"Hey, you."
"You shouldn't be calling me on a Saturday," Maggie's sleepy voice responded.
"It's OK, Henry's gone to get a newspaper." Kate turned over on to her side, the mobile phone pressed to her ear. "Did I wake you?"
She could hear the smile in Maggie's yawn. "Anytime, babe, anytime." Her voice dropped lower. "Although I prefer the way you do it in person."
Kate shivered happily. "That was one hell of a weekend. I wish I could…"
There was a short silence. "Yeah, I know."
"So, what are you doing today?" Kate changed the subject.
"Well, there's always the postman," Maggie replied. "I'm sure he'd be up for it, he seems confident that he can convert me."
Kate giggled. "I know you took out a subscription to that lesbian lifestyle magazine just to wind him up."
"Diva is an excellent publication, I'll have you know. It has an extremely wide readership."
"Quite possibly, but they don't all specifically request that it NOT be delivered under plain cover."
Maggie laughed. "I think ringing my doorbell is the highlight of the poor man's day, he never even tries to use the slot."
"He's probably got a different slot in mind."
"Eww!" Maggie made a gagging noise. "Too far, Katie-baby, too far."
"Sorry."
"So what are you guys doing today?" Maggie asked, yawning again. Kate pictured her lying back in bed, stretching in that languorous way she had, with her long silky black hair trailing over her toffee-coloured skin...
"Mummy?"
Kate rolled over quickly as Alice appeared in the doorway, Peter Rabbit trailing behind her as usual, his crumpled left ear clutched tightly in her hand.
"Got to go…"
John stirred in his sleep with the feeling that something had disturbed him. He stretched, gradually realising that he must have nodded off on the sofa because he was now slumped in the corner, with one leg half across the seats and the other stretched out on the floor.
"Sherlock?"
"In here," Sherlock's grumpy voice came from the kitchen. "Looking for something to fix what you did to my head."
John levered himself up. "Why didn't you wake me when you went to bed?" he asked, rubbing his leg, which still seemed to be asleep. He limped into the kitchen, finding Sherlock rooting through the cupboards. His suit looked like yesterday's, although it was difficult to tell from the back, and his hair was completely wild. "Did you crash out too?"
"Where do you keep your hangover cures?" Sherlock demanded. He gave up on the 'Food Only' cupboard, noting the extensive array of jam despite John's claim only two days before that they had run out. "I know I've seen you drinking some noxious brew on these sorts of occasions. Where are they?"
He turned to face John, whose eyes widened abruptly. "What?" Sherlock challenged.
"Nothing," John denied. "Why don't you just try some paracetamol? They're in the bathroom cabinet."
He looked even more rumpled than usual, and was now biting his lip. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I know where the paracetamol are," he pointed out, sinking down onto one of the kitchen chairs. "Why don't you fetch some as it's you who did this to me?"
"Nobody forced you, Sherlock. It was your choice," John corrected. "Although, if I'd known what a complete lightweight you were, I might have given you less," he admitted.
Sherlock scowled. "Alcohol has never been my drug of choice."
"You don't say." John chuckled. "Mrs Hudson could knock back twice that amount and still balance her cheque book."
Sherlock raised a hand to his temple, wincing dramatically. John rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said, going to retrieve the medication, then filling a mug with water. He put both on the table. "Would you like me to swallow them for you as well?"
Sherlock looked up and John's lips twitched again as he moved round the table and sat down opposite.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
"Fine," Sherlock snapped, knocking back the pills.
"Not like you to go to bed in your clothes," John observed. "You must have really been out of it."
"Obviously."
"But you slept all right," John said again. "Had a comfortable night, in fact."
Sherlock stared at him. "What is the matter with you?"
"Why don't you go and have a shower?" John suggested. "It will do you good."
"If the alternative is to sit here and be repeated at, I may as well," retorted Sherlock, getting to his feet and stalking to the bathroom, with what sounded suspiciously like a giggle echoing behind him.
He turned on the shower, then stripped, dropping his distastefully wrinkled clothing on the floor. The initial glance he cast at the mirror was fleeting but then he froze, stepping closer and turning his head to see the fading, but still clearly visible, impression of John's jumper which was all down the side of his face. The pattern was unmistakeable. Sherlock closed his eyes and groaned.
