Alex gasped. "I didn't! I didn't kill Julia!"
Lestrade pulled out a pair of handcuffs with a sigh and Alex stood up, backing away from them all.
"No way, it wasn't me. What proof do you have?" She asked Lestrade. John stood up, clenching his hands defensively.
"We found your fingerprints on her body." His voice was weary, like he had really wished it wasn't hers they had found.
"So? Maybe I brushed past her at some point."
John could see that Alex was trying her best not to get hysterical and he couldn't help but admire that a bit, considering everything else she'd been dealing with.
"Your hair was found on the body too."
"Well…" Alex glanced around frantically, "I did spend a lot of time with her and near her."
"She was killed by a snake, you whore!" Doctor Roylott yelled.
Alex went white. "I got rid of them all before I came to London!" She cried. Lestrade looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world but here. He carefully clipped the cuffs around her wrists, leaving her hands in front. He would have been reading her rights if slaves had any rights anymore. "No—it wasn't me! What reason would I have to kill Julie?!" Lestrade guided her out of the room. Doctor Roylott followed, leaving John and Sherlock with Helen.
"Helen?" John asked, breaking the ringing silence. "Do you think she did it?"
"I don't know." Helen said.
"She didn't do it." Sherlock said confidently, watching Lestrade guide a flabbergasted Alex into the squad car.
"What makes you so sure?" John asked.
"Helen," Sherlock ignored him. "Would you mind if I poked around the flat for a bit?"
"Not at all."
"John, you might want to go home. I doubt you can be of any use to me for now."
Sherlock took off up the steps.
"Wear your collar when you come home!" John yelled after him, slightly stung. There was no response and John watched him sweep out of view before saying good-bye to Helen and going back to Baker Street.
John hailed a cab and got in, surprised to notice that his leg wasn't even hurting at all anymore. Apparently Sherlock's presence had been more effective than a trained therapist. John frowned as he thought about that, not sure that it was a reassuring notion.
The cab pulled over at a corner and John narrowed his eyes, about to tell the cabbie to please not pick up another fare, when the door opened and Mycroft Holmes slid into the vehicle. A long black umbrella was hooked over his arm.
"John." He said with a smile.
"Hello, Mycroft." John sighed. "I appreciate the non-abduction this time."
"Who said I'm not abducting you?" Mycroft smiled and John glanced around, panicking. "Stop—I'm joking."
"Oh. Humor doesn't work very well in your family, Mycroft."
"No? I thought the look on your face was rather amusing."
"Did you get in my cab just to talk about my face?"
"No." He pulled out a folder. "I have information pertaining to yours and my brother's safety. It seems Moran and his employer are looking for him."
"What? Why?"
"They want him back. They feel he belongs to them."
"Too bad." John sneered. "You haven't seen what they did to him. Sherlock is going to be scarred for life because of those arseholes and there's no way I'm giving him up without a hell of a fight."
"Admirable." Mycroft said. "Though you won't be able to fight if they kill you, Doctor Watson."
John lifted his chin.
"These men are dangerous, John. Very dangerous."
"So am I." John growled. Mycroft smirked.
"I just want you to be aware that he, and by association you, are being looked for." He produced a folder and handed it to John. Two photos were inside, each labeled with a name.
"Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty." John read. His mind classified them as targets, and John wished he could kill them both right now. It was because of them that Sherlock was the way he was, and because of people like them that the world was so terrifying now. They deserved bullets, nothing less. The car slowed and John glanced out the window. Baker Street.
"I've said this before but I feel it bears repeating: be careful. Not only in your little business venture, but do not underestimate these men. They will stop at nothing to get Sherlock."
John nodded grimly and got out in front of 221, leaving the folder behind.
"Sherlock?" John went up the steps. Sherlock was in the armchair, slouched down with his long legs stretched out straight in front. One ankle was hooked over the other and he was furiously texting.
"Sherlo—?"
"Sh!" Sherlock hissed. His thumbs flew over the keypad as he heard John enter the kitchen and grab the kettle. Good, Sherlock mused. He'd wanted tea, but had been too lazy to get up and make it. He fired off one more text and stood, pacing.
"Who are you texting?" John asked.
"Alex Bailey." Sherlock said, pacing behind John.
"She's allowed to text from prison?"
