn't suit him.
"You're too modest, Mr. 'olmes." Jeff said, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror.
"I'm really not." Sherlock told him. It was true.
"You've got yourself a fan." Jeff informed him, and he leant back in his seat.
"Tell me more." Sherlock said in a nonchalant tone. A wry smile found its way onto his face.
"That's all you're gonna know... in this lifetime." Jeff told him quietly, pausing in the middle for that little bit extra.
"That's all you're gonna know... in this lifetime." Jeff told him quietly, pausing in the middle for that little bit extra. He drove on and on, before finally stopping in front of a pair of buildings. Jeff turned off the engine and climbed out, walking around to Sherlock's door and opening it.
"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer.
"You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are." Jeff told him, not buying it. He'd read the website.
"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?" Sherlock confirmed, admittedly rather curious.
"It's open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out." Jeff told him, a thoughtful look on his face. Sherlock remained impassive.
"And you just walk your victims in? How?" He asked, nobody went to their death willingly… except for suicides. But these weren't suicides. His question was answered in the form of Jeff raising a pistol to eye level, pointed at Sherlock's face. He rolled his eyes in disgust and looked away.
"Oh, dull." Sherlock moaned. Boring.
"Don't worry. It gets better." Jeff said, grinning. Sherlock gave him a disappointed look.
"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint." He told the cab driver.
"I don't. It's much better than that." Jeff assured him, lowering the gun.
"Don't need this with you, 'cause you'll follow me." Jeff said, and walked away, confident that Sherlock would follow. Sherlock sat there for a moment, before grimacing. He hated himself for it, but he did exactly as Jeff predicted – It wasn't his fault he was so damn curious.
John and Kestrel sat in silence in the flat, the police officers long gone. Sherlock had disappeared off to god knows where, and Mrs. Hudson had returned to her flat downstairs. There was nothing to do but wait. Finally, John sighed and stood up. It was late and he wanted to go home, if he could call the dreary bedsit home. He made it to the living room door, before he clenched his right hand and realized that he'd left his cane behind. He went back to collect it and had just opened his mouth to say goodbye to Kestrel when the small laptop let out a ding.
They both jumped and turned to look at it. They had forgotten that it was still set to search for the phone's GPS. A map had appeared on the screen, and was zooming in. Together, they watched it until it began to beep repeatedly. Mission accomplished, the little computer declared its triumph. There was a shared look, and then Kestrel was scooping up the tiny machine and they were off. In the rush, John had forgotten that he had once again left his can behind.
Jeff led Sherlock into a classroom, and then let it swing closed after them. He turned on the lights and Sherlock walked further into the classroom and looked around. Was he supposed to be looking at something? There were rows upon rows of solid looking wooden benches – a chemistry lab perhaps?
"Well, what do you think?"Jeff asked. Sherlock raised his hands in the air, shrugging as if to say 'What am I looking at?'
"It's up to you. You're the one who's gonna die 'ere." Jeff said as Sherlock turned to face him.
"No, I'm not." Sherlock told him confidently.
"That's what they all say." Jeff nodded to one of the classroom benches.
"Shall we talk?" He asked, pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down. Sherlock nabbed another chair and turned it so he was sitting down on the other side of the bench.
"Bit risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you." Sherlock mused, as if he had all the time in the world.
"You call that a risk? Nah." Jeff said, reaching into his jacket pocket.
"This is a risk." He told Sherlock, pulling out a clear glass bottle. Inside the bottle, sat an unmarked capsule, identical to the ones taken by the victims. Sherlock stared at it, unblinkingly.
"Ooh, I like this bit. 'Cause you don't get it yet, do yer? But you're about to. I just have to do this." Jeff baited him, reaching into his other pocket to retrieve another glass bottle. They were exactly alike – right down to the screw on caps.
"You weren't expecting that, were yer?" Jeff grinned, leaning forward. Sherlock remained impassive.
"Ooh, you're going to love this."Jeff told him with a glint in his eye. Sherlock frowned.
"Love what?" Sherlock asked, confused.
"Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours: your fan told me about it." Jeff said happily, leaning back in his seat.
"My fan?" Sherlock repeated.
"You are brilliant. You are. A proper genius. "The Science of Deduction." Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think?" Jeff scowled at the wooden surface of the bench.
"Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?" He asked, looking up as Sherlock. Sherlock watched him for a moment more before it came to him. He narrowed his eyes.
"Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius too." Sherlock said sarcastically.
"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man drivin' a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know." Jeff told him. Sherlock eyes him a moment more before looking back to the bottles.
"Okay, two bottles. Explain." Sherlock demanded, willing to play along.
"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die." Jeff explained cheerfully.
"Both bottles are of course identical." Sherlock stated.
"In every way." Jeff confirmed.
"And you know which is which." Sherlock asked, checking.
"Course I know." Jeff scoffed.
"But I don't." Sherlock said dryly.
"Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses." Jeff's tone was playful. Like a cat who played with a mouse, until of course, the mouse bit him and made its escape.
"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?" Sherlock pointed out.
"I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one – and then, together, we take our medicine." Jeff finished. Sherlock grinned – Now that was interesting.
"I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." Jeff told him. Sherlock stared at the two bottled, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
"Didn't expect that, did you, Mr. 'olmes?" Jeff said, pleased.
"This is what you did to the rest of them: you gave them a choice." Sherlock asked him.
"And now I'm givin' you one." Jeff confirmed. Sherlock looked at him.
"You take your time. Get yourself together." Jeff licked his lips in anticipation.
"I want your best game." Jeff said.
"It's not a game. It's chance." Sherlock told him scathingly.
"I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this... this is the move." Jeff slid the left bottle over to Sherlock.
"Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one." Jeff asked him. His expression betrayed nothing.
In the back of a taxi, John sat with Kestrel, a phone pressed to his ear. He was currently arguing with some annoying little busybody from the police department.
"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency!" John spoke rapidly into the phone, while Kestrel balanced the laptop on her knees. It was still tracking the phone's signal. But for how long? How long until the battery ran out?
"Left here, please. Left here." Kestrel told the cabbie, leaning over the back of the front seats. The drive continued in this manner for several more minutes – Kestrel directing the journey and John cussing out every idiot who answered the phone – they all seemed to be very sure that D.I Lestrade didn't need to be bothered. Finally, about five minutes away from the signal, Kestrel gave up. She shoved the laptop at John and yanked the phone away.
"Listen here you little prick. D.I Lestrade happens to be my big brother. Now my best friend is currently at the mercy of an insane serial killer. He also happens to be the only one who can solve this case. You put my brother on the phone now, or I will bury you. You won't ever work in any form of government office again once I am done. Are we clear?" She hissed down the phone, her voice dark. She would do it too. If Sherlock was hurt; she knew that there were people out there who would deal with the paper pushers.
The taxi pulled up outside Roland-Kerr College and dropped them off. As they got out, John tucked the tiny laptop into his jacket, and they stood, staring at the two identical buildings. The GPS had gotten them this far, but it wasn't strong enough to do exact coordinates. Which building should they choose? They looked at each other, and then John made up his mind. Kestrel followed, both praying that they had chosen the right one.
"You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes? Ready to play?" Jeff asked, looking down at the bottles before meeting Sherlock's eyes.
"Play what? It's a fifty-fifty chance." Sherlock said, unamused.
"You're not playin' the numbers, you're playin' me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?" Jeff was enjoying himself.
"Still just chance." Sherlock told him, convinced.
"Four people in a row? It's not just chance." Jeff warned him.
"Luck." Sherlock was skeptical.
"It's genius. I know 'ow people think." Jeff said proudly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead." Jeff told him, and Sherlock sighed, clearly exasperated. Would he just get on with it.
"Everyone's so stupid – even you." Jeff continued, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Oh, he did not just say that.
"Or maybe God just loves me." Jeff mused. Sherlock straightened in his seat and leant forwards, folding his hands in front of him.
"Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie." Sherlock said, a hint of venom in his tone. Sherlock lifted his folded hand to his mouth as he watched Jeff intently.
