CHAPTER SEVEN

This time, John actually managed to finish his lunch before Sherlock dragged him back to Scotland Yard. In the cab, John snatched the files from Sherlock and glanced through them. Vincent's brother, Alec, had disappeared seven years ago, but no arrests were made. Vincent was a suspect, but he told the police he was at his then-girlfriend's (Katrina's) flat. She had corroborated his alibi, and since no one found a motive, Alec's abrupt disappearance had gone unexplained and unsolved. In the years since, Vincent had married Katrina, having been freed from the police's suspicions once the investigation was dropped.

"Sherlock," John said quietly. "There doesn't seem to be a motive for Vincent to have killed his brother..."

"Not in the file, no."

"So how do we know-?"

"We don't," Sherlock was speaking almost absentmindedly, his mind clearly only half-listening to what John was saying. "But it is suspicious, is it not, that two people connected to Vincent Prescott both were killed, or probably killed? It does not make him appear any more innocent."

John frowned, thinking. He knew he should shut up and let Sherlock think, but he wanted to figure this out. "Do you think he killed Katrina because she knew the truth about what happened to his brother?"

"Perhaps. But he most certainly killed her because he is a complete-"

"Yeah, okay," John cut Sherlock off before he could offend the cabbie and get them kicked out before they got back to Scotland Yard. "I'm not saying you're wrong to think Vincent is the murderer, I'm just trying to understand the whole picture."

"He might not have needed a motive. Some people are just psychopaths, John."

Having no response to that, John fell silent and looked out the window. He wondered if Maggie was alright, if she was afraid, if she was even-

No. He didn't even want to finish that thought. She was alright. She was alive. She was going to be fine.

He suddenly sensed Sherlock's gaze and glanced over. His flatmate's green-gray eyes were solemn, and John felt as if his mind was being read.

"She has to be alright," Sherlock murmured, half to John and half to himself. John just nodded, hoping he was correct.

After a few more minutes of quiet, they arrived at Scotland Yard and raced up toward Lestrade's office. Once they got onto the right floor, they stopped in their tracks, seeing the DI leading Vincent out of the interrogation room and toward the door that led to lockup. John looked at Sherlock and saw his expression harden. Before anyone could speak, John tugged Sherlock away and half-dragged him into Lestrade's office to wait for him there. No need for a confrontation with their suspect.

"What did you learn?" both Sherlock and John asked without preamble the moment Lestrade got into the room.

"The Chief Superintendent wants to have Vincent held. We can't have him firing guns in the middle of the night. He had that shotgun legally, but he can't shoot at people like that."

Sherlock was in the process of a round of rather epic eye-rolling when John looked over. "I'm glad that this finally occurred to someone. John and I could have been killed, after all. Perhaps not all of your sort are dunces like I thought. Still, Inspector, that is not exactly the news John and I are after. What did Vincent tell you about Katrina?"

"He says he doesn't know anything about his wife's death. He claims she went up to Scotland for business and he's been busy with his own work. According to Katrina's boss, she really is supposed to be in Scotland, but no one has heard from her since about a week ago. There is video surveillance of her getting into a cab last Monday, so it seems like she got out of her house alive." The DI shrugged. "I know you want to get this guy, but I don't think he did it."

Sherlock scowled. "Yes, yes, we know your stubborn and baseless opinion. Where does the street camera point?"

"Why does that matter?"

"Just answer me," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It faces up the street. So?"

"So is that the only camera?"

"Yes, why-?"

"Because I think Vincent, snuck out of their flat, followed her and then killed her."

"Sherlock..." Lestrade sighed.

"Come on, Greg, give us a chance," John said. "Isn't Vincent a suspect?"

"Not exactly. He claims she left alive, and since we don't have evidence to suggest otherwise, he isn't under much scrutiny. Well, other than the gun thing."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed at that. "So if we find evidence to suggest otherwise, would that convince you to let us search his home?"

"I'm not going to let you do it. That's what the police are for," Lestrade said. "And we can only search if we find probable cause legally, or you do and you manage to fully convince me."

