The Consulting Detective Jones: Chapter 9
After removing the 22 slices of buttered toast from Sherlock's bedroom wall, despite both Sherlock and Scarlet protesting greatly over being, A. hauled out of bed, and B. made to remove their 'experiment' from the wall, they had all gotten dressed, washed, and John had thrown them into the back of a London cab. He could see what Lestrade had meant. They were decending into the depths of infancy. Even now, Sherlock was staring at the soft roof of the cab, tapping his foot impatiently, whilst Scarlet was rummaging in her pockets for, he assumed, a packet of nicotine gum. They were finally being allowed into the Natural History Museum, after being denied access the previous two days. The case was the first robbery Sherlock had been given in a while. He was usually too tied down with murders and/or psychopaths to bother with theft, but this instance was intriguing. Two artefacts, seemingly un-related, had been stolen: a brontosaurus rib, and a rare type of igneous rock. It was the most unusual robbery he had been to in quite some time.
'John, do we know who our team is today?' said Scarlet suddenly. She hadn't spoken to John in nearly two hours.
'The usual, Lestrade, Smith...' he paused. 'Anderson and Donavan.'
'Great. Just fabulous. Nicotine withdrawal, no mould experimentation, and now, bloody Donavan. We might as well plan my funeral now.'
'More like Donavan's funeral.' muttered John, and Sherlock glared silently at him. Now he was in 'work mode', the cheerful, happy-go-lucky Sherlock had faded, and the serious, brooding Sherlock had returned. He silently reached into his pocket, and pulled out a nicotine patch. He grabbed Scarlet's arm, rolled up her sleeve before she could protest, peeled it open, and slapped it gently onto her inner arm.
'There. That should keep you sane until at least midday.' He flashed a quick smile at her, and the cab came to a slow stop. Lestrade was at the gates to meet them. He was somewhat surprised at the arrival of the two detectives together. As they walked, he attempted to question them.
'Did you two pick Jones up on the way?'
'No.' came the withering response from Sherlock.
'No? She spent the night...with one of you?'
'Yes. She lives with us.'
'Christ Holmes. You move fast. What did you do, drug her?' came the sarcastic voice of Donavan, who had been eavesdropping on their conversation from behind.
'Thats no way to talk about your training officer Donavan. Tell Anderson he should hire a maid, making you do it just isn't fair.' Sherlock never broke his stride, even as he disappeared to go and examine the igneous rock cabinet.
'T...training officer? What on earth...?'
' Detective Inspector Scarlet Jones, of New East London Constabulary. Surprised you didn't recognise me Miss Donanvan.' Scarlet turned to smile at Sally. Sally's heart missed a beat. This, was the woman she once feared? The amazing officer who had trained her, was dating the Freak?
'Always knew you were a psychopath...poor Johnny, having to live with two psychos.' Her venomous tongue returned.
'I'm a sociopath. There is a difference.'
Anderson stepped forward. 'You aren't if you're dating Holmes.' She glanced quickly to John, making sure he was out of earshot.
'I'm not 'dating' Sherlock. He's a hollow release for my personal stress.' She stalked towards Anderson, pushing him against a wall. 'If you think I care for him, you are very much mistaken. The man bears no significance to me. He is just another man, another bed, another experiment. Nothing more.' She stepped back.
She was right, John hadn't been in earshot of her 'speech', but Sherlock had. And his mind was burning.
