Chapter 6
June 2009
Sherlock lay on the sofa, staring at the unmoving ceiling fan. Each of his limbs was stretched in a different direction creating the impression of long, thin, pale veins over the dark upholstery. The couch was one of less than half a dozen pieces of mismatched furniture in the small flat. Dozens of books littered the floor creating a semicircle around Sherlock. The titles covered everything from Hemingway to Dr. Seuss, cookbooks to automotive manuals, Freud to self-help. The kitchen counters were cluttered with take-away containers and wrappers. The flat's fuse box had tripped the previous evening. Sherlock had fixed it within moments, but the ceiling fan had never fully recovered.
The heat lay so thickly that the consulting detective was only comfortable in little more than a thin robe and cotton pyjama bottoms. And those were only worn at the request of his new flatmate. Abigail sat perfectly poised in the armchair opposite him, ini her thin cotton sundress, and seemed unaffected by the heat as she read a book. It was infuriating.
Sweat clung, moist and sticky to Sherlock's half-clothed body. He could feel beads form, collect and trickle from his brow to his curls, making them sop. With nothing else to occupy his mind, he could feel his thoughts unravelling like thread from a spool.
He glanced at the clock. Two minutes past ten. He looked back to the ceiling and began counting the number of droplets forming on his fringe. He calculated how many more would form if the temperature in the room remained the same. If it fell. If it rose. He calculated the difference between the outside temperature versus the inside and how a dip in sunlight or even a passing cloud might positively affect the temperature. He calculated how long it would take for him to run out of oxygen if he locked himself in the fridge. How long it would take Abigail to run out of oxygen. He glanced at the clock. Three minutes past ten.
Sherlock filled his lungs with the moisture rich air and then exhaled in a loud, long blast which shattered the prevailing silence.
"Booooooored!"
Abigail did not react, but continued to read her book. This infuriated Sherlock even more.
"I'm bored! And hot! The heat is boring!"
Still no reaction from Abigail. Sherlock stared at her under a furrowed brow. With as much speed as he could muster, he leapt from the couch, perched on top of the coffee table and ripped the book from her hands. Abigail simply stared at the spot where her book used to be.
"I. AM. BORED!"
"You. Are. A child."
Abigail retrieved her book from Sherlock and found her page again. Sherlock stayed crouched like a disgruntled house cat.
"Three days. Three days I've been stuck in this tiny flat. With you. The most boring person in the world. In Poplar. Whose stupid idea was it to have a safe house in Poplar?! Probably Anderson's. And these rules! These stupid rules!"
Sherlock rose from his position and angrily made his way to the refrigerator, avoiding touching the ground, as if it were molten lava. A note in Lestrade's hand was stuck to the fridge door like a shopping list.
"'Absolutely no experiments, projects or practical theorising of any kind. No smoking, no drinking, no leaving, no texting! And NO CASES!?' I mean, really! I'm surprised I'm still allowed to breathe!"
Sherlock retreated to the couch in the same fashion he left it, returning to his previous position with a great sigh.
"Complaining will only make it worse. Why don't you read a book, or something?"
"I've already read them all."
"I wouldn't have pegged you as one prone to gross exaggeration."
"I'm not exaggerating. Granted, most of the books are so easy even Donovan could understand them..."
Abigail put her book down and looked over at the widely varied collection of books scattered across the floor.
"You read all of those books?"
"If the chimp is that intelligent, why does he not simply leave the zoo? He could easily prey on the misguided affections of the man in the yellow hat to escape."
"There has to be at least six dozen books in this flat! In three days?"
"Seventy-eight. I could have done it in two had I skipped all the books I've already read. Though I did leave those for last."
Abigail laughed out of astonishment, shaking her head as she returned to her reading.
"The things you can do. And you're bored."
Sherlock sighed loudly again, returning his gaze to the ceiling fan above him. He counted the number of ways he could disassemble the fan. He calculated the number of ways he could reassemble it into something other than a ceiling fan. He calculated how long it would take to reassemble it into a spinning death trap. He determined how long it would take for Abigail to realize he was constructing a death trap. He shut his eyes and sighed loudly again.
Abigail put her book down with some force as she rolled her eyes toward Sherlock.
"For God's sake, Holmes, do something other than just lie there! Look, you're so smart, why don't you fix the ceiling fan, if you're that angry about it!"
Sherlock's eyes opened with a pop and he crossed the flat so quickly that his dressing gown fluttered in his wake.
...
Nearly an hour later found the ceiling fan fixed and Sherlock in the same position as before. It had become sufficiently cool for Sherlock to put on an old, wrinkled and stained t-shirt. Abigail stood in the kitchen, making tea and sandwiches.
