Hey I'm back, sorry for that, but I had to finish Iron Grasp of Winter first. Priorities and all that, but this one can really start to get going now!
Thanks to hannahhobnob, bored411 and Guest for reviewing
Disclaimer: I own nothing but any OC's and any plot idea's you don't recognize.
"Avery is gone."
Sherlock allowed for Garon's words to keep replaying over in his head as he stood in the middle of her vacant flat. Gone; there wasn't a better word to sum up the whereabouts of Avery, or her personal items. He was informed of her missing in action after sending Garon out yet again for another following. He had turned up back at their flat with no images, and a confused shrug as he explained what he had, or rather hadn't, come across. With much interest and vexation, Sherlock had been out the door with the photographer and his blogger right behind.
"Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye," Sherlock muttered under his breath as his eyes traced the blank walls of her flat. "Oh well, that is a shame."
"What, where did she go?" John asked, his tone a touch snippy as he stood in the middle of her living room. He had been in a state of reserved distress since Garon had come to them with the news, feelings of sentiment and concern for their head of security no doubt.
"No need for alarm John. It should be obvious to you by now that Avery is quite safe," His hands clenched together at his sides, nonetheless aggravated by the turn of events as they pieced themselves together before his sight. "There is no sign of a struggle, though I would say everything has been taken in a rush. She has left, been moved somewhere else by my brother."
"It figures," John replied sardonically. "I knew something was off when she didn't show with Wendi two days ago."
"Yes, there was that," He said, voicing the incomplete thought. "Although she did manage to say goodbye, if you recall the other night at our flat."
"Yes, but I didn't think goodbye actually meant that she'd just check out," John huffed before looking guilty. "I wasn't too kind to her before she left."
"Don't waste energy dwelling on words John, she would have already forgotten something as small as that."
John sent him a frosty look before turning back to Garon. "Have you been to anywhere else she might have gone to? Her work or Mycroft's office?"
"Vicarious is closed during daylight hours, and I couldn't really get close enough to the Diogenes club. Also, I think your brother knows what I've been doing." Garon said, the last bit meant for Sherlock as his face filled with worry.
"Oh he undoubtedly knows all about you." Sherlock said with much certainty. There wasn't a soul who had entered his life— for however short a time—that Mycroft did not immediately look into.
"I would check my mantle, tables and picture frames if I were you. He's rather fond of spying," John added, "Consider yourself lucky he hasn't stopped you on the street for a little chat. I was first offered money to watch Sherlock for him, which I refused of course."
Garon looked slightly mortified if not a bit peeved to know his privacy could have been encroached upon. He had gotten by well enough for Sherlock, what with the strange happenings in Baker Street since his arrival, but Mycroft's intrusion appeared to be where he drew the line. Some people were so sensitive. "Well I've been neglecting my other job to do this, and I really don't want to get sacked from the Yard, so I wouldn't say yes to that offer either."
Sherlock made a noise to voice his opinion. "You and John, both so earnest. What does that get you I wonder?"
"A clear conscience." Came John's swift reply.
Garon didn't look as if he agreed with that answer. "I don't think a clear conscience exists for anyone anymore, but getting to sleep a little easier certainly doesn't hurt."
"Who has time to worry about sleeping?" Sherlock's hand traced the ruined spot on Avery's wall as he spoke aloud. She had never got around to fixing the damaged drywall, nor had she been given the time to hassle him over paying the fee. Her vanishing act put up a barrier in his game, momentarily barring him as he thought of new ways around the roadblock. Mycroft really did have the worst timing.
"What happened to her wall there?" Garon inquired.
"Sherlock happened," John answered with a dry chuckle. "I wasn't here for it, but you've seen the walls in our flat."
"Time to go," Sherlock declared abruptly, looking up from his phone. An eagerness for a new setting prompted his feet to make a sprint for the door, his destination the morgue after receiving word from Lestrade. The entryway of Avery's flat was as snug a fit as the last time he had been there, sharing in her space for a moment or two when she had turned around and used one of his tricks back on him rather cunningly. He had known then that Avery Nash was someone to take notice of, though he had made the mistake of turning a blind eye on her for a split second, causing his carefully crafted experiment to come unhinged. "Come John, the last details of our case still need to be tied."
"We're going to St. Bart's now?" John's tone was laced with incredibility, the likes of which he used often when out on a mad dash.
"It's where we would otherwise be. Don't let a small change in circumstance boggle you." Sherlock called as he flew out the door. He needn't look back to know they would follow without question. Despite the one case now wrapping up, his mind was far from the reaches of boredom. What had started as a game had now become a chase, something he could easily set his mind to.
"Are you joining us Garon?" John asked from behind as they descended the stairs of the building.
"Just until we reach St. Bart's," He informed while adjusting the strap of his camera. "It's back to work with Greg after, and I still have to talk with forensics."