"So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?" Sherlock asked. Jeff didn't answer.
"Time to play." He said, nodding at the bottles.
"Oh, I am playing. This is my turn." Sherlock told him, unfolding his fingers to steeple them instead. He narrowed his eyes and began.
"There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no-one to tell you. There's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there." Sherlock said, and Jeff tried not to fidget. He was good.
"The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts." Sherlock decided, and Jeff refused to meet his eyes. Sherlock extended his index fingers and smiled.
"Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?" Sherlock carried on, but Jeff had regained control over himself and held Sherlock's gaze with ease. Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly as the answer came to him.
"Ahh. Three years ago – is that when they told you?" Sherlock inquired, his voice soft.
"Told me what?" Jeff asked flatly.
"That you're a dead man walking." Sherlock said. Jeff was ill, or suffering from some kind of condition. He had an expiration date.
"So are you." Jeff said. Everybody was. It was just a matter of how long it took.
"You don't have long, though. Am I right?" Sherlock tested, and Jeff smiled.
"Aneurism." Jeff told him, tapping the side of his head.
"Right in 'ere." Sherlock smiled, satisfied.
"Any breath could be my last." Jeff said. Sherlock frowned.
"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people?" Sherlock asked.
"I've outlived four people. That's the most fun you can 'ave on an aneurism." Jeff declared.
"No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children." Sherlock mused, ever thoughtful. Jeff looked away and sighed.
"Ohh. You are good, ain't you?" Jeff looked back to Sherlock.
"But how?" Sherlock asked. Jeff indulged him.
"When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs."
"Or serial killing." Sherlock said. Jeff raised his eyebrows.
"You'd be surprised." He told the younger man.
"Surprise me." Sherlock said, steel in his eyes. Jeff leant forwards.
"I 'ave a sponsor." Jeff announced conspiratorially.
"You have a what?" Sherlock asked him incredulously.
"For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think." Jeff told him.
"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?" Sherlock frowned.
"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes?" Jeff shot back at him. They stared at each other for a moment.
"You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that." Jeff said, in an almost vacant tone. Sherlock's nose twitched.
"What d'you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?" Sherlock pressed.
"There's a name no-one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter." Jeff decided, and nodded to the bottles.
"Time to choose." He said. Sherlock stared down at the two, innocent seemingly bottles. Which once was it?
The search for Sherlock was not going so well. They'd gotten into the building pretty easily, but there were so many rooms, and not a single clue as to which one he was in. They'd even checked the bathrooms. John had a toilet brush thrown at him by a cleaning lady when he'd dared to check in a bathroom, one which had turned out to be a ladies room. Oops.
"Sherlock?" John shouted, running down a long corridor, Kestrel on his heels. They ran from door to door, peering through windows, and veering around sharp corners. But there was no sign of him.
"Sherlock!" He shouted again. There was no reply. They went through yet another door, and up a staircase before going down another corridor. Nothing. Down a staircase and through more doors, there was no sign of Sherlock.
"What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here." Sherlock asked him, watching him carefully. Jeff sighed, both disappointed and annoyed. He lifted the pistol and pointed it straight at Sherlock's forehead.
"You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head." Jeff told him. Sherlock smiled, completely calm.
"Funnily enough, no-one's ever gone for that option." Jeff said.
"I'll have the gun, please." Sherlock chose, his gaze unfaltering.
"Are you sure?" Jeff asked him.
"Definitely. The gun." He said, still smiling.
"You don't wanna phone a friend?"Jeff tested. Sherlock didn't even blink.
"The gun." Sherlock said firmly. Jeff frowned, and complied – slowly squeezing the trigger. But instead of a bullet, a flame burst out of the gun's muzzle. It was a cigarette lighter.
"I know a real gun when I see one."Sherlock told him smugly.
"None of the others did." Jeff admitted, relaxing and releasing his hold on the trigger. The flame went out.
"Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." Sherlock said flippantly, standing up and crossing the room in a few of his long strides. Jeff lay the fake-gun on the desk, turning in his seat.
