Finally! I'm so sorry for the delay.
Well, here it is, the final chapter. I hope you like it, and I hoped that you enjoyed the story as a whole. There is a short epilogue that I will publish very soon (and I mean that this time!)
Chapter 9
"How can you smile like that?" Lestrade asked. His tone wasn't accusative, it was resigned. He sounded as if nothing that Sherlock could do could surprise or shock him anymore, "Don't you feel bad at all?" Sherlock didn't reply. He realized that perhaps he should feel sympathy for the dead person, but he could not bring himself to feel it. The corpse was simply too intriguing, too much like a riddle, to truly register as a person in his mind. He decided not to tell Lestrade this, but rather ignore his question completely. He circled the body for a few more minutes before speaking.
"This man stole a ring. The murderer could be the previous owner," there were a few seconds of silence. Then Lestrade spoke in a small voice.
"You're kidding."
"Nope."
"Are you just guessing, or-"
"I never guess."
"THEN HOW?" Sherlock smiled. The small thefts he planned at school were fun, but they had nothing on this. Sherlock went around the body and knelt next to its left hand. He felt like a detective on TV, and it was brilliant.
"Well," he started, "the body has one relevant injury."
"I see a few."
"Most of them are just signs of a struggle. The only interesting injury is the ring finger of the left hand. See the bruise?" Lestrade walked around the corpse to where Sherlock was kneeling.
"Oh yeah, I see."
"Why would he be bruised then?" Sherlock felt a little like a first grade teacher explaining the concept of addition.
"Because someone pulled at it… Removing a ring, maybe? I mean, the bruise goes all around the finger. What else could it be?"
"Exactly," Sherlock smiled, "Now, look at his skin colour." He gestured at the man's face.
"It's dark."
"It's tanned. There's a clear tan line under his collar and under his other rings, but not on his ring finger. So, he was wearing a ring, but he only started recently."
"Then someone could have just been after valuable jewellery. That doesn't mean…" The Detective's voice died in his throat as Sherlock silently grabbed the man's necklace and showed it to Lestrade.
"What are you doing?" Lestrade cried, "You're not sup-"
"This is a gold necklace! The murderer was not after this man's valuables, Detective, or he would have taken this as well," Sherlock said with a small smile, "He was after that specific ring, but why?" Sherlock started prodding the man's other rings with his umbrella.
"You're really not supposed to-" The detective looked absolutely tormented.
"The ring must have been special. Our victim acquired it recently, and was then murdered for a reason connected with his possession of it. Revenge for theft is the most likely option."
"You're jumping to conclusions," Lestrade placed his coffee on the counter and started walking around the body, inspecting it from every angle.
"Of course, it could always be something else entirely," Sherlock muttered quietly. He quickly walked behind the counter and drained Lestrade's coffee. It was black, and much stronger and sweeter than what his family drank, but after the initial shock he found it quite nice, especially since he had had nothing real to eat since lunch yesterday and only slept two hours the previous night, "Statistically, I'm right."
"Was that my coffee? You arrogant-" Lestrade started, "Oh, never mind. So, let's say I believe you. What do you suggest we do now?"
"Find the ring. Look into any connections this guy had with the black market, it seems like their type of crime," Sherlock mused. Lestrade look very preoccupied for a minute before saying that the police would be coming soon and they should leave. Sherlock felt disappointed when he left the crime scene. He had a feeling that he probably missed a thousand clues. He was not half as good at this as he thought he would be. He silently swore to practice his observational skills until he's good enough to know everything at his glance like Mycroft could.
Five minutes later Sherlock and Lestrade were sitting on the pavement across the street from the supermarket. Sherlock had retrieved his jacket. Lestrade took out a cigarette, lit it in his annoyingly slow fashion, and said:
"You'll be really famous when this ends. If you're right, that is."
"Hm?" Sherlock asked, tearing the wrapper off a Yorkie bar that he lifted from the shop. Lestrade gave a reproachful look, but didn't comment.
