BBC Sherlock: Death Wish

Chapter 10: Progress

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Winnie's recorded account was disturbing even for Dr. Dana Rath who had heard it before. Although her eyes welled with tears, she quickly regained her composure. Excusing herself to resume rounds, she bid goodbye to the men and disappeared down the hall.

However, hearing it for the first time was a decidedly souring experience for Detective Inspector Gareth Bane. Bane's face grew paler behind his drooping grey moustache. His eyes had become introspective, brooding, as if an old wound had been reopened.

Where John felt sympathy for the shocked DI, Sherlock understood Bane's reaction. For the first time he could grasp it not just intellectually but on an emotional level. This was due to his own experience with disturbing revelations not so long ago that drew up raw emotions. While Sherlock conceded there were some painful parallels with his childhood—learning the truth about Victor and Eurus had been traumatizing—this was neither the time nor place to dwell on strangling sentiments about lost affections. "Work was the best antidote to sorrow," Sherlock had once told Mrs. Hudson after Mary had died. Sherlock assumed the same should be true for Bane. To push past the emotional context, the DI needed to focus on the larger scheme—going to Mearcstapa—and Sherlock decided to lend his assistance with all the delicacy of a sledge hammer.

"You should have no objection, Bane, to our collaborating with you," Sherlock asserted, barely able to contain his eagerness, "on your little expedition to the Cain's home, especially since my assistance has furthered your investigation."

Sherlock's audacious insertion into the Cain investigation, his overbearing enthusiasm, and his word choices triggered Bane. He turned with a snarl on Sherlock."This is no little expedition, Mr. 'Olmes, just 'cause it's not in London!" While earlier, Sherlock's insights and perceptions about Rath had annoyed Bane, especially as he had missed them entirely, now he was livid with Sherlock's bald presumptions and the aspersions he was casting on the effectiveness of the Constabulary. Despite Sherlock's helpful tip about Harmen G. Cain, the DI was neither grateful nor interested in having Sherlock take Winnie's case any further.

"This's a 'igh-risk campaign, and the Tactical Support Team I've assembled 'as drilled for years for this kind o' recovery mission in the Fens," Bane continued, resorting to tiresome and specious reasons to deny them access, "We expect to encounter an arsenal of defensive weapons upon infiltratin' the bog. You 'eard Bebe. 'E built traps all around… Your lack of trainin' disqualifies you both, and I'm not stakin' our success on two unknowns. It's too dangerous."

The Detective Inspector's outright dismissal was galling. Sherlock had fully expected to be granted the professional courtesy permitting John and him to accompany Bane's people on the first wave of maneuvers. They both had overheard Bane on his mobile speaking with the station, getting the superintendent to agree to launch a TST to penetrate Mearcstapa. They knew the report-time for the armed police officers under Bane's command would be the next morning at 0500 hours, two hours before sunrise. Bane was giving all his mission teams time to assemble and be briefed before they embarked so they could maximize daylight in what might be a multi-day operation.

Whether Bane spoke the full truth about the risks remained to be seen. It was possible the DI was exaggerating the perils and importance of such a mission. Sherlock had encountered this countless times with full-of-himself authorities like Bane. More often it had to do with the need to bolster someone's ego rather than with actual hazards.

"Lack of training, you say?" Sherlock replied with a smug snort. "My two years as an undercover operative in eastern Europe aside, Dr. Watson has had years of experience serving the British Army as a doctor—a surgeon in Afghanistan—and a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. A trained triage surgeon would be a complement to your ranks in this otherwise noncombatant operation, no?"

"No…" Bane replied stubbornly. "We didn't ask for your services, Mr. 'Olmes, and we're perfectly capable of 'andlin' it without you." He gave Sherlock an acid look. "Just when we're ready to close on this case, you show up. 'Avin' your name associated with this investigation makes it look like you solved it. We'll work it ourselves, glad to be able to say afterwards that this Constabulary doesn't require outside 'elp from any famous detective. I'd say your presence 'ere is rather inconvenient."