"You know, Abigail, if you are going to prepare food that loudly, I'd sooner you didn't do it at all."
"Well, if it's any consolation, I wasn't going to make you any at all. And, for the last time, you can call me Abby."
"'Abby' is a six-year-old girl's name. Or a monastery under the supervision of an abbot. Of which you are neither. I'd have thought you'd prefer 'Abigail.' Even though you are a twenty-three-year-old university dropout who lives off the misguided kindness of friends because you have no real goals in life. And, anyway, you always call me 'Holmes.' What's that all about?"
"Well, 'Sherlock' is a sophisticated Victorian gentleman. Or even just a gentleman. Of which you are neither. No, you are 'Holmes.' Even though you are a sociopathic, drug-addicted narcissist who is currently homeless only because he refuses to accept help from others."
"High-functioning sociopath."
"Yeah, that's the part you have a problem with!"
"You took two terms of Psychology; even you should know the difference."
"It was three. And I also took three terms of IT. Doesn't make me Steve Jobs."
As Abigail continued in the kitchen, Sherlock began to scan the room again. His eyes lighted on the floor lamp standing in the corner. He calculated the voltage needed to keep it on. He calculated the amount of voltage it would take for the bulb to explode. He counted the number of ways he could make a bomb, using only the lamp and other ingredients found in the flat. He determined the best means to create the largest and most devastating explosion possible. He sighed loudly.
"How do you stand this... Aching boredom? No task to focus on. No direction. No purpose. It's infuriating!"
"Maybe some tea will take your mind off it, you big baby!"
As Abigail began to walk to the coffee table, she gave a little smile when Sherlock turned to look at her. At Lestrade's request, Sherlock had done his best not to deduce his temporary flat mate. But his mind had become so overrun with chaos that his guard dropped. In that moment, he saw every detail, every flaw, every clue that he had stopped himself from seeing before. Each aspect of her being poured into Sherlock's mind like petrol onto hot coals. Before Abigail could reach the table with the tea, the flame was lit and it so consumed Sherlock that he could not be silent.
"Abigail, just because you feel responsible for your little brother's death doesn't mean you have to turn your under-utilized mothering instincts on me."
The tray fell to the table with a loud crash. Abigail did not raise her head, but instead stared at the wreckage. There was a long pause of deafening silence before she spoke again.
"Tell Donovan she won the office sweepstakes."
"What office sweepstakes?"
"Get out. Get out and do not come back. If he's going to find me, then let him. I'd rather be murdered than spend one more moment with you, Holmes."
She was breathing a little heavily, but never raised her voice or head. Sherlock stared at Abigail, but he didn't need to be asked twice. He stood up and straightened his dressing gown. Without another word, he left the small flat, locking the door behind him.
He walked down two flights of stairs to the front step. With a deep breath, he inhaled the air. The sweet, London air. With eyes closed and chin raised, he took in every sound of the pulsing heartbeat of London. He felt the concrete beneath his bare feet, smelled the pungent, humid air, and let the entire scene wash over him. The confinement of the flat felt worlds away already.
Sherlock pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from an inside pocket. After lighting one, he took one smooth, long drag. The smoke filled his mouth, curled down his throat, inflated his lungs, then rushed out of his nostrils in two long streams. The resulting effect was to slow his mind, long enough to focus his thought for the first time in three days. He had been too blunt with Abigail. Yes, every word was true. But it wasn't necessary to be so, so...
Sherlock took another long drag. Why were people so easily upset by facts? It was simply Truth. The only thing he truly took any solace in. Yet it seemed to unnerve others so. A final draw, then he crushed the ember on the step as he released the smoke.
Confined or not, Lestrade would never let him hear the end of it if he left now. Sherlock once again climbed the stairs to the small flat. With a deep breath, he steeled himself for the inevitable yelling match that would no doubt ensue. He tried the door which was, of course, now locked. Three gentle knocks. No answer. The floorboards creaked on the other side of the door, as if someone had shifted their weight.
"It's me. Let me back in."
Another shift of weight. Sherlock could hear soft breathing not feet from the door. She was standing right there. Why was she just standing there?
"I know you're there. Just open the door."
A slow and somewhat shaky voice answered.
"I'd really rather be alone right now. Why don't you take a walk? I should be fine in a little while."
"Not that I have a problem walking around London barefoot, but I should really just stay here. Just in case."
Again, silence. Sherlock took a deep breath to prepare for what he was about to say.
"Look, I'm... Sorry. About what I said. Please, let me in."
"Sherlock, please."
A wave of understanding rushed over Sherlock. He forced every muscle in his body not to react. Moving as little as was necessary, he looked down at the strip of light seeping through the gap under the door. Two distinct sets of shadows could be seen. She was not alone.