"I can see the headlines: John Watson, 12, Fights crime in his pyjamas." Sherlock thought about that. He would have to Tell Lestrade that he had been using a fake name, and then he would have to explain that he ran away from home and didn't feel like going back. He honestly didn't want to talk about it. He also didn't want newspaper fame. He enjoyed admiration from people he met, but to be questioned by reporters and being recognized everywhere did not sound like something he would like.
"No," Lestrade gave him a questioning stare, "I don't want the credit. You can have it. Get that promotion of yours already."
"Seriously?" Sherlock did not dignify the question with another "yes".
"John, I can't accept this. I have to earn my own promotions."
"I only gave you some leads. I didn't solve the case or anything," Sherlock honestly tried not to sound unhappy about that, but he only partially succeeded. At that moment the police arrived at the scene. A team of forensic investigators, detectives and policemen piled out of their cars and went inside the supermarket.
"I… Thank you. Really, thank you," Lestrade rose from the pavement and headed for the crime scene, "Don't go anywhere!" Sherlock watched as he went inside and started pointing out things to his boss. Sherlock watched Lestrade absent-mindedly for about two minutes before a payphone behind him started ringing. He looked around. There was no one on the street except for him. The boy rose to his feet and stared at the phone for about thirty seconds. It was still ringing. Whoever was calling was very persistent. Finally, he picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Hello Sherlock," Mycroft's voice came as a completely surprise. Sherlock looked frantically around the street. How did he know where he was?
"Mycroft, How? I mean, How? How?" He stammered, unable to say anything more intelligent. Why did his brother always know everything?
"Three excellent questions, Brother mine. You might want to look at the top of the building to your right." Sherlock did. The CCTV camera at the top of the building was pointed directly at him. For some reason, Sherlock was not alarmed at all by the knowledge that his brother had access to CCTV footage. If anything, he was relieved, as the alternative was that Mycroft had truly superhuman deductive abilities and had managed to figure out Sherlock's location in his head.
"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked hostilely. The whole point of him being here was to get away from his family. Couldn't Mycroft leave him alone for once?
"I got a call from mummy about fifteen minutes ago."
"So wha-"
"She was crying. Said you disappeared," Sherlock felt his stomach tighten. He'd made his mother cry? Then he remembered how she didn't protest when his father said that Sherlock should be sent away and his guilt vanished.
"Did she tell you anything else?" He asked, trying his hardest to keep his tone blank.
"She told me you found a tape from July 13th, 1986," Mycroft replied, "And before you ask, I know what was on it and I don't blame you for running."
"Then why are you calling?"
"To tell you to go home."
"You just said-"
"I said I don't blame you, I never said it was the right thing to do. How were you going to survive with nothing but a pair of pyjamas and a jacket? Seriously, Sherlock," there was that tone again, the same one he used when he criticized Sherlock's unimpressive lock picking skills. The one that meant if you're going to do something stupid, at least do it right.
"I can't look at the house anymore. I'm not coming back."
"Sherlock…" There was genuine pity in his brother's voice, "I hate to say this, but you have to go back and move on."
"What?"
"Go back. Live at home. Act normally."
"What, and secretly plot to rule the world at the same time? I'm not you."
"Doesn't matter. There's no other place for you to live. Sometimes you have to do unpleasant things because you know you have to." Sherlock did not answer. He knew Mycroft was right. Of course he was right. But how could Sherlock go back?
"I threw the lock picking kit in the Thames." Sherlock suddenly said. He did not want to talk about home, and this was the first other subject that came to mind.
"You… Really?"
Finally. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had said something that his brother truly did not expect. Sherlock was startled by how pleased with himself he felt.
"Yes, it was a cowardly thing to do."
"How so?"
"I didn't want to find anything else," So I ran away from the truth, Sherlock finished in his head. He could not bring himself to complete the sentence aloud.