Sherlock scowled at him. "Why are you so determined that Vincent is innocent?"

"Why are you so determined that he is guilty?"

"That's not an answer, Inspector."

"I'm keeping my mind open to the idea that there could be another explanation entirely to Katrina Prescott's murder. Yes, her husband almost certainly abused her, but that does not guarantee his guilt. I'm following protocol, investigating every avenue I can. You, on the other hand, are not. Someone has got to be objective here." Lestrade handed Sherlock a disc. "Look, I may be skeptical, but I'm not going to forbid you from investigating. I've seen you pull plenty of rabbits out of plenty of hats over the years. So if you think you can find the truth..."

Sherlock looked triumphant. "A fine decision, Lestrade."

"Just no breaking the law anymore," the DI added warningly. "I don't want the Chief Superintendent coming down on all of us."

"Have you no faith?" Sherlock smirked, eyeing the disc between his fingers. "Now what is this?"

"The camera feed from the Prescotts' street from the day Katrina allegedly left for Scotland. Now get to work before I change my mind. I'm having Vincent's flat searched now, so I'll let you know what I find." He left then, eyes on the break room and therefore probably the coffee machine, and John looked over at Sherlock, who was still smirking.

He met John's gaze, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I can practically see your ego growing," John groaned. "Remember why we're doing this, okay? Remember Maggie."

The smug look faded slightly, and Sherlock nodded. He stepped around Lestrade's desk and slid the disc into the slot. John joined him and they watched as the video loaded, revealing a typical bustling London street. John spotted Katrina Prescott quickly, holding a dark blue travel case and climbing into a cab. The cab drove off and turned the corner. Nothing suspicious happened, and John felt Sherlock's frustration radiating off him like heat.

"So maybe he followed her in another cab, and we just missed it?" He looked at Sherlock as the video played on. "There has to be an explanation."

Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off the computer screen. He looked intense, focused in a way John rarely saw, even in his remarkable flatmate. His fingers flashed across the keyboard nimbly, and John watched as he replayed Katrina's departure over and over. Each time, John could find nothing strange with the scene, and despite his conviction, he started to feel doubt enter his mind. Maybe they had been wrong all along. Maybe Vincent was just an alluring suspect because of his previous entanglement with his brother's disappearance. Maybe they really were on a bit of a vendetta because of Maggie. In fact, they weren't even sure Maggie was being abused by Vincent; the only evidence John had to that end was what Sherlock had told him. And in truth, even Sherlock could not be certain about all this…

"Sherlock…" John began, hating what he was about to say. "Listen."

"Hmm?" Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the screen, watching yet another time as Katrina got into the cab. John hesitated. Sherlock had that look on his face, that not-now-I'm-detecting look. A second later, once the cab turned out of sight again, he glanced up. "What? Don't tell me you see something I don't. That would be absurd."

"No, just..." John looked into Sherlock's eyes and felt a jolt of pain. Sherlock looked more alive than ever, like he did sometimes on cases like this. It was that appearance that had intrigued John in the beginning, that passion that had prompted him to kill for this man. And considering what Sherlock had told him about Redbeard earlier… Could John really be the one to tell Sherlock to rethink this investigation now? Sherlock trusted few people, and if John told him this case was might not turn out the way he wanted, John felt he was betraying that precious trust.

He took a breath, then smiled disarmingly. "Never mind."

Sherlock looked faintly perplexed, but turned back to the computer immediately. "I wonder where Lestrade went," he said as if nothing had happened. "I'd like to watch the recording of Vincent's interrogation."

John followed him out of the office, biting his lip. The doubt about Vincent was still there, but now it was coupled with piercing guilt. That video seemed to show there was no way to make a proper case, but John did not want to be the one to tell Sherlock that. Not when the man was doing all this to save a helpless dog.


When the interrogation video started, the first thing John noticed was how Vincent's arms were crossed tightly across his chest. He didn't move when Lestrade stepped into the interrogation room. The door shut with a solid click behind the DI, who settled into the chair across from Vincent, gazing at him sternly.