"Just before you go, did you figure it out... Which one's the good bottle?" Jeff asked him teasingly. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and looked around.
"Of course. Child's play." He told him confidently.
"Well, which one, then?" Jeff pushed. Sherlock opened the door, but didn't go through it.
"Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?" Jeff asked. Sherlock closed his eyes, and sighed, before turning back. He could never resist a challenge.
"Come on. Play the game." Jeff chuckled, baiting him.
Sherlock walked back over to the desk that Jeff was sat at, He stretched out one of his arms, and swiped up one of the bottles, before walking on past. Jeff looked at the other bottle, interestedly, but his voice gave no hints as to which bottle Sherlock had chosen.
"Oh. Interesting." Jeff mused, picking up the other bottle, watching Sherlock as he turned the bottle over in his hand. He opened his bottle and tipped the capsule into his hand, looking at Sherlock who closely examined his own bottle.
"So what d'you think?" Jeff asked, looking up at Sherlock.
"Shall we? Really, what do you think?" Jeff said, standing up to face Sherlock, who watched him..
"Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?"
John and Kestrel burst through one finally door, only to realize that they were in the wrong building. They watched through the window as Sherlock faced down the old cab driver. They were in an almost identical classroom to the one that Sherlock stood in, mirrored across a small section of road. John let out a cry of horror as Kestrel screamed in frustration at the same time.
"SHERLOCK!" John shouted, horrified.
"Sherlock, No!" Kestrel screamed in despair. There was no time to get around to the other building. She looked to John, who seemed just as lost as she did. There was nothing that they could do. John looked around the room they were in, before his hand twitched and he reached or the back of his waistband.
Across the way, in the other classroom, unaware that they were being watched, Jeff and Sherlock squared off. Jeff turned his pill over in his hand, eyes fixed on Sherlock.
"I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you... So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" Jeff taunted. Sherlock slowly undid the lid of the bottle and shook out the small capsule, taking his time to examine it closer in the light.
"Still the addict." Sherlock lowered the pill, still silent, holding it at eye level.
"But this... this is what you're really addicted to, innit? You'd do anything... anything at all... to stop being bored." Jeff said. Sherlock's finger began to shake – he was excited. The adrenaline was rushing around his body. In tandem, the two men slowly began to raise the pills to take them.
"You're not bored now, are you?" Jeff said, as they both brought the pills up to their mouths.
"Innit good?" Jeff asked gleefully. Famous last words.
There was a crack, as a gun went off, and a bullet ripped through the left-hand side of Jeff's chest, not far from his heart. It lodged in the wall behind him, and he fell to the ground with a thump. Sherlock dropped his capsule out of sheer surprise. He had not anticipated this.
In the other classroom, John stood stock still, his pistol still raised and aimed out of the open window. Kestrel watched him lower the gun to his side. They shared a look, and then fled. It wouldn't be a good idea to be there when the police finally arrived. They made it out of the door of the classroom with seconds to spare, as Sherlock shook his head to clear it, and turned, sliding over the desk to get to the window. There was a bullet hole in the window, but the one of the opposite classroom was open to the elements. There was nobody there.
Sherlock's attention was pulled back to his immediate surroundings when Jeff let ough a rough cough, breathing heavily. One of the pills still lay on the desk, and Sherlock snatched it up before kneeling at Jeff's side.
"Was I right?" Sherlock growled out, frantic. The wound was fatal. Jeff turned his head away in disbelief, he had not predicted this.
"I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" Sherlock fussed. He had to know. When Jeff remained silent, Sherlock hurled his pill across the room, frustrated. He stood up.
"Okay, tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my 'fan'. I want a name." He demanded, he was going to have this victory at least.
"No." Jeff refused, his voice weak.
"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name." Sherlock told him, and Jeff shook his head. Angry, Sherlock lifted his foot, and leant down onto Jeff's shoulder, just above the bullet wound.
"A name." Sherlock pressed, ignoring Jeff's cry of pain.
