Of cases and custody
"Are you certain about this?" Mycroft asked.
Pompous buffoon. Sherlock tilted his chin as he wound the scarf about his neck. "Why would I not be?" he asked haughtily.
"You walked away from this mess once before," Mycroft sighed. "It was possibly the only worthwhile decision you made in the nineties."
"Whereas the sole use you had in the nineties was the gym membership card that was gathering dust in your wallet." Sherlock smirked as he whirled back to his brother. "I doubted you noticed I'd taken it for almost two years."
"I simply fail to see the use in this," Mycroft frowned, still looking peeved at the mention. "Unless…" He winced, looking utterly pained. "Do not tell me this is some programme where you have to make amends? It would be more productive to simply offer up a blanket apology to anyone who has endured your presence for ten minutes."
"It's a case," Sherlock said, deliberately ignoring the insinuation.
"And, like myself, you looked into William Lawrence the moment he left and discovered the exact same things as I had. You could practically solve this from here. Why bother getting on the train tomorrow?"
"People change," Sherlock said as he picked up the keys.
"Rarely," Mycroft said with a portentous huff. "Here." He handed over a laptop bag. "I have now been promoted to your delivery service, apparently. You can look through it all on the train."
Hesitating slightly, Sherlock took the bag. "Has…" He glanced at his quiet mobile. "How far along is John's statement?"
"I do not know," Mycroft said, tipping his head with tight impatience.
Back in the flat, Sherlock slowly opened up the laptop.
Copies of the signed recommendations for Sherlock to be Ava's guardian. Legal precedents and the relevant laws pertaining to the petition for custody.
Despite connecting the laptop up to the internet, there was still no email to confirm a statement from John.
It wouldn't be impossible to get Ava without John's recommendation. Near impossible, yes, but not completely a lost cause.
At least that was what Mycroft said.
Mycroft could be foolish at times.
Rebecca nodded as he waved his hand at the flat. "I have seen it before, Sherlock," she said with a smile as she headed to the table.
"Just wanted to prove a point," Sherlock muttered as he followed her. "No blood, no crime scene photographs or skulls or feet-"
She shot him an odd look. He had the distinct feeling he wasn't helping himself. Swallowing the rest of his rant down, Sherlock took a seat opposite her.
"I have reviewed your finance plan," Rebecca said, opening the file. "Mr Greg Lestrade has included the contract-"
Sherlock blinked at her and took the copy of-
A salary?
He was being paid for the attention given to the cold cases? Not an impressive amount, to be sure, but it was something coming in regularly-
Touched, Sherlock nodded.
"-and your brother has included the monthly plan of your trust fund-"
What?
Sherlock slowly reached for that document. He'd burned through his entire trust fund just months before he'd met John. Mycroft was-
Mycroft had given Sherlock his.
For the first time in an age, Sherlock felt…uncomfortably good about his brother.
"All together, even without the cases you have an income that can support Ava. The supplementary income of the cases will provide a good state of affairs."
Sherlock let out a breath, not entirely sure whether to feel surprised or relieved.
"So that's one thing we can tick off," Rebecca said cheerfully, holding out her hand for the copies back. "Now, our next issue is your sobriety-"
Sherlock glared at her and tossed the four-month badge on the table. "I sit with those morons every week. If there were anything that could drive me to using again it would be listening to them whinge every-"
"Think your words through very carefully," Rebecca said as she picked up the badge.
Relenting, Sherlock shut up.
"My suggestion is that you seek additional counselling."
God almighty. Sherlock stared at the ceiling as he tried to restrain himself from the automatic response of laughing at the idea.
"That way we would have a continuous track of your meetings with the psychologist to ensure they continue to recommend you for retaining the guardianship."
"How often?" Sherlock asked tightly.
"To show that you are serious? Once a week."
Sherlock folded his arms, not entirely sure he trusted himself to respond.
"And a drugs test."
Obvious. Dull. Sherlock nodded.
"Then of course we have your personality."
There was surely a better way to phrase that, Sherlock thought with a glare. "The recommendations will help with that, surely."
Rebecca nodded and looked at him seriously. "I want you to answer a question for me," she said, sitting back. "Just one."
Sherlock nodded.
"Why do you want Ava back?"
What?
Sherlock stared blankly.