To John, Bane's remarks were not merely deterrents to keep outsiders away, they smacked of professional jealousy. To Sherlock, they screamed rank stupidity.

"Bebe told you 'ow she'd dunnit," the DI continued. "You've got what you came for. That should be all you need. Time to turn back."

The Fenshire District Hospital corridor was not a suitable location for an ongoing dispute, so the three men reconvened in the carpark where John found himself the intermediary, standing between two increasingly irritated detectives.

The change of venue, however, proved a good move. Within the confining hospital, Bane had been adamant against extending any kind of professional courtesy to Sherlock and John, but outside—where smoking was permitted—Bane had time to reconsider John's army career; his resolve softened. He conceded the value in having an ex-army surgeon volunteer for the maneuver. The snag arose when John would not participate without his partner.

"Okay, okay, Mr. 'Olmes, Dr. Watson. I will grant you 'official' consultant status to participate in the forensic detail," Bane tamped a near-empty pack of cigarettes, "on the condition that you work in complete collaboration with my police team." He removed a fag with his teeth and lips and swung a lighter to the cigarette's tip.

The rush of nicotine may have taken the edge off the DI, but along with Bane's authoritarian posturing, it only rekindled Sherlock's nicotine-deprived temper. John placed a restraining hand on Sherlock's arm, met the smoldering anger in his incandescent eyes and waited until Sherlock nodded grudging concession. "We'll cooperate," John stated calmly. "We've worked closely with the Met under similar restrictions."

"Fine," Bane exhaled in blue smoke, "Includin' you in this operation into Mearcstapa means you," Bane stabbed a stubby finger at Sherlock, "work within predetermined parameters—"

"—which are?" Sherlock countered in a tight voice.

"My forensic science investigators search the missin'-persons' angle to link Cain to the crimes of serial murder," Bane took another drag, "…and I'll let you two gather evidence to prove or refute Bebe's confession."

John arched his eyebrows and swiveled toward Sherlock for approval. "No arguments there," he replied for them both.

"There's more," Bane exhaled smoke through his nose. "I can't dismiss Bebe's testimony. I 'eard 'er claim to 'ave 'murdered' 'er 'usband. Yeah, I know, it took decades… poisonin' Cain's food … layin' traps for 'im.. Still, keep in mind this's a police investigation, not a publicity stunt to advance your reputation. Your blogged exploits might be pop'lar with some in the parish Constabulary, but I'm not one of 'em. Whatever samples you collect belong to the police."

"My work enhances the police's investigation," the chill in Sherlock voice gave John the shivers and the concern that a full-blown tantrum might be imminent. "I do not withhold the results of my lab analysis for personal gain."

"Your lab analysis? No, no, no," Bane shook his head, took another deep drag and tapped the ashes onto the ground. "You're just goin' to collect the evidence. All analysis work must be conducted through my police lab with my FSI teams."

Sherlock inhaled in disgust, catching a whiff of DI's cigarette smoke in the process. Winnie Cain's guilt or innocence were immaterial—she would never stand in the dock even if it could be proven she had murdered her husband. Sherlock found it illustrative of the lumbering nature of the police mind that Bane did not see this truth. Infuriated by Bane's control issues, he nearly launched into a string of insulting deductions about the man's private life and poor health, except the painful reminder of his overweening pride—Norbury!—held his tongue. Since the disastrous encounter with the stenographer Vivian Norbury, it was the byword to check his hubris. This vow to refrain from verbal provocations was being sorely tested by Bane's intransigence. Tempering his anger with cold logic, he swallowed his disappointment and resentment and distanced himself from his own motives. And though it ran counter to his every inclination, Sherlock rationalized that he could walk away from this investigation.

It was just that Winnie's case had drawn Sherlock's curiosity precisely because it had potential for fascinating forensic analyses. What he would find in the lab was the only part of this investigation that held Sherlock's interest. He had not admitted even to John how thoroughly he had been looking forward to testing the poisons and toxins he expected to recover from this field operation.