"Now." He said; his voice hard. Jeff whined, his face full of pain, but Sherlock had no sympathy for the man who had callously caused the deaths of four others. His face intent, Sherlock put his full weight into his foot and Jeff could only whimper.
"The NAME!" Sherlock insisted furiously, pressing down harder with his boot.
"MORIARTY!" Jeff yelled out, and let out a gasp of pain before his eyes rolled up into his skull and he passed out. Sherlock stepped backwards, thinking hard as always, and other the word 'Moriarty' to himself.
It didn't take long for the rest of the cavalry to arrive at the college, and soon Sherlock was sat on the back steps of an Ambulance, the same one that they had loaded the now dead body of Jeff Hope into. A paramedic placed an orange blanket around Sherlock's shoulders again. Key word: again.
"Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me." Sherlock asked, gesturing to the blanket, clearly irritated.
"Yeah, it's for shock." Lestrade told him, trying to hide a smile.
"I'm not in shock." Sherlock told him, eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs." Lestrade admitted, grinning. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Plebeians.
"So, the shooter. No sign?" Sherlock asked.
"Cleared off before we got 'ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but..." Here, Lestrade paused to shrug.
"...got nothing to go on." He finished. Sherlock gave him a look that read: 'Are you really that stupid?'
"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Sherlock told him with a wry smile. He ignored it when Lestrade rolled his eyes.
"Okay, gimme." Lestrade said with a miserable sigh.
"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service..." Sherlock told him, turning to see John and Kestrel waiting for him on the other side of the police tape. Kestrel was making slashing motions at him, warning him to stop.
"...and nerves of steel..." Sherlock trailed off, making the connection between Kestrel's movements and John's innocent look. It was a little too innocent. Lestrade turned to follow Sherlock's gaze, but he started walking away before any questions could be asked. He wasn't going to snitch on the man who saved his life.
"Actually, do you know what? Ignore me." Sherlock said, looking back to Lestrade.
"Sorry?" Lestrade asked, completely baffled.
"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking." Sherlock bluffed, moving further away.
"Where're you going?" Lestrade demanded.
"I just need to talk about the-the rent." Sherlock said vaguely, having turned to look back at the ruffled D.I
"But I've still got questions for you." Lestrade protested.
"Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" Sherlock huffed, irritated. He flapped the corners of his blanket to push his point across.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted after him.
"And I just caught you a serial killer... more or less." Sherlock added, making Lestrade pause. He looked thoughtful for a moment, before sighing heavily.
"Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go." Lestrade told him, and Sherlock walked away. He removed the blanket from his shoulders, bundling it up into a ball as he reached the police line. He tossed the blanket through the open passenger window of one of the police cars and ducked under the tape.
"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful." John said, trying to act normal, as if he had no previous knowledge of what had been going on. Sherlock gave him a look and Kestrel suppressed a grin. The innocent look wasn't working.
"Good shot." Sherlock told him quietly.
"Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window." John said, still trying to look innocent.
"Well, you'd know." Kestrel murmured, sharing a look with Sherlock.
"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." Sherlock told him, straight-faced. John cleared his throat, looking around unsettled.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked him, focusing in on John's face.
"Yes, of course I'm all right." John told him, squirming uncomfortably under Sherlock's all-encompassing gaze.
"Well, you have just killed a man." Kestrel reminded him softly.
"Yes, I..." John admitted, trailing off. They stood there in silence for a minute.
"That's true, innit?" John agreed, flashing them a wan smile. There was another beat of silence and then:
"But he wasn't a very nice man." John told them, straight-faced. Kestrel had to stifle a giggle as Sherlock nodded, agreeing.
"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?" Sherlock said, trying to cover up a smirk.
"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie." John added, making Kestrel dissolve into peals of laughter, which she would later explain to the surrounding police officers as a release of nervous energy.
"That's true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!" Sherlock told them. Suddenly it was John's turn to try not to laugh. Sherlock grinned.
"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!" John scolded, trying not to imitate Kestrel.
"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me." Sherlock drawled, enjoying the moment.
"Keep your voice down!" Kestrel hissed, elbowing them both in the ribs as they passed a suspicious Donovan.