"Tell me mate, why did you fire a weapon last night outside your flat?"

"There were trespassers on my property," Vincent replied, and John shuddered at the return of the whispery voice. "I was within my rights to remove them. And I've got a license for that gun."

"We know that," Lestrade nodded. "However, you are going to be held in lockup. I suggest you get a lawyer if you want to avoid a minor jail sentence for that. You can't just shoot at people like that, especially in a residential area."

"I won't need a lawyer." Vincent still was motionless. Only his eyes shifted, from the door to Lestrade and back again. John thought that perhaps his posture and shifting eyes were due to nerves, and though he hoped so, there was still doubt and uncertain in the back of his mind.

"Well, then you should hope someone bails you out then." Lestrade glanced up as the door opened to reveal a uniformed officer, clutching files. Well, copies of the files Sherlock had stolen. The DI nodded to the officer, who stepped wordlessly out. Vincent's eyes slid back to Lestrade as the door again clicked shut.

"Where were you at ten in the morning last Monday, when your wife Katrina allegedly left for a business trip to Scotland?" Lestrade asked as he flipped through the first file.

"I already told some Sergeant Donovan all this. I was home. I was alone. She left, and I had a late breakfast. I never work on Mondays, so I always sleep late. The only reason I woke up that day is because she was leaving and woke me."

"What about from that point to Tuesday evening?"

"What does that matter?"

"Monday morning through Tuesday evening is the time of death window as estimated by the medical examiner after her autopsy. He can't be more specific because her body sustained damage from being in the Thames for so long."

Vincent still had not moved. "I went to work on Tuesday, then went to the pub. You can check at both places."

"You were alone all Monday, Tuesday morning, and Tuesday evening?"

"So?"

"So you have no alibi for those times, times which would have given you plenty of time to kill your wife?"

"She was in Scotland, like I said. I don't have an alibi because I don't need one."

"Unfortunately, you don't get to make that decision." Lestrade opened the third file, one John didn't recognize, and turned it toward Vincent. "I, on the other hand, think you do need one."

Vincent looked unruffled by whatever was in the file. His dark eyes barely skimmed across it before they were back on Lestrade. "What's this supposed to be?"

"Your wife's autopsy report. The medical examiner found evidence of many broken bones, cuts, bruises and other injuries. These injuries were not from her death; she died from a single band being wrapped around her neck and tightened, resulting in suffocation. No, these injuries were inflicted previously. Most of them had healed before her death, some were half-healed, and some were just a day or so old. Combined, all of them point to physical abuse."

The last two words seemed to hover in the air, and finally Vincent moved. He leaned forward, chest pressed against the edge of the table, hands planted on its surface. His eyes were steady and cold. Another shivering second of silence passed before he breathed, "I did not kill my wife."

"I think you'll understand if I don't take your word for it," Lestrade said. He pulled a piece of paper from the back of the file. "This is a search warrant for your flat. It gives us the right to scour every inch of it. If we find anything that proves you were abusing Katrina, the last thing you will have to worry about is firing on trespassers. And for now, we're going to keep you lockup for a few hours, as you are a person of interest in my investigation."

Vincent's eyes followed Lestrade as he stood. "You won't find anything inside or outside my flat. And I know you people have got cameras on every inch of this city, so you will see plainly that my wife left the house, and she was just fine."

Lestrade did not reply, and Vincent's eyes narrowed. "I am not a murderer."

Sherlock reached out and pressed the pause button, freezing the playback on Vincent's face. He stared at it, glaring. "He must be lying. You saw the look on his face when Lestrade implied he was a spouse abuser. He was uncomfortable. He was evasive. We're so close, John, I can feel it. He's worried here, I can tell."

Before John could even begin considering a reply, Lestrade opened the door and stepped into the room with them. "Sherlock," he said. "You asked Donovan a few minutes ago to get the video feeds from King's Cross, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock ripped his gaze from the screens almost violently. "And?"

"Well I've got them in my office now."