"Alright, Abby. I'll be back later."
Moving as casually as possible, Sherlock made his way to the staircase. As soon as he was safely in the stairwell, he flew up to the roof, taking the stairs two at a time. Racing to the edge of the roof, he looked down the side of the building in search of the easiest access point. A fire escape sat conveniently on the east side of the building. After removing his dressing gown, Sherlock moved as quietly as possible, traversing the outside of the scaffolding.
When he was just out of sight of the flat window, he trained his ear, tuning out the roar of London behind him. Open window: the point of entry. One man. Sound of rope being tied; a piece of cloth being ripped. Both parties were in the middle of the room. The assailant would need both hands to tie her: currently not holding a weapon. Likely had a knife to cut the rope, someplace within reach.
"Ya can't escape me, dearie. I am feah'. I am death. I am the bloody grim reapah'!"
"Bit redundant, wouldn't you say?"
Sherlock gracefully swung in through the open window, landing both feet lightly on the floor. He had been right: Abigail was tied to the armchair in the centre of the room, facing the window, her mouth gagged. Her eyes widened at seeing Sherlock.
"You! One move n' your girlfriend gits it!"
The man grabbed the knife from the nearby table, holding it to Abigail's throat. His eyes were wild. Sherlock scanned him from head to toe. Unemployed at least 3 years. East End native, judging by the accent. Homeless, living in a makeshift shelter by the river for 7... No, 8 months. Grew up poor. Married then divorced fairly quickly. Blames the break up on her, not his alcohol abuse. Work related injury causing a severe limp. Dried blood mixed with freshly trampled foliage on his steel-toed work boots. Sherlock smiled widely, laughing softly to himself.
"Oi! What's so funny, then?"
"Serial killer walks into my house after 3 days of sheer boredom? Oh, it's Christmas!"
Sherlock began laughing more loudly. The man scowled and pressed the knife closer to Abigail's throat.
"I'm warnin' ya! I'll kill 'er!"
"Oh, no you won't! If you'd have wanted her dead, you'd have done it already. No, you don't have the nerve to actually kill anyone. That's why you had others do it for you. Where'd you find them? Other homeless? No, you'd want to make more of a point than that. Dockers? Labourers? You'd approach them, asking for a job and then what? Threaten their families? You'd have to know enough about them to make it believable. So, you'd stalk them for a few days, then, when an opportunity presented itself, you'd strike? I assume you'd use the same method to find the female victims. And to find us. That's a lot of surveillance for one person to do on their own. So, do you have a partner? Or are you really so dedicated?"
"Yeah! Yeah, I got part'ners! Tons of 'em. N' they're all 'eaded this way!"
"No, I don't think so. My guess would be you just chose individuals who already lived in close proximity. Watched them at the same time. Which means, Abigail, your 'attacker' was probably someone you'd seen before. A bin man or a maintenance worker. Where did you get the poison? I must say, hiding the camera in the teapot was most ingenious. Couldn't possibly have been your idea. So, whose was it?"
"I ain't tellin' ya naffin'! Say one more word! I dare ya!"
"One. More. Word."
The man gave a howl, like a dog preparing to attack. Abigail eyes grew wider as the knife pressed more deeply into her neck. The book she'd been reading lay open, pages down, not inches from Sherlock's foot. He glanced from the book to Abigail, who shut her eyes in one long, slow blink of recognition. Sherlock looked at the man, who now pressed the knife into Abigail's neck enough to draw blood. He had to act quickly. With a hint of a smile, he cocked his head. His eyes gleamed, tauntingly.
"A serial killer who can't even kill anyone. I've never heard of anything more pathetic."
With a yell, the man swung his blade away from Abigail's neck and pointed it at Sherlock, lunging forward. The detective hooked the book with his toes and flicked it as hard and high as he could. As the book connected with the man's face, Sherlock put him in a wrist lock, breaking the joint and forcing the man to drop the knife. The would-be killed screamed in pain and made every attempt to swing at his adversary, but Sherlock was able to evade his every blow. With a mighty lunge, the intruder wrapped himself around the younger man, causing them both to fall backward through the window and onto the fire escape landing. Sherlock groaned as his back slammed into the sheet of metal, littered with broken glass, but he did not have time to process the pain. As the man on top of him rose to take another swing, Sherlock hooked both heels into the base of his ribs and kicked with all his might. As the man flipped backwards over guard rail, he managed to grab a side strut, dangling by one arm as the broken wrist fell lifeless to his side. Standing to face his attacker, with rage burning in his eyes, Sherlock grabbed the man by his broken wrist, causing him to scream in agony, as the detective pulled it closer to the railing. Sherlock grinned widely as he felt the bones crunch together in his grip.
