Sherlock Chapter 7

Sherlock threw his pencil down with such intensity that the utensil broke, with an audible snap, upon contact with the ancient floorboards of 221B. He tussled with his black locks for a brief moment, frowning in distaste as his fingers came back coated with a thin layer of oil. The detective had no recollection of the last time that he'd helped himself to a shower, let alone eaten or relieved himself. After his brief concurrence with Lestrade, he'd immediately thrown himself into his caseworm, mulling over every document that he'd come into possession of. He read and memorized statements and alibi's, annotated and filed away reports, and even studied the photographs of the several individuals that were affiliated with the three victims. Despite many of the photographs only including the upper chest region of the individuals, Sherlock was able to deduce their intentions, personalities, and professions from the creases on their faces, the glint in their eyes, or the soft fabric of their clothes. It hardly mattered that every alibi checked out with the victim's time and place of death, Sherlock knew that none of these individuals were capable of murder and yet, he continued to wok aimlessly toward a solution. Part of the reason for his endless commute, he suspected, was due to his ever-growing sense of pride in his unique skillset. He'd hardly ever taken on a case that he hadn't been able to solve simply by viewing the crime scene. The other part may have been largely due to John's involvement. Sherlock knew this case was personal and it was all too obvious that the lack of answers, and possibly the lack of closure, was beginning to nibble away at John. His usually blithe and carefree gaze had clouded over; the creases in his weathered skin playing host to obvious fatigue. John Watson had taken a new and heavy burden upon his shoulders and Sherlock was desperate to relieve him of it.

Twenty more minutes passed and finally the detective retired to his normal resting place. He sank into the soft confines of his armchair, kicking off his dress shoes, and pulling his long legs up into the seat, resting his chin upon his knees. The thought of the doctor reminded Sherlock that John was due back in only a few minutes or so from the store.

Sherlock quickly whipped out his phone from his jacket pocket and sent a text to John, requesting a package of soft lead, number two pencils.

He leaned back, inhaling deeply. The smell of dust and pinesap and John's cologne seeped into his flared nostrils. He exhaled the interesting mixture of scents in an exasperated sigh. It had been four days since the Christmas tree had been adorned with brightly colored lights and a fire had roared in the confines of the fireplace. Now, the tree sat sulking in the corner, shedding it pointed green needles. The lights were shut off and the twinkling golden star perched crookedly atop the massive remnant of Christmas spirit.

Four days and Sherlock had amassed absolutely nothing. He was keen to focus on Clive Stohl's party, however. Since the cameras at Denise's apartment withheld no evidence and the fact that the second victim had been found lying in a field, a party seemed like the best atmosphere to commit a murder. Parties were always flashy events, with people scattered across one area, if not several. Sherlock deduced that it would have been easy for one of the guests to slip something into Clive's drink and his drink would have been the most preferable of all locations, seeing as alcohol was being served at the party.

Sherlock relaxed into the fabric of his chair, slowly ebbing away from consciousness and making his way into his mind palace. He'd memorized all the innocent faces of Clive's guests. The detective's brow furrowed in an expression of intense concentration, though no one was there to register the action. But, maybe, just maybe, there was a murderer hiding behind one of those placid façades.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock thrust himself out of his chair, his bare feet audibly slapping against the floor. "What's wrong? What's happened?" He scrambled for a brief moment before realizing that his caller was simply John, returning from his trek to the store.

"A bit jumpy, are we?" John teased as he lumbered through the flat's open door while toting a handful of grocery bags, their contents straining against the plastic and threatening to tumble out with each step. "That's what you get for flipping through reports instead of actually getting up off your bum and doing something."

Sherlock relaxed back into his chair and offered John a feeble grunt in response to his taunting.

"It's in the details, John." The detective reminded his flat mate.

"You can just as easily find details outside!"

A smile tugged at Sherlock's chapped lips.

John Watson was a man of action, trained to react on whim, always planning out and evaluating the best choice of actions or words before he actually performed or said them. Sherlock was his polar opposite. He relied on details and information, though he didn't necessarily need to perform any methods to obtain them. He could rest idly on the couch for days at a time, all the while unraveling a mystery that had befuddled other 'great' minds.

"You look horrid," John stated as he fell into the chair, facing Sherlock. He rubbed his temples, winded from the trip to the store.

Sherlock could tell from the creases under John's eyes and his unusually blatant tone that Imogene had failed to arrive at work this morning or even call or text the former army doctor.

"Have you gotten anywhere on the case?"

Sherlock tore his eyes away from observing John's weathered fingers fiddling with his jacket pocket. He assumed that John's phone was confined within the cloth compartment as he could see the device outlined in the fabric of his pocket before he moved his eyes to study John's weathered face.

"Did you have a row with the machine again? You look awfully tired."

"What?"

Sherlock pointed to John's shoes. "I assume that construction has finished on the end of the street. Your boots are sparkling!"

"Sherlock, do not try to change the subject." John glowered at his flat mate, rendering any digressions away from the current subject futile. "What have you got on the case?"

Sherlock rose and paced the flat, finally resting his palms on the edge of his desk, his head lowered in defeat.

"You haven't got anything, have you?" John's surprise was painfully audible in his voice. It almost masked the low notes of disappointment.

"There's nothing there, John!" Sherlock twisted around and threw his hands in the air, shaking them in a mute surrender while his lips curled upward in a hideous snarl.