"She's in a holding cell." Pace, pace, pace. "She hasn't been officially charged yet. I told her to tell Lestrade she was texting me and he agreed to turn a blind eye." Pace, pace, pace.
"Stop pacing! Mrs. Hudson's going to bang her ceiling with a broom."
"She used to collect snakes in America." Sherlock said, stopping.
"What—Mrs. Hudson!?" John said. The electric kettle boiled and John poured two mugs.
"No—Alex." Sherlock said. "Another damning piece of evidence. Her hair follicle, her finger prints, and now a past history of working closely with reptiles. Snakes, specifically."
"Have they found the snake that bit Julia?" John asked.
"No."
"Is there any evidence of a snake having been kept in the flat?"
"No."
"Any motivation for Alex to kill Julia?" John handed Sherlock a cup of tea.
"No." Sherlock sipped it. "I went over that entire flat on my hands and knees looking for anything—a shed skin, a dead mouse, a heat lamp—anything that would lead to a snake. There's nothing. Whoever did it wasn't a complete moron."
"Are we certain it was a snake that killed her?"
"Yes! This isn't helping. I need to think!" He let out a frustrated growl and paced out of the kitchen. John sipped his tea, enjoying the hot brew, when a deafeningly loud boom made him startle and slosh steaming hot liquid all over his hand. His mind flashed back to bright sunlight, the shout of the men in his platoon and the dusty smell of baked sand and dried metal blood. A vivid image of Corporal Ryan—a young, dark-haired lad from Lincolnshire—getting shot in the chest flooded his mind's eye like waves crashing on a shore. The gunfire. The deafening bang that ripped the air and the bullet that tore through Ryan's skin, muscle and bone, nicking his lung on the way through. The crimson blood spurting from his chest like a macabre geyser and the brief look of shock on his face before he stumbled back and collapsed on the hard dirt. John hadn't been able to save him. That was a bad day.
"Fuck!" He hissed. He hurriedly slid the mug onto the counter, gripping the edges of the worn laminate as the vibrant war movie in his head faded as quickly as it had come. This film was always playing through his mind, some days he could look away—a metaphorical curtain swinging across the screen—other days scenes of it reared up out of seemingly nowhere. A smell. A sound. Hell, even a taste could throw him back in the desert without a hint of notice. John tried to avoid putting himself in situations that would trigger the 'play' button, but unfortunately, it wasn't all in his control.
It happened again, a silence-ripping bang, and John winced. Thankfully, no more images popped into his head. "Sherlock!" He bellowed, his voice sharp and tense. He looked up and saw his crazy flatmate holding his Sig (incorrectly, John would add) and firing it indiscriminately at the wall over the sofa.
"I need to think!" Sherlock yelled.
John stalked into the sitting room and tore the gun from Sherlock. The man looked at John as if he had just plucked a half-eaten candy bar from his hand and not a weapon.
"How," John growled, trying not to tremble, "does firing my gun at the wall help you bloody think!?"
"I need to distract myself periodically to help my thoughts flow more freely." Sherlock told him. "The gun was available and served my purpose."
"Served your—!? Do what normal people do and watch telly if you don't want to think! Go for a walk! Read a book!"
Sherlock made a face. "Inane."
"Here." John stomped over to the bookshelf and grabbed a book Sherlock had placed there that had arrived in one of The Boxes. He read the title, "Practical Bee-Keeping?" John couldn't keep the surprise and frank confusion out of his voice. Sherlock snatched it from him.
"Bees are fascinating." He said defensively. He strode to his bedroom, book under his arm, not even apologizing for stealing John's gun and firing it. John suddenly felt very tired as he unloaded the bullets. His leg twinged faintly in ghost pain and he resolutely ignored it as he went up the steps to put his gun away.
"Sherlock?" John called down the hall. "D'you want anything for dinner?" He'd managed to ignore the memories of war, and now his stomach was rumbling. Getting out of the flat might be good. Might clear his head. Sherlock's door flew open. "Indian?" He suggested.
John nodded, surprised. "Sure." He didn't think Sherlock would be hungry.
"How about that place over on Oxford?"
"Sounds good. I'll grab my jacket."
