A/N: Once again, my deepest appreciation goes out to everyone following this story.
Fellow Smegheads (AKA Red Dwarf fans) will recognise a line in this chapter from one of the first scenes of S1, Ep1 "The End". I couldn't help myself.
SHSHSHSHSH
Chapter 10: The Smoking Chicken
For the second time in Sherlock's relatively short tenure there, Sally Donovan found herself turning up on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street in latex gloves and a severely bad mood. Lestrade hadn't had as long to collect volunteers for his 'drugs bust' this time; in the end, it was just the DI, Donovan, a very shifty looking Anderson and a couple of uniforms.
Something's definitely wrong with Keith today… I'm not sure if it was the public dressing down from Lestrade or the apology he had to make to Watson, but he's been acting very jumpy; keeps looking round as if he expects to be followed. Someone tapped him on the shoulder at the flat crime scene and he jumped so badly he almost did a header into the bath on top of the corpse.
As before, the door was answered by the slightly dotty elderly landlady, whom Sally couldn't help feeling sorry for. The poor woman must have some kind of dementia or something; why else would she be so happy to rent a flat to Sherlock Holmes? I know for a fact his last landlady in that rat hole on Montague Street was a lush who was barely conscious long enough to collect the rent every month, let alone notice what the Freak did to the place. And even she kicked him out on his arse after six months.
"Hello again, Mrs Hudson," Lestrade said wryly.
"Inspector Lestrade," she all but cooed, patting hastily at her hair. "Here to see Sherlock again, are we?"
"'Fraid so. He in?"
"I don't think so, dear; he and John went out early and I haven't seen either of them since. You know how he gets when there's a nice juicy murder on. Would you like to come in and wait?"
A nice juicy murder? Oh, God; either that sweet little old lady is the most unlikely serial killer who ever lived or whatever's wrong with John Watson is turning into an epidemic. At the moment, I'm not sure which option is the more frightening.
"Wait for what?" A familiar posh baritone chipped in as the man himself elbowed his way through the police ranks to reach his door.
"You, you utter…" Lestrade hesitated, with a glance at Mrs Hudson. Sally could almost see him mentally deleting profanities from the rest of the sentence and finding absolutely nothing left. "…Sherlock," he decided on eventually. In that tone, it might as well have been an expletive. "How many times do I have to tell you? You can't just run off with evidence whenever it takes your fancy!"
"I did not run off, Lestrade; I went to Bart's labs to analyse the residue in the bottle. Mass spectroscopy is a significantly less time consuming process when Anderson is removed from the equation."
"And collecting evidence that's admissible in court is significantly easier when you don't nick it before forensics even get to the scene," the DI snapped back tartly.
"It's hardly my fault that they're slow, is it?" Sally could feel Anderson bristling at her shoulder at that one. "Are you faking another drugs bust, or do you have an actual reason to be here this time?"
"We're here to get our bloody evidence back, Sherlock; gimmie the bottle and I'll have no need to search the place. I'd prefer not to have to disturb John, but I will if you force me to."
"Oh! Is the doctor feeling poorly again?" Mrs Hudson chipped in. "D'you think he'd benefit from one of my herbal soothers? They do wonders for my dicky hip…"
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson, I'll mention it to him when he wakes up," Sherlock replied, heading inside to the stairs. "You lot might as well come in, I suppose; John has no tolerance for opioids. A single dose knocked him flat for a good six hours last time, he won't hear a thing. Mind the tray at the top of the stairs," he added casually, as he shed his coat and bounded up them. "I've spent almost a week collecting data on that pig's brain, I will be most unhappy if some moronic policeman manages to tread in it."
With a noticeable shudder, Sally stepped into the chaos that was Sherlock's living room and looked around in vain for any evidence that another man lived there too.
The place is a bit tidier than I remember… and there's some washing up on the draining board that looks like it should belong in an actual kitchen rather than a mad scientist's laboratory. The rest of it, though… The cow skull, the stuffed bat, the heaps of books and papers spilled across the floor… How could anyone possibly stand to live like this?
"Come on, Sherlock; hand it over," Lestrade ordered in his most authoritative tone, holding out a hand expectantly. "Let's not waste any more time than we have to."
"You're the one wasting time, Lestrade, not me. Here." Sherlock produced an evidence bag from his pocket and slapped it into the waiting palm. "You might as well have it; I'd finished with my analysis anyway. Honestly; if you feel the need to turn the flat over every time I take a case for you it's going to greatly undermine my efficiency."