"Unlike you, I'm not too cowardly to kill someone with my own two hands!"
"Holmes!"
Abigail had forced the gag out of her mouth. Sherlock glanced back to see her staring at him in horror. He felt a hand at the neck of his t-shirt. He barely had time to register that the man had grabbed him with his good hand before they both fell down the side of the building. Sherlock caught a glint of fear in the man's eyes as they both hit the pavement.
...
Sherlock woke up in hospital fourteen hours later, hooked to a heart monitor and an IV drip. He blinked against the harsh light, directly above him. His head throbbed, his back ached and his neck was stiff. As his eyes adjusted, he could see Lestrade and Abigail talking, just outside his door. Lestrade, who spotted Sherlock move out of the corner of his eye, turned with a wide smile and gave a 'thumbs up.' He walked forward towards the doorway but Abigail placed a hand on his shoulder and said something Sherlock couldn't hear. Lestrade nodded in agreement then banged on the window with another 'thumbs up.'
"Good job!"
Abigail smiled as she entered the room, rubbing the large bandage on her neck.
"Good morning, sleepyhead! Have a good rest?"
Sherlock pushed the button on the bed control to raise himself to a more upright position. As he did so, he felt the full physical effect of his injuries. He immediately regretted the decision.
"You've missed a lot in the last several hours. Killer's name was Collin Carver. Divorced alcoholic who'd been homeless for almost a year. They found the bodies of all three male victims buried in shallow graves by the Thames."
"Did he say where he get the idea for the camera inside the teapot? How he acquired it? What the toxin was?"
"He didn't say anything. He's dead. Took some of his own poison, before he came to the flat. Though I'm sure the fall and you landing on top of him didn't help matters. Did a number on you before he died. Doctor says you'll be fine, though."
"Multiple lacerations to the back, three fractured ribs, concussion, previously dislocated shoulder and a misdiagnosed case of whiplash. I've had worse."
As Abigail chuckled slightly, Sherlock pushed the button to recline. He groaned as his weight shifted back to his back. His mind reeled with questions as he stared at the ceiling once more.
"It doesn't make any sense. Why would he take his own life? What was his end game?"
"Trust me, I've wondered those things myself. It really doesn't make much sense when you think about it. He finds me only to not kill me? And, I'm sorry, but he didn't seem intelligent enough to pull this off."
"Did you just apologize for denigrating the memory of a man who has spent the last week trying to kill you?"
Abigail shrugged, smiling. "Nobody's perfect, after all. Not his fault he was so bad at murdering people properly."
The two chuckled, causing Sherlock to grimace with pain. The young woman gave a sympathetic wince.
"Painful, that?"
"I fell out of a two-story window onto an idiot. What do you think?"
Abigail smiled, sadly. "So… I guess this is your home for the next few days. Then what?"
Sherlock grimaced; partially at the comment, partially at the pain in his neck when he reacted to it.
"Lestrade's told you, then. I'm just a homeless freak he sometimes brings off the streets to solve cases for him?"
"Well, he certainly didn't put it like that."
"Then, how did he put it?"
"That you were between places and anyway I could help would be appreciated. Seemed to think I owe you for saving my life, or something like that."
Abigail tried to smirk, but failed to hold back a full smile. Sherlock couldn't help but smile back. It was infectious.
"Anyway, I checked around my building and it turns out that the woman next to me took my 'murder' as a sign to move to her holiday home in Southern France. Permanently. So, I took the liberty of signing your name to her lease. It's fully furnished, which I'm told by the DI is a good thing, and it's right next door to me."
"I can't afford a place in London. Not on my own. But, thanks all the same."
"Trust me, you're getting a very good deal. Nothing drives down the rent like talking to the woman who was 'murdered' in the flat next to yours."
But Sherlock stared back, perplexed.
"Why are you helping me?"
"Well, you did save my life. I figure that's worth a favour or two."
She laughed again, but this time, Sherlock did not join in. She sighed, shaking her head at the injured man.
"Just call it my misguided mothering instincts. Besides, a little extra security in the building wouldn't hurt. I'd get a dog, but that just seems like a lot of work."
"So, I'm your alternative to a dog?"
"Annoying, high maintenance, attention-seeking, concentration of a gnat… You're right maybe a dog would be easier."
She smiled widely and, finally, Sherlock joined in.
"Just say 'yes,' Holmes."
"Back to Holmes, is it?"
"Why upset the status quo?"
Sherlock's eyes creased as his thin smile grew.
"Yes, Abigail."
"Good! I'll see you in forty-eight hours, and don't you dare leave this bed a second sooner! Got me?"
"I understand."
One last smile and Abigail left the small hospital room. The moment he was satisfied she was gone, Sherlock pushed the morphine button to its highest setting.