They went out into the early evening, heading south towards the restaurant. John was running food options through his head, wondering what he should get. Curry? Maybe. That spicy beef thing he'd had last time had been pretty good…Sherlock made a sudden left onto a side street.
"Uh, Sherlock? It's this way."
"Detour, Detective Watson." Sherlock called over his shoulder. John sighed. He knew Sherlock had been too amenable to the idea of food. The bastard was up to something. His stomach grumbled and he trotted after the taller man.
"Okay, trusty assistant Holmes," he said, falling into step beside him, "what are we doing?"
"Jewel heist case. By my calculations, this shop up ahead, Diamonds, should be the one to get robbed next."
John slowed his steps. Sherlock kept walking.
"Your calculations? What are you, psychic now?"
"Of course not! It was a simple probability algorithm. Anyone looking at a map and tracing the robber's steps could have figured it out‒at least, that's what you're going to tell anyone who asks, correct?"
"Right." John muttered. Though he didn't regret agreeing to pretend to be the detective-in-charge to give Sherlock his autonomy back, it still left an uneasy residue in his mouth whenever they talked about it. It was illegal, what they were doing. Sherlock was doing the work of a free person and in this harsh new world they lived in, it could get very ugly very fast. For both of them.
Sherlock turned into Diamonds. The door dinged as he went in and John followed. There were a few customers. A well dressed couple looking at rings and a younger man in an orange jacket browsing collars. An older guy with a white moustache was behind the counter and he greeted John.
"Good evening, sir, what can I interest you in tonight? Perhaps a bauble for your wife?"
He caught sight of Sherlock. He glanced down at his neck, obscured by the scarf, and pressed on.
"Or your slave? We have many beautiful collars available for a good price."
John smiled politely, "actually‒"
"‒your store is going to get robbed in the next twenty-four hours." Sherlock said, acting like he hadn't heard that conversation.
"How do you know this?" The guy said, glancing between them.
Sherlock saw the kid in the orange jacket peek up, eying the men.
"Uh, I figured it out using an algorithm I created." John tried to sound as blasé as possible. "If anyone were to follow the robber's path, they would see that your shop will be next." He nodded.
There was a tug at his sleeve. "Detective Watson?"
"Yes?" John turned and saw the kid warily backing out of the store. When he saw John's attention on him he turned tail and bolted.
Sherlock was after him like a rocket and John darted out on his heels. They flew up the street‒this kid was fast. Of course he would be fast, heaven forbid the jewel thief be an asthmatic retiree. The detectives were beside each other, pounding the pavement as fast as they could, but still the thief managed to maintain distance in front of them. He pivoted up another street and almost disappeared in the shuffle of people, only his orange coat giving him away. This was rapidly becoming a lost cause.
John slowed, completely winded and disheartened. He wasn't even embarrassed that he was panting. He'd kept up with Sherlock just fine, and even he was out of breath. Their quarry could on some kind of drug or something for all they knew.
"Dammit." John muttered, hands on knees as his ribs burned. Sherlock, breathing loud beside him, glanced around. "John." He said. The doctor glanced up and saw Sherlock striding towards two police horses, one black, one dapple grey, that were tethered outside a convenience store.
"Sherlock, no."
"Can you ride?" Sherlock untied the animals.
"We are not commandeering a pair of bleeding copper horses to chase after a suspect."
The detective slipped his foot in the stirrup and swooped into the saddle of the grey with a graceful sweep of his coat and tore off down the street.
"Fucking hell." John straightened and clambered into the black's saddle. He gathered the reins and nudged with his heels, and he was off at a brisk trot that quickly turned into a gallop. He could ride. Part of his army training actually included a short module on basic horsemanship. Instructions from his trainer popped into his head. Heels down, grip with your legs…hooves clattered on pavement as the horse navigated the flat industrial terrain with ease. Unfortunately, their path took them directly down the main road. Sherlock would blaze a trail up ahead, with pedestrians leaping out of the way as John brought up the rear, calling apologies. It was easy to follow the detective, even around the corners, as the set of hooves slamming asphalt was painfully loud. The shouts of bewildered passersby provided a nice guide too.
Once John got over the initial 'this is completely ridiculous' idea of stealing from the police, this was actually insanely fun. The night was cool and the wind was roaring in his ears, bringing up a healthy flush to his face. Adrenaline was singing through his veins and John grinned, hunching forward and nudging his heels further into the horse's flanks. The horse was more than game, and it sped up until it was neck in neck with Sherlock's mount.