Sherlock caught them a cab just as they met up with him at the pavement. As much as he favoured the benefits of Garon's usefulness, he did not like having him as their third traveling partner for any portion of the day. He was rather large, and it made the cab rides rather cramped as he had first discovered upon their departure from Baker Street. Sherlock ended up once again with his side forced against the door, John pressed into his arm in the middle of the cab. His face conveyed a small amount of annoyance, which Garon noticed and tried to apologize for with quick words he stumbled over. "Oh I—sorry about this."
Sherlock was about to retort with a sharp deduction if it wasn't for the elbow jab he received in his side from John. "Not a problem. At least one of us finds time for regular meals and exercise." What exercise; they ran around London constantly, wasn't that enough? "Real exercise." John added as if guessing his thoughts.
"Dull." Sherlock commented dryly while the cab headed in the direction of St. Bart's.
The car became ensconced in a dreadfully awkward silence. Sherlock took that time to go over the last visit with Avery in his mind once again. She had been closed off, and somewhat distraught, not giving him many of her words, much less her gaze. A sign of avoidance, instructions from Mycroft, but for what reason? He had not been there to witness her last conversation with John, but he had watched her retreating from Baker Street, and there had been subtle signs of surrender.
From the corner of his vision, he saw John playing with his phone absentmindedly, fingers ghosting over the keys with apprehension. "Her number is no longer in service. I guess that's why she never answered any of my messages."
"All part of erasing her from having ever been here." Sherlock told his flatmate bluntly.
"Are you going to search for her?" Garon asked in a hushed whisper to prevent the cabbie from eavesdropping. Highly unlikely considering they were the ears of London, much like his homeless network was the eyes. "I mean, it seems like this might be a common occurrence for someone like her."
"A fair observation, but could use for more sound reasoning to back up the statement."
Garon grew an embarrassed flush for his attempt, and turned his eyes back out the window while John's turned towards his again. "Are we looking for her? What is the goal here Sherlock, I feel like I might go mental if this is all for nothing."
"I wouldn't waste my own time for something of hollow value."
"Yes you're very frugal with your time."
He let John's sarcastic comment wash over him without any effect, his focus already shifting to the hospital as they pulled in beside it. Wordlessly he stepped out from the cab. Now that most of the snow accumulation had already dissipated throughout the week, he only had to worry about salt stains getting on the bottom of his trousers and shoes as he made his way through the slush and muck. Tramples of footprints littered the pavement, the city bustling with the impending holiday upon them. John hadn't yet spoken of Christmas plans, which suited him well enough. If he didn't bring up the matter, there was the off chance that they could cruise through the holiday all together without any more parties taking place in their flat. He would continue to remain silent, even with however large he already knew the chance was in his mind of festivities taking place.
John and Garon caught up from behind, trailing the messy snow in with them on the freshly polished floors, discernable by the chemical scent and the glossy sheen. He led them straight to the doors of the morgue without stopping, finding Molly there with Lestrade, and to his somewhat dismay, Anderson. They were huddled over the cold body, everything on the corpse shielded, save for the face where the cover had been drawn back. The smell of formaldehyde was strong today, more than usual, and it almost made him grin as he approached.
"You brought Garon with you; good," Lestrade commented as he looked up from the body. "Paperwork is still piling up, and the press is on us about what really happened with this case."
"We know," John cut in. "They've been waiting for us outside Baker Street for the last two days now for questions. They've even bombarded Garon with them."
"I've done my best to avoid them. I probably have less answers to give them than any of you," He said, shedding his coat while he once again was wearing a tight fitted, horizontal stripped T-shirt underneath, this one purple and orange this time. He had them in every colour, a collection to rival John's jumpers. The thin material stretched over his muscular torso, looking as if it might rip at the seams as his arms flexed. He shuffled over to stand next to Anderson, always polite as he went. "Excuse me Molly."
"Oh sorry," She flushed, her eyes not so subtly going over his impressive physique before they widened as she caught herself staring. "Erm—how are you Garon?" She stammered.
He gave a funny look. "Alright I guess."
Lestrade gained an annoyed look for everyone to see, clearing his throat as he looked at Molly. "Aren't you supposed to be meeting Tom for lunch soon?"
Her face grew serious from Lestrade's snippy remark, muttering unintelligibly under her breath while the blush slowly faded from her face. Rolling his eyes with contempt, Sherlock moved towards the head of the corpse on the table, wanting to get to the issue of why he was there instead of some petty attraction to Garon that every single female who came into contact with him seemed to possess. "Everyone take a step back now." He demanded calm but sternly.
