Sherlock walked quietly down the hall. When he reached the door he paused and looked around him. There were no voices in the hall and none that he could hear in his immediate area. Molly had told him the lab was having a going away luncheon for her mentor today, so he knew there would be very few people about.
He looked around one more time before sliding the two slim metal rods from his pocket and inserting them into the lock. He'd done extensive study on lock picking methods online and had been practicing for months. He was far from a master but his skills were passable and he worked hard at not leaving a mark – years as a police officer had taught him all the ways people could be caught. He had no interest in become a victim of forensics, especially that imbecile Anderson.
Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined the inner workings of the device, moving through it step by step until he heard the quiet click that almost made him yelp in glee. Instead he opened his eyes and looked around again. There was still no one nearby him, so he pushed open the door and walked inside.
Molly's office had the same haphazard appearance that it always had, but he'd spent enough time in here to have a basic understanding of her mess. He too was far from being typically organized. Sherlock sat in her chair and started going through the files on the left hand side.
"Holmes!," came his DI's voice across the office. He'd glanced up, quickly closing the newspaper article he'd been reading about the discovery of Davenport's body. He always kept a basic spreadsheet open on his desktop in case he needed to look like he was working. "GET IN HERE!"
He'd stood reluctantly as all the other eyes in the room landed on him. He didn't meet them, turning his attention instead to the small woman standing in her office doorway with a look of absolute ire on her face.
Sherlock cringed as her words came back to him. He'd been reprimanded before, but never to that extent. She'd been livid – company time spent investigating cases that weren't his. Lestrade had been notified that Sherlock had requested copies of every single report filed. Patterson's widow confirmed that another police officer had come to interview her after she'd provided all of her information. Lestrade had put two and two together and notified Sherlock's DI.
It had only gone downhill from there.
A temporary suspension pending a further investigation. There was a very real possibility he'd be back in a uniform soon, responding to domestics and muggings. The thought of it was repulsive, but as he'd walked by his desk and picked up his few belongings he couldn't help but realize how much free time he'd have now to investigate further.
Once again, thoughts of leaving the Yard were swirling around his brain. Perhaps he'd become a private detective. He could have a small office and a secretary. Maybe he'd buy a fedora. Then he pushed the idea away – all of his contacts were because of his position in the Yard; without them he'd be able to do nothing. He hadn't exactly made enemies, but he was hardly making friends.
"You've been suspended, Sherlock! They're going to figure out I gave you information, too!"
He shook his head, listening to Molly on the other end of the line. "I wouldn't tell the—"
"It doesn't matter!" she shrieked. "I have a new boss – he's hardly stupid! I'm the only one here who talks to you. They'll fire me!"
"No," he'd tried to say but she shrieked some more. He'd held the phone away from his ear and when he went back she'd rung off. He'd tried to call her back but she wouldn't answer.
Which is why he was digging through her office while she was out at lunch. The file he wanted wasn't in the usual pile. He frowned as he opened one of the drawers and started to rummage through it. Perhaps she'd filed it already – surely the postmortem had been done; it had been a fortnight.
Suicide of MP Linked to Two Previous
Sherlock stared at the headline as he drank his morning cuppa. He was trying to put off packing another box, especially as he still wasn't certain about the new flat. Mrs. Hudson was giving him an excellent monthly rent, but he was still going to be stretched. Perhaps he shouldn't have spent all that money on a new computer or the basic science equipment.
He closed the drawer, glancing around before settling on the small filing cabinet in the corner. Sherlock paused by the door but heard no noise from the hallway. Surely he had a few more minutes. He squatted next to the cabinet as he pulled the first drawer open.
"We're certain the cases are connected."
Sherlock watched the press conference from the small bistro around the corner from his flat. He'd been waiting on a sandwich when Lestrade's voice filled the tiny space. Sherlock's stomach had flipped over seeing Donovan sitting next to him. He pulled his phone out and dialed Molly…
"Shit," he muttered as he pulled a file out and several sheets of paper fell to the floor, one page between the cabinet and the wall. Sherlock sighed, stretching a long arm towards it. His fingers closed around it just as he heard a noise behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a pair of legs standing in the doorway.
"Oh," he said pulling the paper out and shifted to face the newcomer, already running through several excuses in his head. None of them seemed viable, and he'd settled on blaming Molly when his eyes found the man's face.
"Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?"
Sherlock eyed the blonde man – he recognized the face, but couldn't quite place it. Through the Yard made the most sense but he couldn't reconcile the face with any case or meeting. And he'd never had any legitimate dealings in the hospital before.
A smile broke out across the stranger's face and the memory came back to him immediately: Mycroft's club, a farewell party, a doctor going to Afghanistan.
"Doctor Watson," Sherlock said, pushing himself to his feet and holding out a hand. Perhaps if they got caught up in conversation John would forget that Sherlock didn't belong here.
"John, please," the shorter man replied as he took Sherlock's hand. "A pleasure to see you again." John let his hand drop and then looked around the room. "Do you have some business with Ms. Hooper?"
Sherlock felt his stomach drop, but managed to nod anyway. "The Davenport suicide," he said. "I had some questions about the post-mortem." John watched him for a minute then nodded again.