But John understood. He darted a conspiratorial "let-me-get-this" glance at Sherlock before turning to Bane with his disarming Watson grin—the deceptively pleasant one that veiled his irritation. "Sorry? Did I hear you correctly? Have your forensic labs never sent samples out for further analysis?"

Bane hesitated in mid puff, "…sometimes."

John shook his head and marshaled his argument.

Sherlock stepped back to enjoy the fireworks.

"Huh!" John leveled his gaze at Bane and pretended to be confused, "You're refusing an offer for in-depth analysis from a world-famous expert because? Let me guess…because you believe your local, overworked and understaffed lab can do the work better or more expediently… is that it?" There was no mistaking the sarcasm beneath his feigned politeness. "I find that strange," John confided with a shrug and offered the DI a bared-teeth smile. "I imagine your district has money to burn on overtime, then?"

Bane narrowed his eyes. "We do just the same as any parish Constabulary in the north. We're not the Met, but we manage…I'd say our operatin' 'xpenses don't concern you…"

"Yes. You're right. They don't. I get it. You do your best. You have integrity. …," John sighed but his facial expression was slipping from congenial to a pitbull frown. "What I don't bloody get is why you question the integrity and expertise of my friend—who has earned every one of his accolades, by the way, and some the public will never know about? So, if he follows the requisite chain of evidence, which no one does better, there's got to be a good reason—another reason—for you to refuse his forensic expertise, yes? Or is there?" Bristling now with indignation John didn't give Bane time to reply, "Actually, I don't think you have one, not a professional one, anyway!"

The DI took another deep drag in lieu of an answer.

Bane's sustained silence left John room to press on. "We can agree that a wise commander," John granted Bane the benefit of the doubt, "knows when to step back and assign his best men to do what they are trained to do. Sherlock Holmes is the best. This is not just in my opinion, but the world's. And, as the official forensic consultant for the Home Office and the Met, he has access to forensic labs used by MI5. Getting validation from a nationally renowned expert could only help your investigation."

The nicotine-fix may have worked its magic in getting Bane to agree with John's argument, because he was coming round. "Some samples then, not all," he insisted.

"Some, but the choice of samples is at my discretion," Sherlock stated in a neutral voice.

"Only some?" John pulled a bewildered face at Bane, but it was a setup in anticipation of the only remaining objection Bane might have, "at his fees?"

"—His fees?" Bane coughed on a mistimed inhale.

John cracked a sassy grin and glanced at Sherlock—there was a glint of amusement in the detective's eyes encouraging him to continue. "I still don't know how he does it, but Sherlock Holmes," John stated proudly, "isn't interested in financial compensation. There is no fee. On just a pecuniary basis, even your County's Head of Finance should have no objections to his assistance."

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It was a hard-fought battle, but they settled. Bane would make the arrangements with the specialized police teams to include Sherlock and John in the march to Cain's home deep in the marshes. Before he left, the DI gave them directions to a rendezvous point and reminded them to be prompt.

"Brilliant, John!" Sherlock crowed and gave a joyful leap once the DI had motored off and out of sight.

Although Sherlock was elated by their success in joining the next day's expedition, John's euphoria wore off immediately upon realizing what he had done. He had been a thoughtless father. He had completely forgotten his daughter—as if Rosie never existed—and had argued to extend their one-day excursion. Even though Sherlock had planned for a possible overnight stay, John had hoped one day was all they needed and regretted letting his sense of adventure totally carry him away. In his head he could hear Mary saying, "Nice one, John! No thoughts about Rosie, then?" John grimaced, "Sherlock—

"We have the rest of today to dig through the news archives and check police reports in Hunstanton about pets and livestock mutilations," Sherlock's spirits were soaring, his eyes bright in anticipation and he spun around several times with exuberance. "We can study charts and maps tonight—overnight lodgings shouldn't be a problem—and acquaint ourselves for tomorrow's operation from Holme Post into—"

"—Sherlock!" John's sharp tone stopped the detective from sashaying all the way to John's Audi.

