"Let's hear it then," John said when they were settled into the cab.
"What?"
"Your theory. I know you only told Lestrade off about theorising to piss him off."
Sherlock had his elbow propped against the car door and his fist in front of his mouth, thinking. He smiled around his glove.
"Poison," he said. "Whoever stabbed him did it to distract the police from the real cause of death. No other visible wounds on the body suggests poison."
John frowned. "There wasn't any evidence of vomit or asphyxiation. Judging just from initial appearance I would have guessed circulatory shock, which the stabbing would have explained nicely."
"Severe blood-loss is only one cause of shock," Sherlock said dismissively. "The victim didn't lose any blood before he died. I'm certain. But bacteria or chemicals could induce it. The autopsy will show us if there's a foreign substance in his blood." Sherlock leaned back in the seat and drummed his hands on his knees impatiently. "Give me the details from his file."
John pulled the sheets from the envelope and read out the relevant information. David Rodgers, thirty-five years old, lawyer: successful enough to afford a flat close to the park in Knightsbridge (the direction their cab was currently headed), unmarried, no children, no history of medical problems, no criminal record, nothing remarkable in his background that would make him a target for murder.
"Why are we going to his flat now?" John asked when he'd finished reading.
Sherlock was looking away again, preoccupied, and John knew better than to interrupt his thought process. It wasn't until they stepped out of the cab onto a wide avenue just a few blocks from the park that Sherlock asked, "Did you say something?"
John grinned. Sometimes Sherlock reminded him of a printer. If you send a request to a printer while it's busy, the request waits in queue and is processed only after the previous task is complete. Sherlock, he knew, would not be too keen on this metaphor, which was why he'd kept it out of his blog so far. A supercomputer, maybe, but a printer… probably not.
"I asked you about ten minutes ago why we're here."
"Because of his socks," Sherlock said, his bright eyes already running across the posh flats in front of them.
John was hit by a strong sense of déjà vu. He couldn't place it though. "His socks?"
Sherlock was walking around to the right side of the building and John followed him. When he came to a stop they were standing in an alley that separated their victim's building from the one next door. They were reconstructed historical flats: Only four storeys high. Sherlock was scanning it from the base up. He replied distractedly, "One black and one navy."
"And that's important because…"
"Because it means someone else dressed him."
John thought about this. "Or it means he's a person, and people—normal people who don't have any detail-awareness superpowers—sometimes mistake navy socks for black ones. Especially blokes." John was thinking about the number of occasions he'd done this himself. He resisted the urge to lift his trouser legs to check if he'd done it today.
"Your socks are the same colour," Sherlock said, glancing at John before turning to look up at the roof of the building.
"I know," John said peevishly. Sherlock's ability to read his mind, or at least deduce his thoughts from the slightest changes in his expression, was unnerving. "So why don't you think it was a mistake?"
Sherlock evidently found something of interest at the top of the building because his eyes sparked and he grinned. He looked back at John.
"Did you see the way he was dressed? His suit wasn't just nice; it was fashionable. Extremely so. New Zegna from the autumn collection."
"Well you would know," John muttered.
"A man who puts on a suit like that in the morning does not carelessly grab two mismatched socks. My theory is that he died at home. His killers dressed him in the same clothes he'd worn to work to make it appear as if he'd never gone home—straight from work to the bar on a Friday night—before dropping the body off in the centre. But they grabbed one wrong sock, and that will prove to be their fatal mistake."
John shook his head. Unbelievable.
Sherlock pointed to the suite on the top floor at the end of the building; large windows faced the avenue, the alley and the street behind. "That's his flat there," he said. He clapped his hands and whirled around to face John. "Ok," he said. "I need you to shout at me."
"What?"
"Come on, John! You did it so well yesterday. You can use some of those words you say when you talk to your rugby friends."
John felt a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. It never ceased to amaze him how seamlessly the detective could switch from genius to batty. "And what words are those?"
