Disclaimer: Gah! I can't seem to get my time machine to work no matter what I do. Anyone got some of that sand from the Time Turners? I'll pay you in homemade cookies. Characters are not mine and I'm still poor.
A/N: For some reason this is one of the hardest stories I've ever written. It's like it just doesn't want to be written and I have to fight for every word. I hope it's not coming out as boring as I think it is. I'm not going to give up on it though. I will persevere. Here's your next chapter.
Bailey's Interview
Ian stood next to the hospital bed with Bailey's hand wrapped around his own. Her wide, frightened blue eyes darted around the room as though searching the corners for any would be assassin. Tears leaked a steady stream from those eyes and Sally felt the insane urge to sneer at her obvious play for attention.
She turned her head and caught Dr. John commiserating smile. "I know. There's something a bit off about her," he whispered in her ear. "She's got Anderson eating out of her hand and Greg too, though not as much."
Sally turned her head back to take in the scene playing out by the bed. Anderson was standing across from Ian and moving from glaring at him to making simpering noises to the blond on the bed. Ian was ignoring everyone in the room except Bailey. Lestrade stood at the foot with a frown on his face as he watched the other two men. The Freak stood next to Lestrade with a glare for the blond. Part of Sally rejoiced in this. She was glad at least one, well two, of the men hadn't been taken in by a pretty face.
The Freak must have felt her gaze for he turned and met it with his eerie gray eyes. He nodded and nudged Lestrade who seemed to shake off some kind of confusion. Lestrade looked at the Freak and then turned to the woman on the bed. "Ms. Andrews?" He interrupted politely. "Are you ready to answer some questions?"
Watery blue eyes left Ian and turned to the DI. "Of…of c-course I am, sir," she seemed to attempt to sit up straighter. "I…I don't know why I'm s-so upset. I barely k-knew Robert. But he seemed very nice. I-I can't believe he's d-d-dead." More tears fell.
Sherlock grimaced and moved to stand next to John and Sally. "Less idiocy over here," he claimed quietly. "Can't they see?"
Sally smirked at the backhanded compliment even as John shushed him so he could hear what they were saying better.
"Can you tell us why you were at the gallery tonight, Ms. Andrews?" Lestrade asked. "It's not exactly pleasant outside."
Bailey's eyes wheeled again. "I-I haven't been to London in years," she explained haltingly. "I wanted to go to a club I knew and I didn't want to go alone. Ian said he was dropping a painting off at the gallery. I wanted to catch him and ask him to go with me."
"Bailey," Ian sighed. "I also told you I was meeting an old friend after I finished at the gallery."
Bailey's lower lips stuck out in a pout. "He could have come with us. I wouldn't have minded a friend of yours hanging out with us."
Ian rubbed the bridge of his nose and Sally automatically reached for her pocket and the bottle of paracetamol. Sherlock's snicker had her stopping as she shook out two tablets. "Christ," she muttered. "I'm Pavalov's dog."
Everyone let out light chuckles at the lightening of the atmosphere from Sally's comment. "I don't have a headache, Sals, but thanks for the offer," Ian said. "Bailey my old friend I was going to visit is a girl. I was going to see Sals."
"Her?" The blond on the bed screeched. "Bu-but why, Ian? How did you come to know a cop? What's so special about her?"
"Did the old friend part just totally pass you by?" Sally asked snidely. "We grew up together."
"There's no need to get snippy about it," Bailey gave her a scowl. "I've had a shock and I'm not at my best at the moment." She brought one hand up to her cheek. "I must look a fright. I hate crying like that it makes me all blotchy. Ian, be a dear and hand me my purse?"
"Ms. Andrews," Lestrade interrupted her babbling. "If we could get back to the reason we're all here for the moment. You look fine, by the way."
Bailey blushed prettily. "Thank you, Detective." She smiled at him with just a glint of perfectly white, straight teeth. "What else did you want to ask me?"
Lestrade cleared his throat roughly. "How well did you know the victim, Ms. Andrews?" He asked.
"It's no wonder the Psychopath calls you an idiot, Lestrade," Anderson sneered. "Ms. Andrews just told us all that she barely knew Robert Chatham."
"Now, Mr…um, I'm sorry I can't recall your name," Bailey said.
"Anderson, Dr. Humphrey Anderson, at your service," Anderson said in what he thought was a suave tone and sketched a clumsy bow.
"Ooo," Bailey cooed. "A doctor? How very intriguing. What kind of doctor are you Dr. Anderson? I'm sure if you're attached to the police it must be very glamorous and exciting."
Anderson flushed and shuffled his feet a bit while giving the blond a dopey smile. "Not so much and I'm a forensic specialist."
"Oooo, wow," Bailey cooed again. "Just like in the TV shows. How very exciting! You simply must tell me all about it." She frowned as she looked around the room. "After I get out of here of course." She turned her attention back to Anderson. "You can take me out to dinner tomorrow and tell me all about your work, okay?"
Anderson opened his mouth to answer her when Lestrade cleared his throat loudly again. "He's married, Ms. Andrews and we've gotten off topic again," his voice had become a bit more filled with steel. "Now how did you come to meet Mr. Chatham? And Anderson? Don't forget that this interview is being recorded."
Bailey frowned in thought. "I've known Robert for years," she finally claimed. "I can't quite remember how we met but he's my brother's favorite gallery owner in London. Robert's always been very good to our artists and he's completely honest. Some owners try to undercut us, you see. But never Robert. But I don't know much about his personal life. I know he was married at one point but that went south. Blaine and I took him out and got him drunk the day he signed his divorce papers. He didn't want the divorce but his family forced him. Is that the kind of thing you wanted to know?"
Lestrade frowned and paced from the foot of the bed to the door and back again. "Do you know anyone who would want him dead, Ms. Andrews?"
Big blue eyes filled with tears again. "No," she drew a deep breath. "Everyone loved Robert. He was so sweet and kind. I can't think of anyone who would even want to see him hurt."
"No one?" Lestrade pressed. "His ex-wife? An artist that doesn't think he did such a wonderful job with their showing?"
"No," Bailey sobbed becoming hysterical once again. "There's no one!"
"Lestrade," Anderson barked. "Stop badgering the witness or I will report you to the Chief Superintendent! She's not ready to answer these questions and I believe that it is time we left."
"No, no, it's fine," Bailey protested. "Please. You don't need to leave, Humphrey. I don't want to be alone right now. I can answer some more questions."
"I have a question for you, Ms. Andrews," Sherlock stepped up to the foot of the bed, placed his hands on the railing and leaned forward so that he was looking the sobbing woman in the eye. "Why did you kill Robert Chatham?"