The detective peered over at John, and when he saw the crazy huge smile on his face, Sherlock grinned too. John was having such fun that he nearly forgot about the suspect until they caught a flash of his orange coat slipping through an iron gate up ahead. The gate clanged locked behind and he kept running. The fence was at least eight feet high‒far too tall to jump.
"Oh no." John moaned.
"This way!" Sherlock called. His horse made a swift right. They were headed for a park surrounded by neatly coifed bushes. The grey bunched his hind legs and cleared a hedge. John took a breath‒he'd never jumped on a horse before‒ and held on tight. His stomach lifted into his chest as the rhythmic pounding halted and they sailed over the short bushes. Thankfully, the animal made the jump with ease and he stayed in the saddle.
They wove in and out of tall oak trees in the twilight, making their way diagonally across the park, pounding over the thick turf. Fireflies glowed in the low branches and deep shadows were filling out the grass. The scent of wet earth and greenery filled their noses, and the atmosphere gave the whole feel of the chase a moody sort of adventurous air. John felt a small yet incredibly strong sense of happiness and in a weird way, peace. This was fun. This was the most fun he'd had in ages.
They both jumped another hedge and landed on the pavement again. John was pleasantly surprised to see their suspect running not ten feet from where they erupted. He gave a startled yip and put on a burst of speed, but the two horses were faster.
"Stop!" Sherlock bellowed, skidding in front of the man and cutting him off in a crash of hooves and a whinny. The guy turned and almost ran right into John's mount.
"Don't even think about it. It's over." John growled. The guy seemed to finally give up‒he was panting like a sheepdog in summer‒and Sherlock and John dismounted. Sirens blared in the distance. John patted his horse's nose in equal parts thanks and relief. He also took one more look around at the night as the police cars swung into view and a nervous glow grew in his chest. That had been fun as hell, but it might very well be the last time he saw the stars as a free man for a while.
He let out a huge sigh of relief when Lestrade and Donovan got out of one of the cars. Unfortunately, his relief was short lived when several officers more or less tackled him and threw him against the bonnet of the police car with a heavy whump. The car was warm under his pounding heart and exhaling hot air against his thighs. John winced in pain as his knee ground into the bumper but he didn't fight back. They were in enough trouble. He was cuffed and he hissed as his tight shoulder protested, being screamed at all the while to "don't move!"
"Hey‒hey! Lestrade yelled. He got out of his car.
Sherlock was thrown over the hood with a muffled "mmph!" and cuffed as well. More shouts of "don't move" and "who do you belong to?"
"He's mine." John said.
"Shutup!"
"Hey!" Lestrade again. "They're not resisting, ease off!"
Rough hands gradually lifted off their bodies. John didn't dare get up, and thankfully Sherlock seemed to have the same idea. Lestrade came up to the side of the car, arms folded, and looked down at both men. One brow was raised at a disapproving angle.
"Evening, officer." Sherlock said dryly.
Lestrade shrugged, clearly at a loss to rationalize their behavior. "Just decided to go on a joyride with some police ponies?" Behind him, officers were loading the stolen horses into a trailer.
"There was nothing on the telly." John answered. "Nothing good on Mondays."
Sherlock snickered. "We were pursuing a suspect‒and caught him, I might add." Sherlock glanced behind himself, to where an officer was pushing the suspect into the back of a car. He seemed happy to sit down after all that running. Sherlock started to rise‒
"‒no." Greg spoke as if he was teaching an excited puppy a new trick. "Stay."
With a frown and a sigh, he lowered back over the hood.
"Do you two have any idea how much paperwork you just created for me?" Lestrade glanced down at John. "Sherlock I would expect this from, but you?" He wasn't actually angry. Annoyed yes, but more in a 'disappointed yet mildly amused father' kind of way as opposed to an 'enraged officer' way. John supposed that if Lestrade got very upset with Sherlock every time he did something hare-brained, his blood pressure would have caused him to explode by now.
"The radio." John said. "Also nothing good on the radio."
"Oh good God. There's two of you now." Lestrade stared up at the heavens in a silent prayer.