"You all right in there?" John's voice could barely contain its mirth.
"Go away." Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face. It was extremely unusual for him to wake up with a hangover, but waking up with a hangover and a faceful of woolly jumper had been a complete first. The sole relief in the situation had been the fact that John was still asleep and Sherlock had been able to extract himself without waking him, although any sensible person would be able to tell that their lap had been used as a pillow for – he examined his face again – several hours at least.
"We will not speak of this," he said firmly, with sufficient volume for John to hear him over the chuckling from the other side of the door.
"No, we won't," John agreed, his tone calmer now. "I'm not out to embarrass you, don't worry."
There was a pause, but Sherlock had the uneasy feeling that there was more to come.
"Except to say…" The giggle was back in John's voice, which did not bode well. "You're turning into quite the cuddler."
Sherlock threw the nailbrush at the door.
oOo
True to his word, John made no further reference to their unusual sleeping arrangements and there was a coffee ready and waiting for Sherlock when he eventually reappeared, looking much more like himself. "So what's the plan for today?" John asked, handing him the mug. "Anyone you need me to shoot for you?"
Sherlock's lips twitched as he took the drink. "Not so far," he replied, then quirked a brow. "But I've not been out yet." They grinned at each other. "Right," Sherlock announced. "There's something wrong in these photographs – come and have a look." He led the way to the fireplace and indicated the ones he had been studying the previous day, before Sally had derailed everything.
After ten minutes of searching, John gave up and went to make a late breakfast, managing to get some scrambled eggs into Sherlock by telling him it was a hangover cure. He had just finished washing the dishes when there was an exclamation from the living room.
"When do you change your watch?" Sherlock called through to him. "When the clocks go back, at what point do you adjust your watch?"
John put the tea towel down and joined him. "You mean when British Summer Time ends?" he clarified. Sherlock nodded impatiently. "Well… this year, as I recall, I was being dragged through a sewer when the clocks officially changed at two a.m., so I think I did it later in the day."
"But normal people," Sherlock expanded. "When do normal people do it?"
John wasn't sure if his exclusion from this category was an insult or a compliment, but he answered the question. "Well, back in my life B.S.H.," he started, ignoring Sherlock's eye roll, "I would usually do it the night before, when I got ready for bed. Otherwise, I'd do it first thing in the morning, or as soon as I put the TV on and found it showing different programmes to the ones I expected."
"That's what I thought," Sherlock declared happily. He snatched one of the photos off the wall and tucked it into his jacket pocket. "Come on, then!" He picked up John's coat and tossed it to him. "Let's go and find you something to blog about."
"What are you doing?"
"Right now, my love? I'm teasing myself with a feather boa and thinking of you…"
"You are not!" Kate protested, giggling into her phone.
"Fine. I'm cleaning the bathroom and debating whether to paint my toenails all the same colour or whether to do them two-tone. When this exciting programme of events has been concluded, I'm going to make some lunch – then I might re-think the feather boa situation."
"I miss you, Maggie," Kate sighed. "This is so hard! Especially after the other weekend – it was wonderful, but in a way it's made things more difficult."
"You sound as if you regret it." Maggie's voice was a little wary.
"Never! No, don't think that," Kate insisted immediately. "I can't regret it. Not even when I know I should."
There was silence on the other end of the line.
"Maggie?" Kate prompted. "Maggie, I'm sorry, I don't mean to suggest…"
"That I'm a dirty little secret?" Maggie's tone was wry. "The evil seducer, trying to lure you away from your husband and child?"
Kate leaned forward on her stool, resting her elbows on the kitchen counter but keeping an eye on the window. "You didn't have to lure me," she reminded. "You were just there, that was enough." She exhaled, shaking her head. "I still don't know what happened," she admitted.
"Eyes meeting across a crowded room?" Maggie suggested, her voice lighter. "Or across a defunct vending machine, in our case." She laughed. "You did ask me for change, if you remember – no use complaining now that discovering you're bisexual wasn't exactly the change you had in mind."
Kate smiled; Maggie could never be serious for long. "Did you see the news?" she asked. "What are you going to do tomorrow?"
"Apart from my scheduled world domination, you mean?"
"You know perfectly well what I mean. You live on your own and work in an office. That puts you at risk, according to that rather dishy looking policeman on the telly."