Sherlock nodded then looked at John. "I need to review this again. Go look at the other video. Look for Katrina, not that you'll find her."

"You're trusting me with this?" John was surprised.

"Of course," Sherlock sat down and spun the chair to face the screens again. "It's such a simple task, even a child could accomplish it."

John sighed. "Thanks for the vote of confidence…"


A minute later, John, back in Lestrade's office, zoomed through the first few hours of the King's Cross feeds for Monday of the previous week. At just after ten in the morning, he paused it. There, on the platform clutching her dark blue travel case, stood Katrina Prescott. John watched, almost not believing it, as a train arrived and she boarded it. He stared as the train then departed a bit later, then sat back. So Katrina had left successfully for Scotland, and there was no sign of Vincent on the platform, or of him leaving his flat at all on the other video feed.

"Well?"

John jumped and looked up almost embarrassedly at Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway. "Um, well."

"Did you find something?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Sherlock," John stood as his flatmate stepped around the desk, tilting his head to look at the computer screen. "You aren't going to want to hear this, but… I don't think Vincent could have possibly killed Katrina."

Sherlock's green-gray eyes narrowed. "No…" he murmured. "That's impossible. Of course he killed her. You saw how he acted in that tape. We know he abused Katrina. And many abusers often escalate to murder given enough time. Of course he murdered her."

"She got on a train," John said. "Look. She left, and I didn't see Vincent on either video feed. I think you need to admit the possibility that she was killed by someone else. He is a despicable man, I'm not denying that, but the chances that he did this are getting lower and lower."

"John," Sherlock growled.

"I told you that you wouldn't want to hear this," John sighed. "But I am seriously worried about what this case might do to you. You're so determined to prove Vincent guilty that you aren't even seeing any other explanation, even when there's evidence that Katrina left safely is right in front of you. And you haven't eaten or slept in at least a day. This case isn't healthy for you."

But then betrayal and pain flashed through Sherlock's eyes. "I thought you believed me," he said quietly.

"I did, Sherlock, I swear. But now we've done some proper investigating, and I'm sorry, but I don't think your hunch was right after all."

"I don't have hunches, John." Sherlock's voice had gotten, if possible, even lower.

"A hunch, an inference, I don't sodding care what you call it!" John felt a bit desperate now. "I think you need to take a step back and be objective for once. Vincent is starting to seem innocent to me."

Sherlock glanced down at it, then back up. The look that was in his eyes then reminded John of a look in Vincent's in that interrogation video. "You disappoint me, John."

"I'm disappointing? I'm not the one dangerously obsessed with a case. Look, what happened to Redbeard was not your fault, Sherlock, and you don't have to pay some sort of penance for it. Just let the Vincent angle go, just for a while, and look at some other possibilities. There have to be other explanations, and I know we can find them."

Sherlock stared at him with those wide, pained, somehow dangerous eyes for a few more seconds, then glanced away and slowly shook his head. When he looked back up, John saw dark determination lacing his countenance. "Fine," he said nearly inaudibly. "You want me to let go, I will. I'll let go of the ridiculous notion that you actually trusted me, that you are actually worth trusting."

John's heart dropped to his stomach. "Sherlock…"

But Sherlock just turned and left. The door clicked shut behind him with a solid thud, and John felt as if he was falling through the floor.


Ten minutes later, John was still sitting in the chair in Lestrade's office, replaying that conversation with Sherlock in his head. His thoughts were interrupted, however, when Lestrade burst in. "John," he gasped, looking rather frantic. "Where's Sherlock?"

"I don't know... Why? What's happened?" John sat up, tensing. Something was terribly wrong, he knew it.

"Donovan just went in to check on Vincent in his cell in lockup. He's been beaten half to death."


Dun dun dun.

(Also, I'm totally fudging the police policy details… So if they're way off, sorry but deal with it ;))

Oh, and um, guys… I just looked at BBCOne's twitter… what on earth is this #221back thing they're teasing?! OH NO Mark Gatiss tweeted it too! I'm dying of anticipation now!

*ahem* Anyway… please review.