Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters that are part of the BBCverse of Sherlock. I wish I did. But I don't. So I merely write this for fun. Please do not sue.
Title: A Scandal In Belgravia- A Different Take
Genre: Drama, mystery, angst, general, friendship
Warnings: Language, Death In Prior Chapters.
Spoilers: The name of the fic is the name of the episode of Season 2.
Summary: The wife of a self made billionaire has been murdered in her hotel room, in Belgravia. Sherlock is called in when there seems to be a connection to the wife, and he then reveals what the connection is, causing quite the scandal in itself. While Sherlock and John work the case, Sherlock reveals to John what his connection is to the woman. Meanwhile, the men are still recovering after the events of their face off with Moriarty at the end of The Great Game, and coming to terms with what the other means to them.
Author's Note: Due to season 2 being delayed for over a year, and season 1 being set in 2010, I'm going to keep in line with the time line. This case is taking place in the year 2010. So as stated in prologue the date was August 21st, and the year 2010
Chapter Nine- A Surprise
Location: The Chelsea Suite Of The Berkeley Hotel
Time: 5:30
After ducking under the crime scene tape, Sherlock enters the suite. It took him some convincing to get the key-card, and a quick phone call to get it. He hears the electronic beep caused by the key-card. It's loud enough to be heard, most definitely. If you were in the main room,you could probably hear the slight woosh of the door opening if the security lock was not working.
Sherlock closes the door, and moves through the suite, pausing in the bedroom.
"But you were here, Irene," he murmurs, "so you did not hear any sound." He steps further in the room, softly on the carpeting. Housekeeping hadn't cleaned up yet, so he could still see the dried blood on the sheets.
And he could still see the image of her body, eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Eyes that were now fixed with the permanent expression of resignation.
September 24, 2006
Time: Afternoon
"So why come to London?" Sherlock asks as they walk over the bridge. She was talking about home, looking quite resigned in those dark brown eyes that could act very well. If he was anyone else he would have fallen for the act of Irene just being a wide eyed American tourist.
"Needed a change. Needed something different. I love home.. just.. I wanted to explore."
Sherlock could understand that. He explored when he had the first chance. Traveling to so many different countries before ultimately going to Uni. Something else he had in common with Irene Adler.
Science and exploring.
He didn't want anything in common with Irene. He just wanted what she had.
"What's that look for?"
"Sorry?"
"You looked annoyed."
"Hmm. Apologies. I was just thinking."
"Pound for your thoughts? Or is that too much?"
"Too much. But no worries."
"All right. By the way, I should thank you for this."
"No need, I had nothing else to do." Except figure out how to get the DVD.
Present Day
Sherlock shakes his head, banishing the memory. It was unfortunate that a woman like Irene, one with intelligence and cunning, who was clever, yet ruthless as well, was so equally frustrating.
Her involvement caused him to act desperate to finish a case.
"So, you sat on the bed. Scared," he says aloud. Where is John when he needs him. "You knew you'd been found out, so you didn't dare to leave your suite. You thought you were safe. But you still texted me. Hoping I'd come... but you must have known I would refuse. You knew I would. Yet you tried."
Sherlock refuses to feel guilty. She brought her death to herself, with her lifestyle, with her choices. He would not have been able to save her even if he did come to help.
He still wonders why she asked him, considering her views on asking for help...
September 24th, 2006
Time: Late Afternoon
"I think it's a weakness."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow at that. "Asking for help?"
"Yes. We all have our ways of solving our problems. Most of them caused by our own self. We can find a way to solve them. Asking for help just makes it more problematic. You end up owing people."
Sherlock finds himself uncomfortably agreeing with that. Strange that he and this woman would have certain aspects in common. He didn't care for asking for help either.
His attention is grabbed by someone passing him, and he recognizes the signs in the glassy eyes and the red nose...
And the itch starts up again. He's been clean for a while now. The burning need-
No. No. NO. He is stronger than that. He has the power, the control of his mind and body. He needs the sharper and clearer edges, not the duller ones.
Sherlock takes a minute to control himself and turns his attention back to Irene Adler.
"Interesting insight," he drawls.
"I am right. I don't want to be in debt to anyone, I want to remain independent, not needing anyone's help. I can survive on my own, I have survived on my own." She smiles. "I bet your like that too."