"Dishy? Do people still say 'dishy'?" Maggie queried. "You sound like my mother!"
"Don't change the subject." Kate could be tenacious when she wanted to be. "Why don't you go round to Tony's for the day?" Maggie groaned heavily, but Kate ploughed determinedly on. "He works in an office too, and he lives alone – it would be safer for both of you."
"You won't be able to phone me if I'm with my brother," Maggie warned. "I'll never hear the end of it if he finds out about you, he'll be absolutely disgusted."
Kate's fingers had almost reached her mouth before she remembered Maggie's feelings about bitten nails. She looked at her hand for a moment, then tucked it under her leg and sat on it. "Because I'm married, you mean?" she asked quietly.
"What? Oh, no, not that," Maggie replied quickly. "Because I brought you over to the dark side, is what I mean. I can just hear him now." She lowered her voice to a low grumble. "Aren't there enough women lost to your cause already, without you going around turning the straight ones?" She resumed her normal tone. "He'll go on and on – it's not worth it."
Kate laughed, then movement outside the window caught her eye. "I'll have to go in a minute, sweetheart, they're on their way back." Henry was carrying Peter Rabbit as they made their way down the street, Alice holding on to the little finger of his other hand. She was swinging the empty bread bag, so it looked as if 'Operation Duck Feeding' had been a success. "I wish you would meet Alice, you'd love her."
"She's your daughter; of course I would love her. But do you really think we'd be convincing as 'just friends'?" Maggie asked. "Children pick up on a lot, even at only four years old, and if I meet Alice, I'll end up meeting Henry – you said he wasn't a stupid man…"
"He's not stupid at all," agreed Kate. "You're right, I know you're right, he would definitely realise something was up if he saw us together." She sighed. "He doesn't deserve this, I hate deceiving him."
Maggie was silent.
"But I'd hate losing you more," Kate added quickly. "I'm sorry, babes. I keep putting my foot in my mouth today - you know I love you."
"I know. But you love Alice and Henry too," Maggie pointed out. "And so you should."
"I guess if there was an easy answer, we would have thought of it by now," Kate agreed. "They're almost here – will you go to Tony's tomorrow?"
"I'll think about it."
"Maggie! Don't think I can't translate that, because I recognise a 'No' when I hear one. You've not heard the last of this!"
"Bye, darling…"
"Mr Holmes!"
Sherlock and John were crossing the foyer at Scotland Yard when Constable Hopkins trotted up.
"I got it," the young man hissed as he drew nearer, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. "I got the watch!" His tone and demeanour would have been more suited to the phrase 'nuclear launch codes' than to the word 'watch'.
"Good man," said Sherlock, and John feared having to deal with some kind of seizure as Hopkins' excitement approached vibrato levels. "Let's have a look at it."
Hopkins produced the evidence bag, handing it over with a flourish clearly copied from his hero. Sherlock held it up to the light and smiled. "Excellent," he said, pocketing the bag. "Right, I need laptops, mobile phones, records of landline calls, and details of interviews with anyone who interacted with the victims on the day before they were killed."
"The day before?" queried Hopkins. Sherlock raised a brow. "Sorry, Sir. Yes, Sir. Er… for all of them?"
"Indeed," Sherlock replied, already making his way to the stairs. "I'll text you where to bring them."
John followed him. "You're not going to get him in trouble are you?" he asked Sherlock as they climbed. "And I assume you texted him on the way here - how do you have his number, anyway?"
"He contacted me earlier in the week offering his assistance," Sherlock replied. "Got my number off the website. I'm not getting him into trouble – he asked for it."
"Even so, what will Lestrade say when you turn up with that watch?" John persisted. "It's supposed to be in evidence."
Sherlock started taking the steps two at a time. By the time John emerged from the stairwell, the swirl of Sherlock's coat was just disappearing into Lestrade's office. He followed, seeing a look of profound relief pass over the D.I.'s face at his arrival.
Lestrade flushed, realising that his reaction had been too obvious. "Sally said there'd been a row," he explained apologetically, his gaze moving from John to Sherlock. "I wasn't sure if…" he waved a hand between the two of them.
"John and I are together," Sherlock said firmly, reaching into his pocket.
Lestrade's eyebrows rose as John raised a hand to his face and shook his head despairingly. Lestrade heard some muttered words, but could only make out 'never' and 'laid'.