"Words like, 'wanker' and 'dickhead' and 'twat.'"
John laughed out loud. The words sounded absurd coming from his fastidiously correct friend. He'd never heard Sherlock progress beyond the mildest language, including 'damn,' the very occasional 'bloody,' and one unforgettable 'arsehole,' uttered at his wedding of all places.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, Sherlock, I am not going to stand here between these posh flats yelling the word 'twat.'"
"It's important."
Right, John thought. The underhanded detective had a way of making 'humiliate John' an important part of his plans. "Sorry, I'm not going to explain to the police why I was standing in the street shouting obscenities in front of all the mums walking their children to the park. 'My mad flatmate told me to' is not going to hold up in court."
Sherlock sighed, "Fine."
John lifted his eyebrows. "Really?"
"We can do it this way..." Sherlock was muttering to himself in a way John didn't particularly like as he walked to where someone had stacked a set of unwanted chairs by the skip and bins behind him.
Sherlock lifted one of the chairs and tested its weight in his arm. John watched him warily as he walked around in front of him. "What are you doing? Sher—"
Sherlock used his considerable strength to whip the chair directly at him. John managed to leap back just in time, and a loud BANG reverberated through the alley as the chair slammed into the metal skip.
"Jesus motherfucking—" John had only just got started when Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him around the side of the building.
"Got one!" Sherlock said, eyes shining as he looked over at John from their positions flattened against the wall. "Twitch of the curtain. I don't think she saw us though."
"Wh-what? Who are you talking about?"
"Little old lady." Sherlock grinned, thin fingers still circled around John's arm. "I told you before, they're better than security cameras. Had to find out if one lives in the building with a view of the victim's flat."
"Sherlock what the HELL? You nearly just impaled me with a chair!"
"I know your reflexes," Sherlock said. He was still staring at him and suddenly John felt the heat of his gaze. The detective's eyes had an intensity that burned if you looked at them for too long. Sherlock's left hand was still gripping John's right forearm, and John was struck by déjà vu again. This time he recalled it. He and Sherlock were pressed up against a wall, their non-dominant hands cuffed together—Sherlock's left and his right—and Sherlock's eyes blazing even brighter than they were now.
John remembered that night vividly: Sherlock vaulting over an iron gate and almost dislocating his arm as the handcuff chain yanked it up. He'd had to reach through the railing to grab the lapel of his flatmate's coat, pulling him hard back up against the gate, forcing him to face him through the bars and holding him there—an attempt to stop the unstoppable force that was Sherlock. Inescapably close he'd felt the detective's energy radiating off of him like heat, and his eyes burning with it. The fever of the chase pulsed through Sherlock's veins and John only ever had to look at him and he could feel it rising in his own blood. He remembered that night, running with Sherlock, the cops just around the corner. The rush had been exhilarating. Just the two of them against the world (close to literally at that point, with Sherlock's name slandered and the police after them). But then, that had also been the night before—
John gave his head a slight shake to clear the memory as Sherlock dropped his arm.
"So you just wanted to make enough noise to scare an old lady?" John asked, bringing himself back to the present and realising Sherlock had made him yell at him after all. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Getting John to swear at him was right up there next to the science of deduction on the list of Sherlock's talents.
"To find," Sherlock corrected, already walking back up the alley. "They can't resist a row in the street—Knew I'd get one. I have a question she'll be able to answer."
"Why do you do that?" John asked, following him to the entrance of the building next door to their victim's.
"What?"
"Talk as though you already know something you haven't found out yet."
"Balance of probability."
"You mean you guess."
"I never guess."
John was on the verge of protesting, but in the spirit of letting sleeping detectives lie he kept his mouth shut. One chair thrown at his head was enough for one day.
Sherlock pressed the appropriate buzzer. He looked directly into a hidden camera John would never have noticed, and John watched his face shift to 'all charm' when the old woman answered (manipulative bastard). He introduced them as Detective Inspectors Lestrade and Wilkins. A flash of Lestrade's badge sealed the deal.