"What now, John?" Exasperated, Sherlock swung round with a frown.

Now that he finally had Sherlock's attention, John became evasive. Avoiding eye contact he fetched his car keys from his jacket pocket and clicked the key fob at a distance to unlock the doors, but he made no move to go to the car; doubts immobilized him. "Hmmm. Seriously," he began, studying his feet, "why are we pursuing this? Bane's not wrong. Don't we know enough to tick this box off as 'solved?' It's a true horror story: the husband was some kind of maniac. He ate people. She was held in captivity. Rather than be eaten herself, she tried feeding him to death… nearly succeeded, case closed. I don't mean to sound unsympathetic—Winnie's chilling account is heart wrenching—but the sooner we can get away from this depravity, the better. Maybe we should head back tonight."

Jolted by this turnabout, Sherlock focused on his friend. He saw frustration in John's furrowed brow and read apprehension in his pursed lips. To stay and investigate had so clearly been John's desire moments ago when he strong-armed Bane. What had changed?

"Where's our first-hand evidence, John?" Sherlock was more surprised than annoyed. "All we have are the accounts—from albeit reliable second-hand sources—but until we collect samples from the actual crime scene, we don't know the degree of truth!"

"So, it's a curiosity thing. You're curious."

"Aren't you?"

"Yes, of course, but… well…" John trailed.

Sherlock stared at his friend, puzzled and at a loss as to how to proceed. "Is it the danger element...? I think we can discount that, given the strength and numbers that are going to be involved, John. Bane is likely marking his territory by puffing up his importance and the imagined perils of the investigation."

"Maybe. Or are we so caught up in this little adventure of ours, we're overlooking this clear and present danger in anticipation of visiting the so-called crime scene?"

Sherlock was rendered silent by John's question. John waited for a reply that was not immediately forthcoming.

"The unknown makes it more of an adventure, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock met John's patience with forced levity and a false-bravado smile.

John shook his downcast head, finally getting to the real reason for his change of heart. "I can't do it. I can't do this, anyway, Sherlock, not like before..." he admitted softly, "…as much as I want to. Rosie has to come first, not out of obligation, but because I love her." His lower lip quivered "The sad thing is that when I was arguing with Bane, I completely forgot about her. How pathetic is that? She has a bloody selfish bastard for a father."

Parenting: an unfathomable mix of unconditional love with guilt and obligation! Sherlock thought. It was both polarizing and paralyzing John. Grasping his friend's dilemma, Sherlock tried his best to feel on some level what John was experiencing, although it was well beyond him. But no matter what the detective wanted for them both, the decision to return to his daughter and resume the responsibility of parenting was John's.

"Selfish? No. Bastard?" Sherlock raked the gravel in the drive with his shoe and cleared his throat. "Never, and that talk would earn its speaker a hook to the jaw, but I see, John. Of course...return tonight, by all means. It's your call."

"Really?" John gave his friend a confused glance. He had not expected Sherlock to be reasonable. "What about you?"

"My returning with you to London tonight, especially as it takes three hours one way, is impractical. I also question whether you can be fresh for a 5.00 a.m. start time tomorrow in Holme National Reserve if you have to leave London at 2 a.m. I'll make other arrangements—I hear The Bull in Hunstanton has comfortable quarters—and get to the police rendezvous at the appointed hour." Sherlock stared at the hospital portico with narrowed eyes, but his neutral tone did not fool John. The detective was obviously disappointed.

"Hell!" John stomped on the ground and mulled balancing Rosie's needs with his desire to help Sherlock. "You did say this schedule of yours allowed for an overnight stay…"

"Two," Sherlock strolled off toward the Audi with hands clasped behind his back, "I built two overnights into the plan and got all parties to agree…of course, we were to keep them apprised…." Keeping ahead of his friend so as not to influence John with either a grin or grimace, Sherlock repeated over his shoulder, "It's your call, John."