"Together?" he echoed doubtfully.
Sherlock waved a hand at him impatiently. "Look at this," he demanded, proffering the photograph that he had brought with him.
Lestrade took it. "Black and female - that's presumably Philippa Saunders, or her arm at least," he said. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"
"Her watch," Sherlock prompted. "And the time stamp printed on the corner of the photograph."
Lestrade did as he was bid, while John moved round the desk to peer over his shoulder. "So, there's an hour's discrepancy," Lestrade acknowledged. "The time in the camera could be wrong."
"I think not," Sherlock disagreed, but he kept the evidence of this claim in his pocket. "Her watch is an hour ahead."
"It's still on British Summer Time," John acknowledged, relieved that Sherlock wasn't waving the proof of Hopkins' activities around the office.
"Exactly," confirmed Sherlock. "I think he's getting to the victims much earlier than we had thought," he explained. "Philippa Saunders was killed on the 31st of October, which is the day the clocks changed, but she hadn't put her watch back, which she would have been likely to do first thing in the morning or even the night before. I want to check what they were doing on the Saturdays."
"How?" asked Lestrade.
"I need access to some of the evidence. Perhaps Hopkins could bring it to... where? Incident room?"
Lestrade shrugged his agreement.
"I'll text him," Sherlock said, already tapping away on his phone.
Lestrade left the three of them building up a timeline, with John ploughing through phone records, Sherlock flitting around everything and Hopkins apparently overjoyed to do his bidding, although Lestrade was intrigued to note, on one of his frequent progress checks, that Hopkins seemed equally happy to take orders from John, almost as if he regarded him as an extension of Sherlock rather than as a rival for his attention. Lestrade stood in the doorway and watched as John held out a sheet of paper just as Sherlock reached for it, neither of them looking round. Their set-up, whatever it might be, was truly fascinating from a psychological standpoint.
By five o'clock, the whiteboard held a list of names, times and events, all printed in Hopkins' neat block capitals. There were areas with Sherlock's squiggles, but they each had clear translations underneath. Lestrade gazed across at it. "So what do we have?" he asked.
Sherlock was busy with his phone but he held up a finger, which didn't slow down his typing at all. Lestrade waited, taking in John seated at the desk on Sherlock's right and Hopkins hovering to his left.
"Right," Sherlock started, turning to the board. "The most recent victim updated her Facebook page at twenty past four on the Saturday afternoon before she was killed. No record of any interaction after that."
He looked down to the next name. "Number Three is hopeless. Didn't see anyone on the Saturday, didn't speak to anyone, no computer, nothing." He shook his head in disgust at the victim's unhelpfulness, then moved on.
"Number Two spent the afternoon on-line, but her browser history shows no activity after five forty-five."
He moved down to the last name. "Number One is the most interesting." He looked around and smiled. "At five minutes past six he made a call to a local pizzeria, a number that he dialled regularly."
"But they have no record of him placing an order that day," inserted Hopkins eagerly.
"And the call only lasted…" Sherlock looked to John, who flicked through the records in front of him.
"Eight seconds," he reported.
Sherlock raised both hands. "Do you see?"
Lestrade looked blank. Sherlock groaned. "Oh, come ON! Eight-second phone call - did he suddenly lose his appetite? What made him hang up?"
"Doorbell?" ventured Lestrade.
"Hallelujah!" exclaimed Sherlock patronisingly. "Doorbell. Thank you." He glanced at the screen of his phone then reached to take the marker pen from Hopkins, who promptly thrust it behind his back.
"Er, should I do the writing, Sir?" he suggested. John sniggered and Sherlock threw him a look.
"Fine," he answered Hopkins, turning his back on John and waving his arm imperiously. "Write these times next to each name, starting with the last victim." He looked at his phone, then recited, "Four fifteen; four twenty-six; five thirty-eight; five fifty-two." He looked up at the board. "Good."
Hopkins beamed, while Sherlock waited in vain for anyone to make a connection. Eventually he sighed. "Sunset in London on those days," he explained. "Look at the pattern." He frowned in thought as a new idea occurred to him and he started checking his phone again. "I think this killer may be crepuscular," he announced.
"Crepus-what-er?" echoed Lestrade.