"Nicked his badge again?" John remarked as they walked through the front door.
"At this point he has no one to blame but himself," Sherlock said, leading the way. "For a DI it's embarrassingly easy to steal from him."
When Mrs. Bennis answered the door Sherlock went straight to her living room windows, leaving John to deal with the niceties of accepting an offer of tea and thanking her for granting them an interview. She looked to be in her early seventies, primly dressed, with thick prescription glasses which made her eyes look very large.
"There was a horrible noise in the alley just a moment ago," she said, bringing a tray with cups and saucers back from the kitchen.
"Bunch of teenagers. We saw them run the other way. I don't think they'll be back." Sometimes John surprised himself by how much smoother he'd got at lying. But he supposed he'd had plenty of time to learn from the best.
"Mrs. Bennis, I need to ask you a few questions about last night." John almost upset his tea as he heard Sherlock's deep, clear voice directly behind his chair. He hadn't heard him approach, stealthy blighter.
"About last night?" Mrs. Bennis looked up quizzically.
"Yes, the flat across the way"—Sherlock pointed out the window indicating their victim's flat—"Were they moving furniture recently?"
Mrs. Bennis blinked her large eyes behind her glasses. "Why, yes they were."
John would have wondered where Sherlock was going with this, but he was far too experienced to bother. Sherlock's mind was a thousand paces ahead of his and anyone else's; he'd have to wait until whenever Sherlock felt like cluing him in.
"Are you going to write them up for it?" she asked.
"Why would we do that?" Sherlock's tone meant he already knew the answer.
"Well, it was after midnight!" she said indignantly. "It must be against public ordinances to be lowering an armoire out of your window in the middle of the night." John twisted around in his chair in time to see Sherlock's lips twitch to a half-smile before it dropped. "I could tell they were trying to be quiet about it," she continued, "but it's noisy business loading furniture onto a moving van. I can't imagine why they couldn't wait until a proper hour."
"Did you see if there was a name on the van?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes, I remember the name because I felt it was ironic: 'Neighbourly Movers.' I thought it wasn't very 'neighbourly' to be making a racket at midnight. Are you going to fine the people who live there?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, typing on his phone. "I just need to make a call."
Sherlock stepped away into the adjoining dining room. John could just make out parts of his sentences: "Incident last night"—"Neighbourly Movers"—"recent hires." Evidently he was giving Lestrade orders; nothing new there.
Mrs. Bennis smiled at John fondly. "It's nice to see the police taking a real interest in our little troubles. And such gentlemen! London would be much better for it if all officers were as lovely as the two of you."
John returned her smile and said, "Well, we're here to serve the public." It wasn't entirely untrue, though John knew Sherlock's civil service was less intentional than it was simply lucky for Londoners that what amused Sherlock also happened to be good for public safety.
"Your partner is absolutely gorgeous," Mrs. Bennis said, blinking at him over her tea.
"Sorry?" John startled at the abrupt change of subject.
"He's beautiful," she said matter-of-factly.
John felt heat rushing to his face. His brain prepared to send out the standard 'We're not—' response when he remembered they had told her they were from Scotland Yard. 'Partner' was probably a reference their police status. John relaxed a little and was able to consider her statement more neutrally.
Of course he was aware that Sherlock resembled the men in GQ magazine more closely than he resembled ordinary people. And he knew Sherlock made girls like Molly trip over their own feet. (John had gotten some very interesting requests for photographs on his blog from the—he was almost certain—entirely female Sherlock Holmes fan club.) But 'beautiful' was an odd word to use for a man. Although, John figured, if there were any man to use the more feminine adjective for, the one swanning around in his unignorably tight shirts, with his high cheekbones, pale skin, and dark eyelashes— John silenced the part of his brain attempting to point out the speed and ease with which he'd just listed Sherlock's more attractive features. He'd spent the majority of the last five years in Sherlock's company; Straight doesn't mean blind, he reminded himself sternly.