Something caught Sally's eye on the coffee table between a mug of cold tea and a large book entitled 'Isomorphism and Crystallography in Feldspathoid Minerals.'
"Freak, is that a gun on your table?" She blurted.
"No, it's a chicken," Sherlock deadpanned absently.
Hastily, the nervous Anderson donned a latex glove and picked it up, examining it closely.
"It's real…" he checked the slide gingerly, a blissful, wondering expression crossing his heavily plastered features. "And it's loaded."
I don't think I've ever seen Keith look that happy. And isn't that a blow to my ego.
"Well, well, well; Sherlock Holmes, you're in really big trouble now," Anderson smirked as he allowed the weapon to dangle from his finger by the trigger guard. "Because even if handguns were legal, I sincerely doubt anyone would give a freak like you a firearms licence."
"I don't need one," Sherlock said dismissively.
"Don't need one?" Sally exclaimed. "Of course you do; the law applies to everyone, Freak, you included."
"Possession of an unlicensed firearm is a serious offence, Sherlock," Lestrade interjected reluctantly. "I can't just ignore it…"
"Idiots, the lot of you! Can you not observe even the most basic of facts? I'm astonished you haven't all walked out under buses by now, the way you miss the utterly obvious right before your eyes!"
"Now just you wait a minute…" Anderson replied hotly.
In the midst of the ensuing argument, the arrival of John stumping blearily down the stairs looking rumpled (in a way that didn't make him look like an adorable sleepy five year old at all, and she'd swear to it in court if she had to) went almost completely unnoticed. Almost.
"And what are you doing conscious?" The Consulting Detective demanded, in the same breath as a particularly scathing comment about Keith's mental capacity. "I told you to take your medication!"
"You also said you'd be needing me again later, Sherlock," John replied, completely unfazed, voice a touch rough from sleep. Oddly enough, Anderson flinched heavily at hearing the doctor's mild tones and stepped behind the closest PC as if using him as a human shield. Weird; Keith definitely wasn't that bothered by Watson at the Yard… What could have changed since then?
"I do know a thing or two about prescription drugs, you know," John continued. "I cut down the dose to make sure I'd have a clear head. What's he done this time, Lestrade?"
"He stole evidence from a crime scene; again," the DI informed him, rolling his eyes.
John's brow furrowed. "A crime scene? I thought you were just going to talk to the victim's wife, or did I miss something important?" Does it count as proof of insanity that he seems disappointed to have missed out on a crime scene?
"Not much," Sherlock replied, his harsh features softening slightly as he explained. "Found her dead when we got there; I hoped it might be connected to the murder, but after my chemical analysis of the residue in the medication bottle, I'm afraid it turned out to be a dreadfully dull common or garden suicide."
"You can't possibly know for certain that she killed herself," Anderson scoffed, carefully keeping the PC between himself and Watson. "A husband and wife don't just turn up dead within forty eight hours of one another without there being some link…"
"Anderson, just being punched in the face does not give you licence to be even more insufferably idiotic than usual, no matter how frightened of John it's made you," Sherlock snapped. "It's perfectly possible for married couples to die in separate incidents in quick succession. Mr Agini was deliberately poisoned with Atropine; Mrs Agini took a massive self-administered overdose of prescription antidepressants. No link whatsoever, merely coincidental timing."
"How could you tell?" Asked John interestedly.
"Very easily. It was obvious that the flat had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life a few hours before we arrived; the level of cleanliness was frankly disturbing and there was a lingering aroma of cleaning products. There was no food whatsoever in the fridge, nothing perishable like fruit or vegetables anywhere, not even milk. Bins were freshly emptied, likely she threw it all away knowing it would only go off. Obviously she'd done the work herself; her hands were rough and reddened from chemicals and immersion in water as well as physical effort."
"Then there was her clothing; that dress was at least ten years out of fashion and too tight and yet she chose put it on this morning, despite it having been untouched in her wardrobe for years, judging from the stretch of the shoulders caused by the coat hanger. Perhaps it was her favourite; or perhaps held some sentimental significance. Difficult to tell at this point. Then there's the makeup; clumsily applied, she's not used to wearing it. She wanted to make herself attractive before she died, which again implies that she knew it was coming, at least."