"Crepuscular: pertaining to twilight," offered Hopkins. "Not vampires," he added quickly, to Sherlock's obvious confusion. "I mean active at dusk and dawn, like dogs and rabbits," he finished.
Sherlock ignored the odd reference, confident that John would explain it if he needed to know. "Consider," he said. "If it was the killer who interrupted the first victim's phone call, that was thirteen minutes after sunset, and the cessation of activities for two of the others would indicate a similar pattern." He tapped his index fingers against his bottom lip thoughtfully. "It's brilliant, actually - just getting dark enough to make identification more difficult if anyone sees him, but not yet fully night when people are more on guard about opening their door to a stranger."
Lestrade thought about it. "OK, I can see the logic for him getting in at dusk on the Saturdays, but the last victim at least wasn't killed until well after dark on the Sunday, so he must be leaving during the night."
"Must he?" Sherlock queried. "We've already made one wrong assumption about his timings, let's not rush into another, hmm?"
"Crepuscular means dawn as well," pointed out Hopkins. "And he does seem to want to spend the weekend with them. Arriving at dusk on the Saturdays, not killing them till Sunday night - with the exception of the mistake - what if he's staying until the Monday mornings?"
"It's worth considering," added John, causing Lestrade's head to turn again - it was as if Sherlock had his very own backing group. "If he's so careful when he arrives then he could be the same when he leaves. A man exiting the scene of a crime in the dead of night might be noticed and remembered, but in the early dawn there's enough activity to blend in, and the light level is still low."
Lestrade shook his head at the triple act, then his eyes moved to the clock on the wall with a feeling of trepidation. "So if he's found another victim for this weekend..." he started.
Sherlock looked out of the window at the darkening night. "Yes," he confirmed, his tone grim. "That would mean he's already with them."
"Maggie, will you pick up your damned phone?" Kate pulled her mobile away from her ear for a moment and glared at it. "Have you got your headphones turned up to eleven again?" she demanded in the most forceful whisper she could manage. "Look, I'm phoning you from the bathroom, again. Henry must think I've got the runs or something." She waited, but could hear only her own breathing as it filled up Maggie's voicemail. "I'll have to go. It's eight-thirty now; I'm going to try again in an hour or so, OK?" Kate stood for a moment longer, gazing blankly at her own reflection and seeing the worry in her green eyes. "Please pick up then, Maggie. I love you."
oOo
"This is the last message I'm leaving, Magdalena Harris! It's half-past nine - if I haven't heard from you by ten o'clock I'm coming over – I don't care what sort of excuse I have to make, I'll think of something." Kate paused, her fingers squeezing her mobile phone too tightly. "I didn't mean that I regretted being with you, before; you know that, right? I just... Look, just let me know you're OK. Text me." She thought for a moment. "Or call me. I know I say don't call me when Henry's here, but call me, all right? I... Are you angry? Did I upset you? I know you act all cool and self-possessed, but you do get upset, I know you..." Her words died away. "Half an hour, Maggie, I'm serious."
oOo
"Oh, Thank God! Maggie - you really scared me." Kate pressed the phone to her ear, relief coursing through her body.
"Sorry, babes. I'm still here."
"Are you OK? You sound weird." Kate lay back on her bed.
"I'm fine. Where are you?"
"I came upstairs, said I had some letters to write. Really, I've just been thinking up excuses for going out at this time of night if you didn't call." Kate sighed. "What have you been doing? Were you angry? I'm sorry about what I said."
"Don't worry. I just turned the ringer off when I had a bath and forgot to switch it back on again - sorry I scared you."
"Oh, my GOD!"
"I know. I'm sorry, babes. Listen, I'm going to take your advice and go to Tony's tomorrow, so don't phone me, OK?"
"I think that's for the best. I know it might not be the most exciting day you'll ever have, but at least you'll be safe, right?" There was no response. "Look, I'd best get back downstairs. What are you doing tonight?"
Maggie made an odd noise. "Oh, nothing special," she said. "I'm pretty tired, so an early night, I think. Might wash my hair." She sounded a little out of breath.
"Are you all right? You seem a bit... off."
"Just tired."
"OK, I'll phone you on Monday, all right? And I can't believe your stunt with the ringer - I've been worried to death. Don't you ever do that again!"
There was a short silence.
"I won't."