John gave a short laugh and said, "It's all part of the strategy. He's the eye candy—distracts the criminals into muddling up their alibis."
Mrs. Bennis's eyes were very large behind her glasses. "Does that really work?"
"Oh, he's very good at it," John said, warming to the subject. "He can be very distracting. Some would say irritatingly so."
Mrs. Bennis looked to the dining room where Sherlock was pacing back and forth across the doorway. "I don't know how you manage to keep a man like that," she mused.
John coughed and his face flushed again. So, not 'police partners' then. What the hell was it with every single person they'd ever met? What was it about the two of them together that made everyone and his mother (and grandmother apparently) think they were together? For god's sake, you would think they tumbled through doors groping each other by the way people reacted.
Mrs. Bennis must have noticed his discomfort because she quickly added, "Oh no, I didn't mean any slight against you. Of course you're a very handsome man yourself, but I can just tell..." Her focus softened as she gazed off toward the dining room again. "A man like that is difficult. Complicated. You'll have to fight for him. But he's worth it." She looked back at John and gave him a knowing smile. "Men like that always are."
"I…" John managed before Sherlock re-entered the room.
John stood abruptly. He cleared his throat and said, "Thank you very much for your time and for the tea, Mrs. Bennis." He turned toward Sherlock. "Got everything?" he asked, making it a rhetorical question. He punctuated it by moving toward the door.
"Yes, everything's sorted," Sherlock said, eyes moving quickly between John and their host, reading John's agitation and probably trying to deduce what had been said.
John mentally pulled him toward the door. (If Sherlock could read his mind, John decided he might as well use it to his advantage.) Sherlock didn't resist, and only paused to say, "Thank you, Mrs. Bennis, you've been most helpful," before following John out of the flat.
When they were back on the street John stopped and said, "Ok, so what's the deal with the furniture?"
Sherlock stopped as well and took a step back toward him. "Tell me, John, after you've killed someone what's your most pressing problem?"
"An existential struggle with morality?"
Sherlock continued to look at him.
"Getting rid of the body," John amended reluctantly.
"Correct. So, how are you going to get a body out of a posh flat like that, past the CCTV cameras and Mrs. Bennis's twitching curtains? You can't just drag it down the stairs in a bag."
"I would think not."
"So, how about shut in a large armoire, out the window, and onto a moving van?"
"And that's the first thing you thought of?"
"It was one possibility that occurred to me. Confirmed when I saw that," Sherlock replied, pointing to the roof just above the dead man's alley-facing window. John looked up and saw a large hook secured there.
"Hooks like that are used, most recognisably in Amsterdam, for moving furniture in and out of flats that don't have lifts and are too narrow to carry large objects up and down stairs," Sherlock explained. "Our killers probably thought it would be a quieter method of getting the body out of the building in the middle of the night."
"But that hook could have been there for years; maybe the last tenants used it—"
"No, it's new. Very new. That metal hasn't even seen rain."
"And you knew it would be an armoire because…"
Sherlock shrugged. "It's the easiest piece of furniture to fit a body into without having to chop it up first."
John shook his head, smiling at the ground. Only Sherlock could be endearingly blithe when discussing chopping up bodies.
He lifted his eyes and regarded Sherlock's face in amazement. "Just by noticing that hook you could see the whole scene: The men stuffing the body into an armoire and lowering it out the window onto a moving van. You only needed to talk to the Bennis lady for confirmation."
Sherlock looked at John curiously. "That's right. Once the body was in the van they could drive it to the centre, drag it into an alley, stab it, and arrange the whole thing to look like a mugging."
John met Sherlock's eyes. "Extraordinary."
Sherlock dropped his gaze and his dark eyelashes stood out in contrast against his pale cheekbones.