"There has to be something there, Sherlock. If anyone can solve this case, it's you, and you know it." He pointed an accusing finger toward the detective.

"I've been working all morning, going over every document, and there's hardly anything worth looking at." Sherlock admitted, ruffling through a few papers before turning around to observe John once again.

"You've only burnt yourself out." The doctor sympathized. "It'll come to you as soon as you stop searching for it."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It works."

"How would you know?"

"Don't test my patience, Sherlock." John rose out of his chair and marched over to his friend. "You need to eat and stop mulling over this case. I'm going to make you a sandwich, you're going to eat it, and then, you're going to shower and get some sleep."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

"Doctor's orders," John stated simply before waltzing away into the kitchen. The sound of the fridge being pulled open and plates clanking against one another followed closely behind.

Sherlock sat down at his desk and scribbled the few notes that he could achieve before John shoved a freshly made sandwich toward him with an authoritative expression.

The detective slunk back over to his armchair and ate, continuing to mentally examine the case with each bite. He finished the plate before his mind could make any worthwhile connections in the case and placed his dish into the already crowded sink. Without further hesitation, he headed toward his room, fingering one of his black curls to assess just how dirty his body was. He paused for a moment outside of John's room, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the doctor slouching at his desk wearing a tortured expression and staring at his closed laptop.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock questioned, expecting the doctor to call him out on acknowledging another individual's existence for once. He didn't.

"Have you heard anything from Imogene?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you." John sighed and purposefully moved out Sherlock's direct line of sight.

The detective continued on into his bathroom and stripped off his old clothes, realizing that his garments had developed a bit of a malodorous scent. He was a bit grimier than he had originally believed. He was also surprised that John hadn't mentioned it earlier. Four days without eating, sleeping, or showering. He was a doctor for goodness sake!

Shaking off the thought, Sherlock stepped into the shower and allowed the smoldering torrent of water to break over his head. He massaged a handful of shampoo into his damp curls before adding another handful of conditioner and thoroughly rinsed and repeated the routine for a good fifteen minutes. He turned off the faucet, stepping out of the steaming shower, and dried himself off. Checking his watch that he'd discarded on the granite countertop of the sink, he determined that it was too early to adopt his blue silk robe and gray undergarments. Instead, he opted for his silk purple shirt and a worn out pair of dress pants. He was just finishing lacing up his dress shoes when his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He glanced at the caller ID.

"Lestrade." He read aloud, before accepting the call and pressing his mobile phone to his ear.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice sounded a bit more grave than usual.

"Do you have something on the case?" The detective snapped straight to the point.

"Yes and no."

"What does that mean?"

"Sherlock, is John there?"

"Why?"

Lestrade sucked in an audible breath on the other side of the line, "Sherlock," he paused for a moment, as if he were searching for a better way to form his next sentence, "Imogene's dead. She's been murdered."

"Oh," Sherlock fell back against the soft cushions of the couch. The detective remembered Imogene as he first saw her, floating across the wooden boards of the flat in a flowing black dress that hugged every curve of her slim form while her twisted golden locks spilled down her back in golden cascades. "Are you sure it's her?"

"She's got John's necklace around her neck. Sherlock, they choked her with it."

Sherlock sighed, allowing his conscious to pull him back into a scene from their recent Christmas party.

The flames, once dancing in the fireplace, were now smoldering into small embers. Molly and Mrs. Hudson had retired to their respective homes and Lestrade was gathering up his gifts and scotch.

Imogene and John sat together on the couch; the woman and man were nose to nose, when John glanced up at the brightly colored Christmas tree. There was a small red jewelry box hidden among the highest branches of the tree. It had been lost in the chaos of wrapping paper and Sherlock assumed that John had deliberately placed it there so that it might be overlooked in the mad scramble for gifts at the tree's base.

"There's one more gift left." John smiled, pressing his forehead against Imogene's golden hairline. "I think I know who it's for."

"You're so cliché."

"Sometimes, cliché is nice."

Imogene pecked John's lips quickly before rising out of her seat and sauntering over to the Christmas tree. She plucked the small box from in between some of the tallest branches and settled back into her seat, huddled next to John. She held the package up to him as if she were expecting him to open it for her and reward her with the treasure that was contained inside.

He took the box carefully from her hand, and untied the small ribbon that held the lid on.

Imogene's red lips turned up into a smile as John lifted out a glittering necklace with a silver pendant shaped into the form of a heart.

"John Watson, you are so cliché." She laughed.

He wrapped his arms around her neck and clipped the claw of the necklace shut. The chain pulled taught and ended just around her collarbones, the small heart resting in the hollow of her neck. He drew back and enveloped her in a kiss, pressing their foreheads together once more.

"Cliché is nice sometimes, isn't it?" he whispered with a smile.

Sherlock bowed his head, sucking in a breath. "I'll come as soon as I can."

"Alright", he paused for a moment, leaving Sherlock in an uncomfortable silence, "Would you like to tell John?"

Sherlock bit his lip, already trying to imagine how the doctor would respond. "I'll tell him. We'll be there soon."

Lestrade muttered a goodbye and ended the phone call with a click.

Sherlock sat in silence for a moment, pushing away any feeling of sentiment. After another five minutes, he rose, dreading the burden that he'd taken upon himself.