"By your own admission you are not the first person most people would imagine to be a parent. You can be and are abrasive, rude and dismissive. You avoided responsibility for most of your life, you love the high of anything: cases, drugs, life. You enjoy the freedom of being able to simply up and leave and you adore spontaneity. Yet, you want to raise a child, alone. Why?"
For a moment, Sherlock failed to speak. Failed to even comprehend the question.
"She is my daughter," he said, staring at her. "What else would you have me do?"
"It cannot just be duty-"
"Of course it isn't duty," Sherlock snapped. "It's where she should be. I have to teach her how to spell 'obvious' and she needs to be at home after everything she has been through. She has to know that I will always look after her, that I will always be there for her, no matter what happens with John. I need to make sure that she is happy and healthy and feels safe-"
Rebecca smiled at him.
Arriving at Market Harbour was depressing. Still, it was better than where the family had previously lived.
"Mr Holmes," William said, coming over with a furtive look around. "I…I wasn't sure you were still coming."
"I had important matters to attend to," Sherlock said, watching the client and trying to work out if they had crossed paths before. "You aren't so sure now, are you?" he asked as the man dug his hands as deep into his pockets as he could manage and shifted his feet about the speckled platform. "Have your step-father and -brother started to talk you out of it?"
William stuttered in surprise. "I…I'm sorry?" he asked, taken aback apparently. "How-"
"Your step-father. Your mother married him almost eighteen years ago; she wanted the wealth and he wanted your dead father's business. He likes being the boss, hence your…" Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried to find a delicate way to put it. "…lacklustre attitude."
Apparently it hadn't been delicate enough. William gaped and glared.
"Your step-brother was someone you used to like but the relationship changed just before your parents married and he's remained distant or dismissive since. Both make homophobic remarks, your step-father more than your step-brother but it's enough that it deterred you and thrust you into the arms of your wife."
William stared.
"That's…how…"
Sherlock smirked. "I've met them before," he said, putting the man out of his misery. "And that would be the reason that the pair of them have been trying to dissuade you since the moment you told them. My name is…" He tilted his head and started to walk towards the exit. "Not welcome here."
"Why?" William asked, falling into step with him.
"Because," Sherlock said, peering around as the exited the station. Relenting, he scanned the car park, trying to work out which was William's. "There are far too many reasons."
The keys in William's pocket jangled as he fiddled with them.
"But," Sherlock said thoughtfully as he walked towards the car, "I'd imagine one of the most important reasons would be because your step-father walked in on Victor giving me head."
The car ride was both amusing and bordering on uncomfortable. William kept sneaking looks at Sherlock, as if expecting him to suddenly yell, 'Surprise!" The number of times that William opened his mouth and then choked the question back rose to twenty-three before Sherlock groaned at the window.
"What surprised you the most? It surely can't have been that I have had gay sex."
William cleared his throat and stared out the windscreen determinedly. There was something about the reaction that reminded Sherlock suddenly of John; pulling back the immediate reaction until he had turned what he wanted to say over in his head.
Fortunately, it seemed William didn't hold back quite as much as John did.
"He was giving you head?" William asked abruptly. "Victor Trevor? Victor who goes through two girls a week and makes me feel like…" William shook his head. "He goes to the gym."
Not entirely sure why that was relevant, Sherlock simply thought it best to remain quiet.
"Victor hates gay men. He calls them fairies. He picks on them in bars. He once said they were all manipulative shits."
Well…the last insult may have been prompted by Sherlock. Possibly. "I take it they are unaware of your feelings for Robin?"
"Robin is unaware of my feelings for Robin," came the clipped response. "I…that wanker."
"Robin or Victor?"
"Who do you think?"
Ah. Sherlock watched the road signs, creating his own mental map in case it became necessary. "I will need to speak to Robin before Victor and his father become aware that I am here. It may…colour things."
The grip around the steering wheel was almost white. "Tomorrow morning, before he goes to work. He agreed."
Sherlock nodded. "Assuming that he isn't involved…how…" He paused, thought about his words and then shrugged. "How much of a nosy, stubborn gossip monger was your late wife?"
William actually closed his eyes and then turned to stare at him with disbelief. "Our marriage might not have been perfect but I won't have you-"
"Highly," Sherlock decided from the depth of the reaction, slightly relieved they were on a straight, quiet road. "You're used to defending her."