"May we stand?" John asked in his politest voice.
"Yeah, up you go."
Both men stood, and John knew instantly that he was going to be sore tomorrow. His shirt was stiff with dried sweat and his face was windburned. His legs and back were sore but damn that had been a blast. Lestrade put a hand on each of their shoulders and steered them towards his own police car. Other officers turned to help, but Lestrade waved them away. "I got them, don't worry."
"Well." Donovan came out of the throng and opened the back door. Sherlock and John got in without being told. "Had fun, did you?" She asked when they were all in the car. "Stealing from the police was an idiotic thing to do before The Fall‒now you're each looking at time in the pillory."
"Sally." Greg murmured.
"It's true." She said.
Neither prisoner responded, but John snuck a glance at Sherlock and they both grinned into their chests, hiding their faces like two schoolboys giggling in church.
As it transpired, Sally was wrong, and no one was going to the pillory. Though there were some soldiers stationed with Scotland Yard, the officers themselves still had basically the same job as before. Major problems could get escalated up, where soldiers would step in and break the Republic 'laws' over the heads of miscreants, but that was entirely up to the officers. The Republic had bigger problems to deal with and the soldiers were mostly there to look scary with their guns and keep the peace.
With Lestrade taking charge of them, the threat of a horrible sentence was significantly reduced. The suspect had robbed four shops and when he pleaded guilty, their sentence was reduced even further.
"You wouldn't have one at all if you hadn't stolen those horses." Lestrade said.
"Borrowed." Sherlock and John spoke together.
It wasn't bad. They were allowed to use the toilet in private and amazingly, Greg even snuck them half a pizza to split for dinner since they never made it to the Indian place. Even more amazing, Sherlock ate a whole slice.
"Don't get used to this kind of four star jail treatment." Greg said from outside the cell as John and Sherlock snarfed down the pie. "That pizza was either going in the rubbish or your stomachs, so…"
"Thanks, Greg. Appreciate it." John said through a mouthful of onion and sausage.
Sherlock hummed in response.
Greg rolled his eyes, suppressing a hint of a smile.
"Since we're here," Sherlock said, swallowing his bite of pizza, "I'd like to speak with Miss Bailey."
"This isn't a hotel!" Lestrade said. "You can't just pop around the halls saying hello."
"I would hope a hotel would have better accommodations…" Sherlock murmured, eying the toilet in the corner. When the officer didn't move, Sherlock frowned. "Let me out, Detective Inspector, I need to speak with her."
"Sherlock, you're in jail! Not off visiting one of your bloody mates! You can't just be let out."
Sherlock tucked his coat tighter around himself. "All of my mates are in this cell with me and it would behoove you, Inspector, to allow me to speak with Miss Bailey. It's your case and she's a suspect in it, but if you'd like me to sit on my backside and watch John finish the pizza‒"
‒the doctor looked up, helping himself to a third slice‒
"‒then on your head be it." Sherlock finished. He sat primly on the edge of the cot next to John, staring pointedly at the wall. The doctor licked a bit of grease off his finger and glanced at Lestrade.
"Oh for fuck's sake." Lestrade let out an exasperated sound and walked away. Moments later the cell door clicked open and a smug grin spread over Sherlock's lips.
"I can give you five minutes." Greg growled, returning and pulling open the door. Sherlock stepped out and Lestrade pushed it until it was almost closed. No point in locking it, they were just going to be back soon. And it's not like John would bolt. "But first," Lestrade said, "let's go by my office…" They made their way up a flight of stairs. "The test results came back and we know the type of venom that killed Julia Roylott." Greg flipped the light on in his office and turned to the mountainous stack of papers on the desk and, like magic, pulled out a single sheet from the middle of the sloppy pile. He handed it to Sherlock.
"North American Coral Snake." Sherlock said, scanning the readout. "Micrurus fulvius." Narrowing his eyes, he strode off. Lestrade hurried after.
"I can't just let you wander." He said to Sherlock's raised brow. "You are under arrest….technically I should have you in handcuffs and on a leash." The detective gave him a look of equal parts horror and anger. "But my boss isn't here and I don't particularly want to, so I won't." They got to the holding cells in the basement and Lestrade produced some keys. "That five minutes starts now." He opened the door to the cells and Sherlock strode in.