"We just met. How do you think that?"
"Your eyes, Mr Holmes," She says, her lips curving upward slightly, her own brown eyes gleaming. "They've seen a lot, I imagine, and you survived. I believe the phrase the eyes are the window to the soul."
"True," Sherlock concedes. He dislikes having ideas, thoughts, or interests in common with Irene Adler.
Present Day
He told John they only had science in common. He didn't want to admit what the others were. The other commonalities they had were minor, but they were enough to bother him.
Just like there are commonalities between him and Moriarty. Even more so...
Irene Adler, according to the file that Mycroft had smugly left behind when she had been sent back to the States, grew up in rough conditions. Couldn't make it as an actress, but had talent, wit, and a cleverness that was able to outdo Sherlock.
Not that he would ever admit that out loud.
She survived on the streets, moved upwards, determined to never rely on anyone for help and to remain independent. She turned into a con artist to succeed at that.
Sherlock knew she was another another aspect to him, of what he is capable of doing. Fooling people. Tricking them.
Moriarty was one too. The darker aspect, the one that didn't have the influences in his life that Sherlock does. Nor a stable mind.
He was what Sherlock and others would fear Sherlock would eventually become.. if unchecked.
Sherlock's scowls at that. He didn't kill people because he was bored.
He didn't put John into that bomb vest...
Yes you did.
Sherlock scowls at the thought, that guilty thought that kept on creeping up when he wasn't ready. He shoves it to the side as he hears his mobile ring.
He takes it out, the movement once more awkward. Once again wishing both of his arms were usable.
John's number.
"Sherlock."
"Lestrade just called me. He's doing what he can with the warrant, but he's not making any promises.."
"Not surprising."
"Might be a while before he gets it, if he can."
Sherlock nods. "And?"
"I'm almost at the hotel. By the way as I was leaving the Yard, I overheard Donovan with one of the witnesses. A Christiana Farnsworth. She was a waitress at the party. Said that Brightman went missing for exactly ten minutes between five thirty and six. And she doesn't recall it being a smoke break, because he passed her when he came back in and he didn't smell of smoke."
"Ahhhh."
"So.. Brightman killed her."
"Looks like."
"There's something you're not telling me."
"Sarino put it together... he arranged a way for Brightman to enter the Suite without being heard. Said that Kingston complained about the security door and needed it added to the list of doors needing fixing. No doubt he was having issues, but Søndergaard took advantage of the situation. Made sure to come back a few minutes later to see if it was down. Then made a call."
"Let me guess. Brightman."
"Mr Roberts said it was only a minute long. Didn't hear what was said. But if you use your imagination-"
"Right. Suppose it's always good to know how your security system works if you want to help commit a murder."
"Yes, indeed."
"Where are you by the way?"
"The Chelsea Suite." Sherlock hears the sound of a cab door being opened and shut. "Sounds like you arrived."
"I have. Do you think something was missed?"
"The bullet casing. Match the bullet casing to bullets that Brightman has.. we got him."
"Right. Well I'm almost there. Just stay put."
"I'm not a dog."
"No, you're more like a cat. You never listen."
"Only when it suits me."
Sherlock chuckles, and ends the call. putting the mobile back in his pocket. He goes to stand at the side of the bed. With how Irene was position, she had to have been getting ready to get out of bed.. when she either finally heard or saw something.
Location: Just Entering The Berkeley Hotel
Time: 5:30
John pockets his mobile as he heads through the reception lobby of the hotel, only to pause as he sees the Søndergaard brothers standing near a maid's housekeeping cart, one looking like he wants to strangle the other... while the other seems calm.
Both of them are engrossed in their conversation, that John is sure they don't realize that he's noticed them. He takes out his mobile, and puts it up to his ear, making it seem like he's engrossed in a conversation with someone. Then he takes a brochure of the hotel as he passes the reception desk.
The brothers are just a few feet away, oblivious, only aware of each other. John can't tell which one is which, not without looking at their eyes. He can't risk that right now. His gut is telling him he needs to hear this, and he can't blow the cover he has, however slight it is.
"I can't believe you actually went through with it," The angry brother hisses.
"It had to be done," the calm one says coldly. "You wouldn't have done it."