William turned back to the road and almost slammed the gear stick into third.
"On the bright side," Sherlock said into the uncomfortable silence, "it's unlikely you and your paramour killed her."
The silence turned even more frosty
Since he was about to be reacquainted with them, Sherlock found himself using his phone to search for information on the Trevors. Strange, the last time he had seen them both father and son had been on the cusp of estrangement. It appeared that there was the chance he had given them a common enemy to unite against.
Hardly his fault that Joseph Trevor had killed a man to keep his forged identity a secret.
Though apparently Victor saw it as such. God knew why – back at that age Sherlock had been far more interested in the puzzle. The idea of going to the police had barely occurred to him-
Sherlock cut himself off as an email appeared from the solicitor.
John's recommendation.
I, John Watson, give my full approval to Sherlock Holmes being given guardianship of my daughter Ava Watson.
That was it? Standing in annoyance, he paced the small room. Three times he looked at the statement as if it would miraculously expand.
It didn't.
Narrowing his gaze, Sherlock thumbed through his phone to find his contacts.
"Did you do this?" he demanded when Mycroft picked up on the second ring.
"Would you care to be slightly more specific?" Mycroft asked. It sounded as Sherlock were interrupting something.
"The recommendation. John's. Did you do it?"
There was a long pause. "What does it say?" Mycroft asked, worry evident in his voice. "I…oh."
Sherlock glared at the screen. "Must you hack my email?" he asked, sitting back down as a wave of exhaustion suddenly hit.
"It is…to the point, I suppose."
That was one way of putting it. "You didn't do this?" Sherlock asked, even though the answer was painfully obvious.
"No. As it is this will raise questions. Social services will interview him," Mycroft replied, sounding as if he were frowning.
"They were always going to," Sherlock muttered.
"This will be a far more rigorous interview," Mycroft decided. "As it is, John's preference may be completely taken out of the equation if he is as listless with them as he is with you."
Sherlock honestly didn't know what to hope for.
Even as he sat down in the café, Sherlock couldn't help but try and work out how long it would take social services to talk to John. What would they think? What outcome would a sane person take from it?
How much could Mycroft manipulate?
"I don't know what Will's told you," Robin started to say as he sipped his latte. "But…that night, it was a mistake. We don't-"
Sherlock looked at him. Weak, insipid and a coward. Oh, the man went to the gym often enough that he was attractive and stylish, but he shied away from confrontation, was nervous about specifying exactly how he wanted his coffee and had been to his mother's house for breakfast, which seemed to be a standard occurrence.
Certainly not one to kill his boyfriend's wife. And, surprisingly, Sherlock wasn't entirely convinced Robin was interested in Will that way. More a case of seeing more in a friendship than was actually there. An experiment or curiosity.
It would end badly. The case was giving William a bit of, well…spunk, for lack of a better word. He would start to fight for Robin once his name was cleared.
Pity that Robin was Victor's right hand man.
How strange to see the destructive end to a relationship right at the start.
Had anyone predicted the same for him and John?
"Your…'accidental'," Sherlock said, making the air quotes with a sarcastic flourish, "night. Where did it happen?"
He needed to know how much the Trevors knew of William's inclinations. Were they deliberately trying to set him up for the murder or had it just been an opportunity they had run with?
"It wasn't a night, we didn't…I mean…" Robin stammered, looking uncomfortable. "I mean there was some…hand and-"
God, spare him. "And the location?"
"Of our hands?"
Sherlock shot the idiot a withering glare. "Of you. It doesn't take a genius to work out the location of your hands."
Robin flushed. "At a pub. 'Three Boars'. It's far away and quiet-"
Excellent. Quiet meant that more people paid attention to the other patrons. Crowded was always better.
"You shared a room?"
Robin opened his mouth and then nodded, looking mortified.
Maid? Barstaff? Snooping locals?
Maids, Sherlock thought. The cleaning service usually saw the most. "Did you mention it at work?"
"No." Robin's response was instant. "God no. If they knew at work…" He shifted. "We didn't do anything," he added again.
"What about women?" Sherlock said thoughtfully. "You have a girlfriend, yes?"