"No problem, that file's in my office though. I was going to send it over to Inspector Lestrade this afternoon."
John turned and walked out of the room. Sherlock was still for another moment before rising, letting the paper drop back to the floor, and following John out of the room.
"I've never seen anything quite like this," John said, glancing over his shoulder as Sherlock caught up. "Granted I'm fairly new to the forensic medicine side of the field, but even in my case studies I've never came across anything like this. Forced suicides."
Sherlock nodded and just followed along. John sighed as they turned a corner and waited at the lifts.
"But I'm sure you're familiar with it – I can confirm that it was the same poison found in MP Davenport's system. Whoever this person is, they're pretty intelligent." He paused and entered the lift when the doors opened. Sherlock followed him inside and they stood in silence for a minute.
"When is your move?" John asked after a moment and Sherlock turned to him.
"Sorry?"
"You're moving aren't you? Soon? Packed up already?"
Sherlock stared at him dumbfounded for a moment before the lift doors opened and John exited. Sherlock stood in place until he had to reach an arm out to stop the doors from closing.
"How—" he started as John opened a door and went inside. The office was larger than Sherlock imagined, but there was nothing in the room to indicate the man was important. It was nice, but not ostentatious.
"Here you go," John said. handing the folder over. "All of the information on Beth Davenport." Sherlock accepted the folder and John smiled up at him. "I hope it helps."
Sherlock nodded and looked at the collection of papers he was holding in his hand and then back at John.
"How did you know I was moving?" he asked, unable to get past the question. He looked at the folder again and for the first time he felt guilty about getting information. He wasn't supposed to just walk away with it. John was being kind and Sherlock certainly had no desire to get the doctor in trouble. But surely the man should have asked if Sherlock was working on the case. It seemed unreasonable to just pass out the information.
"Your pocket," John said, pointing at the pocket on the left side of Sherlock's jacket. "Receipt for lorry rental – you've hired one to move your belongings. Looks like you signed up this morning."
Sherlock nodded and looked back at John. "Tomorrow, but-–"
"Very nice," John said sitting down in his chair and gesturing for Sherlock to have a seat. "I've been searching for a new flat myself. I've been living with my sister since I got back from Afghanistan, it's been less than pleasant. Where did you find a place?"
"Baker Street," Sherlock said. "221B," he added as he sat back in the chair and placed the file in his lap.
John nodded, then leaned forward and started typing on his keyboard. "You can go through that file now if you like, or you can take it with you. I have copies; I always make copies." Sherlock nodded and felt guilty again. He opened his mouth to say something.
"This place on Baker Street, it seems there is other space available. An unfinished basement unit and there's another room on the floor above yours, shared bathroom and kitchen. Interesting," John said and leaned back in his seat. "Are you always so messy or is that because of the packing situation?"
"What?" Sherlock asked shaking his head, confused. "I'm not—"
"Not that it's a deal breaker, but I'll probably clean up after you. I hope that doesn't bother you."
"What?" Sherlock repeated.
"You obviously play a string instrument – the violin if I had to guess. I'd prefer that it be played during reasonable hours. Also not a deal breaker, but I'm not a pleasant person when I don't sleep so it would benefit you as much as me."
"I'm sorry, but—"
"I can meet you there tomorrow at about eleven if that works."
"Um," Sherlock said again staring at the file in his hand and then back at John. "Yes, fine." He looked back at the file.
"And don't worry," John said. "I won't mention that I gave you a copy. I doubt it will look good for you, investigating the case that got you suspended. I also won't mention the lock picking devices I can see in your pocket." Sherlock's head snapped down and saw the outline two metal pieces sticking against the fabric of right jacket pocket. "I bet the Yard frowns upon their sergeants breaking and entering."
"I didn't–"
"Of course you did," John said and stood up. Sherlock watched him walk around the desk, his mind spinning in a dozen different directions. "No worries, though. As I said, I have very no interest in telling on you." John stopped next to Sherlock and held his arm out to the door. Sherlock vaguely understood that he was being kicked out and stood accordingly. He started towards the door with John behind him and then turned and held his finger up. John lightly pushed Sherlock's arm down, a smile crossing his face and maneuvered Sherlock out the door.
"DI Lestrade seems more than competent, but I'm unsure about the rest of his team. I think he's unsure about the rest of his team if we're being honest, but that's neither here nor there. I can see no problem with another set of eyes looking over the case, on his own time, as long as it doesn't compromise the investigation. Are you interested in compromising the investigation?"
Sherlock shook his head and tried to speak again. Was John his new flatmate? He was uncertain as to exactly what had happened. He wanted some clarification.
"I didn't think so. Well, it was a pleasure meeting you again, Sherlock, and I'll see you in the morning. Good evening."
The door closed and Sherlock stood, staring blankly at it for a moment. He heard quiet noises on the other side of the door but couldn't identify them. Perhaps he fell in Molly's office and hit his head? He reached his fingers up and ran them gingerly through his curls. Nothing. He'd obviously gone mental, but couldn't figure out exactly when it had happened.