"Wanting to get even is one thing, but murder is entirely different!"
"I didn't pull the trigger, brother."
"No, Brightman did."
"And my contact just told me that Yard is trying to get a warrant for him."
"It'll take time. By then everything will be sorted. Calm down."
"Calm down? You set this whole thing up."
"And you opened the door for it, brother."
"Sherlock Holmes has a reputation. He's in the Chelsea Suite now.. according to Mr Roberts, he's looking for something. No doubt he'll find something that will pin this on all of us. I am not going to prison because of this."
"Don't worry, I'll take care of Sherlock Holmes-"
John doesn't bother to hear anymore, he quietly walks away, glad that the lifts were in the other direction. As he gets into the lift, thankfully alone, John tosses the brochure down on the floor, and he dials Lestrade's number.
"Lestrade."
"The Søndergaard brothers are in on it. One of them at least set it up," John says without any introduction, willing the lift to get up the Chelsea Suite quickly.
Lestrade curses.
"I know. I overheard them quarreling about it."
"Where are you?"
"On my way to the Chelsea Suite. Sherlock is there. One of the brothers has a plan regarding him, and I'm not taking any chances. I'm getting him out of here as quick as I can."
"Do that. I'm sending Donovan over. Maybe she can get the other brother to turn, because I doubt I'll get the warrant in time."
John nods, and ends the call. The lift doors open and as he steps out, he sees down the hall that the door is open to the suite.
Location: The Chelsea Suite
Time: Just a couple minutes later
Think.. think.. Sherlock demands to himself,
If she didn't see anything...then she heard it. She would look up.
Gun.
No way to run.
Maybe an exchange of words? Irene accepting her fate. She wouldn't plead. Beg. She wasn't the sort.
Then Brightman shot her. Pocket his gun. Go back to the party.
Act as he usually does. Make sure to be visible to so many people. Enough people see you, remember you, your alibi would be tight. Wouldn't matter if a couple people say they saw you leave for a few minutes.
The waitress would be told she was mistaken.
So the casing.. the casing would have fallen out..right here. By the side of the bed.. but it's not visible.
He knows no one found the bullet casing. So it is still here.
Sherlock frowns, and then places his free hand on the nightstand and lowers himself to his knees. Nothing by the edges of the nightstand. He awkward positions himself with a slight grunt (Really, the sooner he gets rid of this blasted sling, the better), and looks under the bed.
Ahhh.. there's a glint.. the casing.
It's right in the middle. As if the Brightman ended up kicking it with his shoe.
Not caring in the slightest.
"Brightman, you are an idiot," Sherlock says with a shake of his head. Then again he kept the gun too. Any self respecting murderer with at least a tiny bit of intelligence, and the amount of money at his disposal that Brightman had would have destroyed it the first chance he got.
But no, the arrogance of Jackson Brightman would be his undoing.
Sherlock glares at the casing though. He can't get it this way. He'll have to use something to get it out.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock whirls around to see John rushing into the room. "Bedroom."
John takes a few long strides into the bedroom. "We need to go. Now. One of the Søndergaard brothers helped set it up. I phoned Lestrade. Donovan is on her way."
"I know. Sarino."
"Yes, well he's on his way. He knows you're up here looking for something."
Sherlock accepts that. "I found it. You need to get it, I am a little hampered. Underneath the bed, in the middle."
"The casing."
Sherlock nods. Like he expected, John grumbles, and gets down to his knees and reaches under the bed. Sherlock smiles as he hears a couple choice words sent in his direction.
John gets out from under and stands, the casing in hand. "All right, we have it. Time to go."
Sherlock nods, and before they turn around to leave, both still at the sound of a gun being cocked.
"Knew he would mess up," A familiar male voice says, sounding resigned and irritated. "And knew you would find it.. Brightman always was a fool."
Sherlock inhales sharply. He knows John has his gun, but he can't draw it out just yet. Sherlock and John exchange glances.
"Turn around, gentlemen. I don't care to shoot you in the back."
Well with that said, they both turn.
Sherlock sees the gun, and then the man standing just a few feet away.
Lavaard Søndergaard was standing in front of him, holding the gun.
Sherlock just proved himself right.
Never discount the quiet ones.