Chapter 10- Dumb Luck
Rebecca was being very quiet and very nice lately, and John couldn't be the only one to notice.
She'd gotten the groceries twice, she hadn't insulted John's height at all, and she hadn't shown up at a single crime scene to embarrass her brother in a whole week. It made him nervous. That was why, when he was sitting at the kitchen table Monday morning, he was so relieved to hear this exchange.
"Fuck you," John heard Emma spit from the other end of the phone.
"Well, no, dear, you'd have to be here to do that."
"Oh. You think you're so fucking clever. Let's see how clever you are after spending a day on your own, then."
"You talk big, Emma dear, but you miss me already don't you?"
"Don't give yourself too much credit, asshole. I'll see you tomorrow."
"God damn it!"
The last yell was emphasized by a mobile shattering against the kitchen door frame.
"Rebecca, that's your third phone since rehab, we may have to get you into some sort of anger management program," Sherlock said evenly, not even looking up from his microscope. You could almost taste the sarcasm and contempt in his tone, and if this was anyone but Rebecca, John would have shot him a look.
"Oh, piss off, Sherlock," Rebecca hissed, standing in the doorway, hands planted tightly on her hips. She was bouncing with excitement and energy, trying to work the excess power out of her body. John had seen Sherlock do the same thing whenever he was bored, channeling his energy into those small, sharp movements.
"If you're bored, you could clean the kitchen, it is rather messy," the detective commented, switching slides. The only answer he got was a low growl, followed by Rebecca beginning her routine of countless pull-ups on the molding of the kitchen door.
How was that not broken yet?
"There's been another murder, John. With the flowers."
John racked his brain, trying to think. Flowers… what had to do with flowers…? Ah, yes. Victims were being found, poisoned by cyanide, with a flower in their mouth. Weird, strange, sadistic.
Sherlock was incredibly excited about it.
"Any ideas yet?"
"Four."
"Care to share any?"
"Actually, two."
"Are you even listening to me?"
"Probably more like a half of an idea."
"Bananas look like penises."
"Alright, I really don't know, but that' just because I haven't seen a body yet."
"Why do you keep a journal in your top left hand drawer? You don't use it."
"Maybe I could visualize better if… no that wouldn't work."
"Oh, look, Rebecca's thrown herself out of the window."
"Though all of them do seem to be… Oh! Yes! And the flowers! Of course!"
"It's truly spectacular the things you can ignore."
"Right, well, I don't know who did it, but I know why and how they're doing it. Also, John, No, I'm not, and yes, they do, you keep a condom in your wallet, don't you, no, she's just climbed to the roof, and yes, I am absolutely spectacular at ignoring people. Get your coat, we're leaving."
John froze, wondering how it was humanly possible to solve a crime and answer that many questions at once, then his mind froze on one phrase.
Why do you keep a journal in your top left hand drawer? You don't use it.
You keep a condom in your wallet, don't you?
"I'll have you know that that is there for emergencies only!"
"Of course it is. Now come along, John, or we're going to be late."
"If that prat doesn't stop just standing there, I'm going to pistol whip him."
Anderson giggled and Sgt. Donovan's remark and she smiled appreciatively, still looking dubiously annoyed as John, as usual, attempted to ignore their blatant hatred toward his friend. Yes, it was all well and good that they hated Sherlock, but did they have to be so incredibly vocal about it?
Though, in there defense, he was being a bit of prat today.
He'd been standing before the body for a full half hour, just staring, watching, as if he was waiting for something to move. Three different people had gone out of their way to make tell him that the body was dead- he didn't have to stare, it wouldn't run away.
John was about to become one of them if something didn't happen soon.
"It's like he's gone comatose or something. Freak. Is it you, then? Did you keep him up all night?"
John didn't have to look to see the sneer on Anderson's waxy face. Anger gripped his stomach. It was low, and it was Anderson's favorite game- Let's See If We Can Get John To Admit He's Gay For Sherlock, Vice Versa For The Latter. He was like those girls on the internet, the ones who always commented on his blog about how perfect he and Sherlock were for each other.
Apparently, they where the only two who didn't see the connection.