Robin nodded eagerly, almost looking as if he were about to strain a muscle in his neck from it. "Yeah, Mel."
"You live together?"
Robin nodded again. "Six weeks ago," he said with a shaky, earnest breath.
"She's having an affair."
Robin's jaw dropped. "I-"
"You just started living together. Your trousers and jacket are meticulously pressed, and that shirt is one that she bought you a while ago. You're trying to show her that you notice things; that would be your own guilt at work. But she ironed that shirt; you can't iron and more often than not you send your clothes out to the cleaners. You haven't managed that this week; a few weeks after moving; you're cutting down on luxuries to save money so your girlfriend offered and she hasn't done it at all well. If she was normally as bad at ironing as you are you wouldn't ask her, especially as you are trying to be a 'good boyfriend' at the moment.
"You have shaving foam by your ear. You live with someone and she was up this morning when you left because you have a tinge of lipstick on the side of your mouth from when she kissed you goodbye, but she didn't point it out. She knows where you work and wants to convince herself that she's making the right decision by having this affair on the side, which probably means you work for the person she's been seeing.
"She values appearance; that watch on your wrist and the cufflinks, not a matching style but expensive and close enough. And presents. Probably from her and obviously picked due to their price rather than appearance. If she values appearance and status so much then it's more than likely that she is either having an affair with Victor or with your boss."
Robin looked as if he was about to throw up.
That might have been too much at once.
"But she doesn't know about your..." Sherlock waved his hand to act as representation of the night Robin and William had spent together. "If she did she wouldn't be having an affair with whichever one of the Trevors she is currently bedding. She'd be too humiliated. One thing to be the cheater but to be the one cheated on? Quite different. She'd need confidence to catch the eye of the Trevors and she wouldn't try if that had been shaken."
All Sherlock received in response was a dull blink.
It was like watching a cow chew cud. What did William see in him?
"You have told someone, though," Sherlock decided. "Female…sister? Aunt? Someone well-meaning and whom you view as being an asexual creature."
"Amy," Robin admitted slowly. "I…I think William wants…" He shifted and looked away. "I don't want to hurt him but-"
Sherlock drew in a deep sigh. "I am attempting to work out who is trying to set him up. I think that might be the priority at the moment and not-" He blinked. "Wait…you didn't like his wife?"
Robin's shoulders slumped. "No one did," he muttered and then looked up in horror. "Not that I would kill her because of that."
Spare him this moronic conversation.
With a tight, fake smile that he had learned from Mycroft, Sherlock nodded. "When did you tell…whoever it was you told?"
"Amy," Robin said slowly, as if Sherlock were going to make any effort in remembering it. "I told her last week."
"The date?"
"Tuesday. New Year's Day."
Two days after Abigail Lawrence was killed. "Did Abigail have friends? Cleaners? Bar staff?"
By this point it seemed as if Robin had given up trying to follow Sherlock's lines of thought.
"I…uh…" Robin shrugged. "Maybe…oh!" He nodded. "Her cousin, April. She works for a cleaning company. But…she left town a month ago. No one's seen her since. She's um…a bit…you know…unreliable," he said delicately.
Paid off?
Sherlock sat back.
Perhaps people didn't change after all.
He checked his emails on his phone as he walked into the hotel.
One from Mycroft and one from the solicitor.
They were taking John's opinion out of the equation. And John was being assigned to an outside therapist who would be brought in to help with his depression.
They'd put him on suicide watch.
Unable to breathe, Sherlock sat down where he was, not caring that he was on the landing of the stairs down to the main reception.
Suicide watch.
Shaking, he leaned his head against the cool banister, unable to picture it. John could cope with anything. John was strong and solid, quietly confident and an immovable force, steady as the earth and rooted deep.
What had Sherlock done to him?
It was unfair.
Furious, Sherlock slammed his hand into the banister again and again until the bar gave way and toppled down the centre of the spiral staircase.
The noise brought him back. He stared at the gap, not really seeing it.
He'd ruined John, just as he'd ruined…
Or had he?
Suddenly it seemed more important than ever. Because if Sherlock's suspicions were right, then maybe Victor hadn't been completely scarred by Sherlock all those years ago.
And if there was a chance Sherlock hadn't ruined Victor then maybe…
Maybe.
Xxx