"There were no bruises or contusions on the body, am I right?" Anderson's slightly stunned expression made it obvious that he was. "And no evidence of anyone else in the flat at the time. The pills she took were all prescribed to her, but she must have been stockpiling them for the attempt. My analysis on the residue in the medication bottle confirmed it to have contained fluoxetine, just as it says on the label. More commonly known as Prozac; not tampered with in any way. So, clean flat, best dress, prescribed antidepressants, and judging from the pristine state of her home, I would guess she suffered from a mental disorder. Obsessive-compulsive at the very least, probably. Couldn't be anything but a suicide."
"Amazing," John praised warmly, with a fond smile at his flatmate. Briefly, Sherlock looked even more pleased with himself than usual.
Urgh… I think I'm going to puke. Watson's actually encouraging the Freak to enjoy the tragic suicide of a mentally ill beaten housewife as if it were entertainment.
Sherlock arched his neck as proudly as any racehorse. "And as if that wasn't enough, there's the ash in the fireplace," he added, excessively casual.
"Ash?" Lestrade interrupted. "I thought you said it had been cleaned?"
"Oh, it had, but it proved impossible to remove all trace of the ash from the moulded plastic fake coals of the gas fire. A very specific type of ash; she'd been burning paper."
"Paper?" Sally rolled her eyes. "Of course; why didn't I think of that? Setting fire to an overdue gas bill obviously means she killed herself."
"It wasn't a gas bill, Donovan, I've done numerous studies on the properties of various types of ash and the texture was all wrong. No, it was good quality, heavy gauge paper, high fibre content; such as the type used by, for example, solicitors." Anderson winced. His nose must be really bothering him, Sally thought. "Now why would a woman so intensely houseproud want to mess up her home by burning papers in the gas fire?"
"Getting rid of evidence?" Lestrade suggested.
"Obviously; but evidence of what?"
"You said they were separated… divorce papers?" Hazarded John.
"Exactly!" Sherlock crowed, in delight. "Mrs Agini decided she couldn't face a divorce, so she burned the papers to get rid of the evidence, cleaned the flat to her idea of perfection, put on her best dress and downed a massive overdose of antidepressants. Suicide, cut and dry."
"D'you think she's the one who killed her husband, then, and then topped herself?" The DI enquired logically.
"Of course she didn't, Lestrade," Sherlock all but snarled, long arms flailing uncontrollably in frustration at the stupidity of everyone else. "Honestly, do at least try to engage what brain cells you have before you open your mouth in my presence. Where would a beaten housewife get hold of atropine, and even if she could how would she know what to do with it? No, the wife is a dead end; her death is entirely incidental to her husband's. When are we going to the haulage company?"
"We aren't going anywhere, Freak," Sally snapped. "Except back to the Yard to get you locked up where you belong!"
"You're arresting Sherlock?" John interceded in surprise. "Why, what for?"
"We found a gun, John," Lestrade told him, not without sympathy.
"And guess who doesn't have a licence for it?" Sally gloated.
"Well, of course he doesn't," John said, brow furrowing. "It's mine."
"Yours?" Anderson spluttered, suddenly looking unaccountably nervous.
"Yes. I do live here too, you know."
"Thank you, John, for pointing out that incredibly obvious fact, which the combined intellects of five of New Scotland Yard's finest proved completely incapable of grasping." Sherlock declared triumphantly.
"What the hell is a bloke like you doing with a gun?" Asked Donovan incredulously. "You're just trying to take the flak for the freak, aren't you?"
"What flak? It's my army service pistol, and I'm still, technically, Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," John explained blithely. "I'm trained and licensed to use hand weapons up to and including a small RPG; the worst you could charge me with is improper storage. You can check the registration number on the barrel if you don't believe me."
"Somehow, I sincerely doubt the army lets every bloke who gets sent home from Afghanistan take a gun home with them," Sally responded suspiciously.
"Well, not ordinarily, no. But I just happened to be the surgeon who saved the life of the nephew of the bloke responsible for taking it off me, so he got a bit… creative… with the paperwork. Don't worry, I wouldn't trust Sherlock with it; I'm not stupid."
"Bloody glad to hear it," replied Lestrade with feeling, fixing John with an oddly intent stare, as if he were trying to convey some deeper message. The doctor met his gaze steadily, expression almost suspiciously neutral.
Donovan rolled her eyes. And having a deadly weapon in the hands of a bloke loopy enough to live with Holmes is so much better…
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SLIGHT EDIT here, thanks to all the lovely helpful reviews provided by people who actually know something about gun licensing laws. I'm certain soldiers aren't actually allowed to take their guns home with them, but hopefully the paperwork-fudge excuse is enough for the purposes of fanfiction.
And now, on to the epically long-awaited new chapter...