"Coming from a man whose wife has had him out on the couch all week," John deadpanned. Sherlock had pointed out the stress in the man's back (uncomfortable sleeping surface), as well as his oddly matted, messy hair (no time to comb it, he wanted to get out before his wife got up) when they arrived at the scene, and he'd been waiting for the perfect time to play his upper hand. The look on Anderson's face was priceless, going even more white than usual, and Donovan's jaw hit the floor.
John would have laughed, but Sherlock should have been doing that. How long was it going to take for him to regain perspective on human life? This was getting sort of dull.
"Need a bit of help, then?"
Heads turned and coffees where dropped as Rebecca approached, for more than one reason. The first, obviously, was that she was at a crime scene, which was definitely not where she should be. The second, though, the much more interesting one, was they way she was dressed.
"Is that my suit?"
"Yes, I've had it retailored, hope you don't mind."
"Not at all, it suits you."
"How punny."
The Holmes stood before the body, the entire crime scene staring in silence. Rebecca took her place beside Sherlock, brushing imaginary dust off of the suit that had once been her brothers. John watched, amazed, as she swung the slick black cane up to rest against her shoulders in the same movement that she slipped off her bowler hat, revealing freshly clipped curls. Sherlock raised a brow curiously.
"I was bored," she said in answer.
There was silence on the crime scene, then-
"Well, right, now that the Holmes have proved themselves completely useless, may I share a few theories?" Anderson was answered by silence, and, after a punctuated glare from Sherlock, the man continued, "Well, all of the victims seem to run blogs, and the murderer seems to be leaving the flowers as a signature, though it really doesn't seem too important. The most important thing is the blogs. Before they die, they've all posted the same picture of a cat. Now, that seems to be their connecting facto-"
"Absolutely brilliant."
Everyone stopped to stare, including Sherlock, at Rebecca, who was now watching Anderson with avid fascination.
"Really?" he asked, sounding incredibly shocked, as if he'd been expecting to be discredited.
"Yes, absolutely, brilliantly stupid," she drawled, swinging her cane down to rest at her side, "Now, if you would be so kind as to not speak in my presence, your utter incompetence is giving me a headache already. What did you say your name was?"
"A-Anderson. My name is Anderson."
"Right, well, I'll have to keep in mind not to visit any crime scenes you'll be working at, Anderson, if I'd like to stay out of jail. Now, some actual ideas…"
Rebecca was pacing beside the body, watching carefully.
"Sherlock, care to begin?"
"They all run blogs, correct, but it isn't a cat picture," he snapped, giving the still-stunned Anderson a pointed glare, "It's their real-life involvement that connects them."
"To you, of course."
"Obviously. And the flowers, they're messages."
"To who is next, yes, and it's all a part of their name. The rose mailed to Lestrade- Elizabeth Rosenthall. The dahlia in Elizabeth's mouth- Talia Mennen. The clover in Talia's-Rover Brooks. And finally, this one, a pansy. Alright, blogger, related to Sherlock Holmes in some way. Case? No. Appreciation blog? Possibly. A fanatic, a near stalker. Oh! Yes! There's the one named Pansy, isn't there? Or is it Nancy? The one that edits photos so it looks like you and John are kissing? That's- that's-"
"Pansy Smith," John blurted, blushing immediately after he said it.
The two siblings turned to John, along with the rest of the crew. John caught a glimpse of Lestrade raising an eyebrow questioningly and silently curse himself. He'd pay for this one.
"You left her blog open on my laptop," he explained, glaring at Sherlock, "Do you think there's a way we could get her to take it down?"
"So that's it, then?" the Detective Inspector asked, "Pansy Smith is the next victim."
"Not only that," Rebecca continued, "How long has this body been dead? Almost twenty four hours? If that's true, Rover was killed yesterday morning, around the same time you lot were circled around Talia Mennen's body, which means…"
"That Pansy Smith is being murdered right now."
Silence fell over the crime scene as this news sunk in. Then, the flurry began. Cops were dispatched from every car on sight, Lestrade was barking orders in every direction, and there in the middle of it all, stood John, staring in awe at his brilliant friend, Sherlock Holmes, and his kid sister, Rebecca, thinking he was the luckiest man in the world to know both of them.