"My call!" John's voice brightened. The second time he heard Sherlock's hint, it stuck. "I'll ring Erika…apprise her of our status."

"Good decision," Sherlock peered over the car's roof as John approached the driver's side. "How is it, John, that you can persuade an insufferably boorish detective inspector to relent in our favor but you cannot convince yourself to entrust your twenty-month-old to a reliable childminding network? Does that paradox not seem odd to you?"

"No. Not odd," John defended with a lopsided grin and opened the driver's side door, "I'm told it's normal."

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When she heard her father's voice Rosie gurgled delighted gibberish into the phone, allaying John's fears. Mimicking speech with conversational modulations, she babbled the words —birdie, banana, cheese, kitty, and park—in a jumbled mix expecting to be understood. Her "Dada byebyes" cued Erika to catch the phone before it dropped to the floor as the toddler wandered off.

"You see, Dr. Watson. All is well," Erika giggled. "Rosie's has asked for you, but now she's...content and off she goes to other things. Mrs. Hudson will come for afternoon tea and after dinner, bath and bedtime as usual." The childminder sounded confident and capable which did much to assure John that all was well. "Our routine is good... smooth. And tomorrow, we make several play dates …"

"Okay, Erika. Ring me if anything…ANYTHING…is amiss. You understand?"

"Will do."

Relieved, John swallowed down his residual worry. "I'll ring back at her bedtime so I can say goodnight."

"Yes! She'll love that."

"And … Erika,...thank you."

"No worries, please! Everything's under control."

When he rang off, John felt both certain that Rosie was being well-cared for and somewhat guiltier for enjoying his liberation.

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Sherlock came back to the car with two coffees, sandwiches and local maps. John did not wonder at the timing which coincided with him ringing off. The detective had not only suggested they stop at the mart off A149 for provisions when they were only halfway to Hunstanton but told John to wait in the car while he shopped, making it perfectly clear that John should ring home.

"Well?" Sherlock said when he climbed back into the car.

"All good," John smiled and accepted the chicken-salad sandwich Sherlock offered him. He suddenly had an appetite.

Motoring through the fenlands was akin to driving through a soggy cloud. The beading on the windscreen forced John to keep the fog lights on and the wipers running. A conscientious driver on a sunny day, John was more strict now about keeping his eyes front to compensate for the poor visibility as he focused on the roadway's vanishing act.

Whenever the haze parted, they caught mid-day vistas of flat farmlands and tidy rows of recently planted winter wheat in the scored black earth. Then the view would hide behind a veil of vapor as if a concealing curtain had been drawn to cover the secrets of the rural communities. Those long patches of fog would linger for stretches and then suddenly dissipate, revealing the occasional cottage flanked by mature, misshapen oaks. Sparse and battered by time and coastal turbulence, these hearty trees dotted the landscape in sharp contrast with the virtually unbroken horizon line. Then once again, this discovery of life and inhabitants was swallowed by a jealous fog, forbidding trespass.

Since they had left the mart, Sherlock had preoccupied himself with internet searches on his smartphone, occasionally sipping his coffee and taking a bite of his fried-fish sandwich. They had traveled nearly twenty minutes in mutual silence when he momentarily broke free of his concentration with an offhand comment, "What you did back there, John," he said without looking up from his mobile, "defending m—… in my defense... was… um...good. Very good. Also that 'wise-commander-steps-back' bit...was...impressive." Sherlock snorted a soft chuckle. "...Not saying you have a current commander, but still, the best man handled it brilliantly," Although Sherlock again retreated into his internet searches, his amused smile lingered for quite a while.

Savoring Sherlock's rare praise in silence, John smiled, too. You're welcome. Despite the conditions and terms Bane had set, Sherlock was not only satisfied, he was appreciative. Yes. It was all good.

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