"Mr. Holmes?" Alex was in the cell closest to the door and she stood up when he entered. They were alone in the temporary cell area and Alex looked tired and scared. She was wearing the same clothes Sherlock had seen her in when she was arrested, albeit more wrinkled. She was wearing one of The Republic's standard-issue prisoner collars: a heavy metal shackle. Sherlock knew from experience they were uncomfortable. Alex clasped the cell bars loosely and rested her forehead against the cool metal, taking a deep breath. "I didn't do it." She said.
"I believe you."
"Please…" she tugged a scrap of white paper out of her pocket and thrust it through the bars at him. Sherlock took it, a flutter of excitement in his belly at the prospect of new evidence. What he saw scribbled on the paper was far less exciting and far more depressing.
"It's my address and the names of my family in Massachusetts." She clutched the bars more tightly. "Please, Mr. Holmes…I need to contact them and I have no one else to turn to. I don't know, these cops and soldiers don't give a damn and I need to at least try, because if I get charged with Julie's murder I'm gonna get sold to the Republic and then they'll really never know what happened to me."
Her words were pragmatic, depressing as that was. He was mildly annoyed that this paper didn't contain a break in the case, but the part of him that had been enslaved for three years softened at her plight, moving even his socially distant heart to compassion. To Sherlock's horror, Alex was near tears as she stared at the piece of white paper in his gloved hand, Scotland Yard's letterhead across the top.
"I'll put my best man on it." Sherlock tucked the note in his pocket. "On the day you were arrested, you said something about getting rid of snakes?"
Alex nodded. "I've always had pet snakes—even as a kid. When I knew I was coming to London to study, I gave them away. My parents didn't really like them, and I didn't want them to have to deal with taking care of the snakes, so I got rid of them."
"What kind of snakes did you have?"
"Uh…A ball python, a coral snake, a corn snake—"
"A coral snake?" Sherlock repeated. "Like this?" He slid Lestrade's report through the bars and she took it, reading.
"Oh no." She whispered, her face going white. "I—Sherlock, I had this same species, but I swear I didn't have one here—in London—when Julie died!"
Sherlock snatched the paper back from her. "On the day you were arrested, where were you and Dr. Roylott coming from?"
"Just the store. He had just come back home the previous night."
"From where?"
"He was at a medical conference in…Vienna, er no, Vilnius I think…"
Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath. "Is there anything else you can tell me about the murder? Any clues, any changes in anyone's behavior? Think. Your freedom depends on it."
"No—Julie was happy—she had just gotten engaged."
"Engaged?" Sherlock interrupted. "She had no ring."
"She didn't wear it on her finger." Alex said. "She was kinda weird about the ring. I'd seen it around her neck on a chain, but she'd also keep it in her pocket and stuff too. I don't know why she didn't just wear it on her finger. She mentioned once that she didn't want to get mugged. You know, a thief would see the diamond and try to take it." Alex shrugged. "She might have had it on her when she died."
Sherlock filed away that bit of information.
"Hey…" She leaned closer to the bars, "can I tell you something?" She asked.
Sherlock slid his eyes to her, warily, half-expecting her to tell him that she found him really attractive or that he had a 'sexy voice' or something ridiculous like that.
"I think Doctor Roylott did it." Alex whispered. Sherlock relaxed minutely.
"Why is that?" He said.
"I don't know how, since he was gone, but I think it has something to do with that annuity—it makes sense, you know?"
"What annuity?" Sherlock hissed. "Explain it quickly and intelligently."
"I don't know a lot about it, something about if Julie or Helen gets married, Roylott stops getting money from their mother's estate. Julie mentioned it. She's dead now—their mother, I mean."
Sherlock's brows went up in interest.
"That's all I know about the annuity though. Ask Helen."
"I will." Sherlock turned and started striding for the exit, excited. New evidence!
"Wait!" She yelled.
Sherlock growled and turned around.
"Remember about my family!"
Sherlock nodded once and strode out the door. "Lestrade, John and I need to go to Bart's. Time is of the essence in this case."
"Tomorrow." Lestrade said. "Don't push it, Sherlock."
The detective scowled. Fine, he'd endure the one night in the cell, but first thing tomorrow, he and John were going to see if another one of his acquaintances survived The Fall.