"Sorry – it's just, um, nerves, I think." John said to Donovan, trying to avert her attention.
"Sorry." Sherlock agreed, and they walked away from her as quickly as possible. John cleared his throat, looking at Sherlock.
"You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?" John asked, making Sherlock turn to look at him. Kestrel's laughter stopped as she watched them both carefully.
"Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." Sherlock said flippantly, trying to avoid the question.
"No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever." John told him, eyes narrowed. Kestrel's breath caught in her throat.
"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked him, testing. There was a moment of silence as John considered his answer.
"Because you're an idiot." John decided, making both Sherlock and Kestrel smile. Finally! Somebody who understood. Kestrel shot Sherlock a look - They were keeping this one.
"Dinner?" Kestrel suggested cheerfully.
"Starving." John agreed and Sherlock nodded. Food sounded good. They turned around and started walking again, ad Sherlock led them onwards.
"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle." Sherlock mused. How one could know this was unfathomable, but if Sherlock said so… A few yards in front of them, a black sedan pulled up. It was the same sedan that had… borrowed John earlier. The stranger climbed out of it, and John stopped in his tracks.
"Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about." John fussed, staring at the stranger. Kestrel groaned as she caught sight of the stranger, and Sherlock's eyes went cold.
"I know exactly who that is." Sherlock told him with an irritated air in his voice. He walked closer to the man, and there was a reluctant air about his gait. A few feet apart, Sherlock stopped, looking around angrily. John glanced around, making sure the Police were close enough should they need help.
"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited... though that's never really your motivation, is it?" The stranger said in a congenial tone.
"What are you doing here?" Kestrel asked, eyes narrowed. As always, the hair on the back of her neck was straight on end – bringing these two together was not a wise idea.
"As ever, I'm concerned about you." The stranger said to Sherlock, ignoring Kestrel completely.
"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'." Sherlock ground out.
"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?" The stranger asked pleasantly.
"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock snarked, his hackles rising.
"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it always upset Mummy." The stranger told him, making John frown. Kestrel rolled her eyes.
"I upset her? Me?" Sherlock asked, incredulously. The stranger glowered at him.
"It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft." Sherlock told him.
"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John protested, feeling very lost.
"Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." Sherlock told him. John starred, and even Kestrel jabbing him in the ribs couldn't break his gaze.
"Putting on weight again?" Sherlock asked Mycroft snidely.
"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft said, straightening his suit.
"He's your brother?!" John gaped at Sherlock.
"Of course he's my brother." Sherlock snapped. He hated family reunions of all sorts.
"His brother?" John repeated, turning to Kestrel.
"Not now John." She hissed, watching the siblings warily. She really wasn't up for dealing for WW3 tonight. Whenever the pair came together, sparks would inevitably fly, and she was always the one who ended up having to deal with the clean-up. It was John who finally broke the stalemate.
"So he's not..." John began, looking back and forth between the two siblings.
"Not what?" Sherlock asked as the three of them turned to look at the embarrassed John who shrugged.
"I dunno – criminal mastermind?" John voiced the thought he had been carrying all night, wishing he'd never said anything to begin with.
"Close enough." Sherlock said dryly, eyeing his brother. Kestrel snorted.
"For goodness' sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government." Mycroft protested, clearly annoyed by the label.
"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Sherlock told John, ignoring Mycroft's huffing.
"Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic." Sherlock said grumpily, before walking off.
"Now you've done it." Kestrel hissed at Mycroft, before hurrying after him. John made to follow her, but turned back to Mycroft who was watching Sherlock carefully.
"So, when-when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?" John asked, trying to make sense of the situation.
"Yes, of course." Mycroft told him.
"I mean, it actually is a childish feud?" Jon said, honestly curious.
"He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners." Mycroft admitted with a sigh, still focused on Sherlock.
"Yeah... no. God, no!" John mumbled, before half-turning, intending to follow his new friends.
"I-I'd better, um..." John tried to explain, before giving up and looking at 'Anthea' who was, as always, focused on her blackberry.