"So you think that, by throwing away your kit, you were running away from the truth." Mycroft Holmes, mind reader extraordinaire. Sherlock didn't respond and Mycroft took it as a yes.
"That's ridiculous, Sherlock. It's completely logical to avoid irrelevant information."
"Irrelevant?"
"Remember when you were eight, and I tried to teach you about the solar system?" Mycroft asked, "I explained for about five minutes before you interrupted me and asked me why you would ever need such irrelevant information. This is the same. You don't need to find every little bit of horrible family history. It won't do you any good at all. In fact, it would probably be better for you to erase it entirely, as it simply serves to distract you from more important things."
"Is that what you would do?"
"Me? Of course not, but you were just telling me about how you are definitely not me."
"I shouldn't have thrown the case in the Thames."
"You think so?" He did. Sherlock did not respond for twenty seconds, so Mycroft continued
"Anyway, Sherlock, please go home now. You have no idea how tiring these tearful phone calls from Mummy are." Sherlock said nothing for half a minute before responding. Should he go home? Mycroft had a point. It is unrealistic for him to leave home.
"I'm not going back. I don't want to be controlled by people who hate me."
"Oh, grow up, they don't hate you," Mycroft said crossly, "Why must you be so over-dramatic?"
"Says the man who punched through his bedroom wall four days ago," Sherlock retorted.
"I did not punch through the wall," Mycroft sounded indignant, and then added quietly, "I hardly even scratched it." Sherlock gave the camera his most unimpressed look. The only thing he could do better than his brother was throw a punch.
"Anyway, never mind my wall. Go home. You have to. Remember that Father is legally obligated to pay for your food. See it as revenge if it helps."
"Is that why you eat so much at home?" Sherlock teased. Seeing child care laws as revenge? His brother could be so evil sometimes.
"Be quiet. Anyway, if you really don't want to live at home you can move to a boarding school. I don't care what you do, I just don't want to hear from Mummy again." Mycroft was starting to make too much sense and Sherlock couldn't ignore it anymore.
"Fine."
"Good. By the way, what are you doing right next to that crime scene?"
"Nothing," Sherlock smiled conspiratorially at the camera. He didn't have to tell Mycroft, Mycroft probably already knew.
"I see. Have fun doing nothing. Goodbye Sherlock," Mycroft said, but Sherlock interrupted.
"Wait!"
"What?"
"I… Erm…" Sherlock started. He knew he should say this, but he had no idea how, "On the tape… You… That thing you did… When you yelled at Father for me… That was… I mean…" God, this was painful. He could almost hear Mycroft smile his sarcastic, condescending smile.
"You're welcome, Sherlock. Goodbye." Sherlock hung up and realized that Lestrade was standing behind him. When did he return? How could Sherlock not notice?
"My boss said that I had some good observations," He said with a smile, "None of the other detectives noticed the missing ring."
"Good, congratulations on your impending promotion." Sherlock sounded more than a little self-satisfied. He might not have solved that crime like he wanted to, but at least he noticed something that a whole unit of policemen didn't.
"I still have to find the murderer."
"I could help you with t-" Sherlock started. He knew he had to go home, but it could wait.
"No. It's my turn now," Lestrade said, "anyway, you should be getting home." Damn, how much did he hear? Sherlock didn't answer and found something very interesting to look at on his shoe, "With a little luck, next time you see me I'll be at least a Detective Sergeant."
"Next time you see me I'll be taller than you."
"Good luck with that," the detective said with a smirk, "Thank you very much, John Watson." He held out his hand and Sherlock shook it.
"Truly a pleasure, Greg Lestrade."
Did you like it?
To be honest, I'm not sure how much I like this story. Oh well, I usually don't like the stuff I write.
The epilogue is pretty much finished and I'll upload it really soon. I think it really adds to the ending, so if you feel like this chapter cuts off too abruptly then it might help =)
Please review.