"Hello again." John said to her. She looked up, clearly not recognizing him, and smiled brightly.
"Hello." She replied.
"Yes, we-we met earlier on this evening." John told her.
"Oh!" 'Anthea' exclaimed, trying to pretend as if she actually remembered him. John didn't buy it – He wasn't stupid, no matter how many times Sherlock had inferred it that day.
"Okay, good night." John said, nodding to Mycroft and turning to finally scarper after his friends.
"Good night, Doctor Watson." Mycroft replied absent-mindedly, watching him catch up to Kestrel and Sherlock, and falling into step with them.
"So: dim sum." John asked as he rejoined the.
"Mmm! I can always predict the fortune cookies." Sherlock told him happily.
"No you can't." John said, smiling.
"Almost can. You did get shot, though." Sherlock mused, thinking back.
"Sorry?" John did a double take. Kestrel smiled – He always had to be right.
"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound." Sherlock elaborated.
"Oh, yeah. Shoulder." John agreed.
"Shoulder! I thought so." Sherlock exclaimed happily, making the corners of Kestrel's mouth twitch.
"No you didn't." John told him, grinning.
"The left one." Sherlock guessed.
"Lucky guess." John said.
"I never guess." Sherlock lied, causing the others to start laughing.
"Yes you do." Kestrel insisted, and Sherlock smiled.
"What are you so happy about?" John asked him.
"Moriarty." Sherlock said gleefully.
"What's Moriarty?" Kestrel asked while John frowned.
"I've absolutely no idea." Sherlock admitted cheerfully.
Back at the black sedan, 'Anthea' looked away from her phone momentarily, and walked over to Mycroft, who was watching the three friends walk away.
"Sir, shall we go?" She asked, before looking down at her phone once again. Yet another email had arrived in her inbox – this one a missive about a mission in Vienna.
"Interesting, that soldier fellow." Mycroft muttered to himself, causing 'Anthea' to look up again.
"He could be the making of my brother – or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active." Mycroft said, 'Anthea' looked at him, a little lost.
"Sorry, sir. Whose status?" She asked, having been focused on an email detailing the latest operation that had been assigned to him. Mycroft looked to her, and then back at the trio.
"My baby brother and his delinquent friends, or should I call them the Baker Street Trio?" Mycroft said, mulling it over in his mind.
01.03.2013
Any queries involving this fic should be directed to: aspenwilder at gmail dot com
Scripts I used can be found here: arianedevere dot livejournal dot com/36505 dot html
AN: It's 5 past midnight, and I'm stumped, so I' off to bed. Hello March, how nice to see you - Can I eat my easter egg yet? I have a new account on AO3 under the same penname by the way (Thanks for the invite Caz!) so it'll be up there as well. Goodnight everybody!
Name: Kestrel Paige Lestrade
Nickname(s): Kess, Ella, Ellie.
Age: 28 (born: July 6th 1982)
Height: 5 foot, 9 inches.
Weight: 126 lbs/9st
Look-a-like: Michelle Trachtenberg
(a) images4 dot fanpop dot com/image/photos/20900000/Michelle-Trachtenberg-michelle-trachtenberg-20920498-1600-1200 dot jpg
(b) ovh dot wallpowper dot com/wallpaper/2013/01/09/High-Quality-HD-michelle-trachtenberg dot jpg
(c) www dot wallpapershdi dot com/walls/4808/michelle-trachtenberg-image_1280x1024 dot jpg
(d) www dot celebritywallpaperbase dot com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/Michelle-Trachtenberg-Wallpaper-6 dot jpg
Family: D.I Greg Lestrade (Brother)
Affiliations: Sherlock, John, Lestrade.
Enemies: Sally Donovan (Minor - No threat), Anderson (Minor - No threat)
Abilities: 1st Dan Black belt in Jujitsu, Red belt in Tae Kwon Do.
Disabilities: Has a slight weakness in left wrist, having broken it a small child; Needs reading glasses; Allergy to Latex.
Fears: Severe distaste of bugs, no matter the kind.
History: Currently unknown.