Collectively the surrounding group did as he asked, though Anderson somewhat slower than the others, looking reluctant to be ordered around. Ignoring every distraction around him, Sherlock focused on the body, or rather the fatal wound that had been the direct cause of death. The murdered turned victim was laid out before him, the left side of his face nearly destroyed from the exit wound of the bullet that had penetrated through the back of his skull. It had happened so suddenly outside the building of the practice, a moment that he had gone over in his head constantly the past two days, trying to find missing details he might have overlooked.
The serial killer, as he had concluded for himself days before, had been the young man working reception at the desk. Taylor Greenly would not have left her flat in the middle of the night to meet with an established older gentleman for a midnight tryst, and all three of the Optometrists were happily married to women they would not dare to think to commit adultery against. Lestrade had gone in with Wendi, under the impression that he was to be scoping out the Optometrists when Sherlock had failed to mention the small detail of it being the other way around. Purposefully done of course, as it had given him the chance to approach the front desk, dragging a confused John with him who had also been under the assumption that they were not supposed to enter the building.
"Marcus Shepard was a schizophrenic," Lestrade said from where he stood a few steps back from the table of the deceased. "He was hired at the practice because he was the nephew to the wife of Doctor Wighem. Apparently because of hospitalizations in the mental health ward in his past, his aunt was concerned for him to be out at work on his own, so she asked her husband to give him this position to keep an eye on him. Wighem assured me when I spoke with him that his nephew had been taking Zyprexa for his condition."
"We're still awaiting the results of the toxicology report to find any traces of Olanzapine in his system." Molly added.
"The results will only conclude what we already know, and that is that he obviously hadn't been," Sherlock said simply. "He was thin, significantly lacking in any muscle density. The obvious reason why he used Diprivan to subdue his victims. A healthy woman might have been able to fight him off otherwise."
"But who would be cruel enough to want to attract this type of mind, especially to confuse and warp him until convincing him to commit multiple murders?"
Lestrade's quiet question had Sherlock's eyes falling back to the gaping wound in the face of the corpse, it looking like a rotted out bite of an apple that had been left out in the sun too long. The left eye was gone from existence. It had been completely shattered by the bullet as it had passed through the back of his skull, and out through the front left eye socket. The hole of the fatal wound glared up at him angrily. Left over muscle and tissue was coloured black and red like candle wax, with pieces of grey matter spattered about in the hollow from something else entirely that should have been whole.
Marcus had been shot out on the street in public after they had apprehended him at the practice. He had tried to evade capture by leaping over the front desk, armed with nothing but a ballpoint pen that he had wielded like a sword. After lunging at Sherlock, John had jumped in from behind, delivering Marcus with a swift punch to the kidney, prompting him to drop his makeshift weapon long enough for them to imprison him down on the floor. The loud commotion they had caused—because they hadn't thought to keep quiet—had alerted Lestrade in the examination room to come running with a pair of handcuffs in his grasp, with Wendi hot on his trail.
"He meant little to his investors. Hardly a second thought for the way they disposed of him." He said unflinchingly.
The shot had come without sound, not a crack or boom of an eruption in the air. Silent. They had escorted Marcus outside to an awaiting police car. Members of the Yard were then scattered around the pavement, Sherlock walking ahead with John, while Lestrade had followed behind with Wendi glued to his side. Time had slowed, the world flowing before Sherlock like pictures in a flip-book, and he swore he could have almost made out the individual pixels. Marcus, with his hands still cuffed behind him, had turned sideways in preparation to slide into the opened car door presented to him. He had fallen flat onto the ground suddenly with no one, not even the officer escorting him, understanding why until Wendi had let out a shriek. It was the bloodcurdling kind, one only a woman could produce, and it had managed to freeze the marrow in his bones, causing him for a brief moment to be relieved Avery had not been present to witness it. Pairs of eyes had darted to Wendi in succession to see the front of her flowery blouse painted in a shower of red. Lestrade and the escorting officer had also caught some of the splatter, droplets of viscous crimson flecked over the skin of their necks and cheeks. The air outside had been stagnant on that December morning, and as Sherlock had searched around to the buildings in the distance, he could find nothing.
"From the trajectory of where the bullet made its target, we have determined the building the shooter was in. Unfortunately it is accessible to the public, a place of business, and the video surveillance didn't reveal anyone walking through the corridors with a rifle," Lestrade said as he crossed his arms in contemplation. "Regarding the matters that Mr. Shepard was dabbling in, I think it is wise to consider that the security working in that building could have been bribed with a generous sum to keep quiet."
"Yeah, but they somehow knew the Yard was going to the practice with full plans to make an arrest on someone. How is that possible?" John inquired aloud.
The locked coffers in his Mind Palace were shacking, threatening to unhinge in an inundation of memories that he had hoped to forget. John by the pool with explosives strapped to his chest. The red dot of a laser. That smarmy smile, and megalomaniac frame of mind. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, John. The threat to burn the heart out of him. St. Bart's, the roof. It was all too much, and he felt himself sputter for breath, coughing suddenly as if he had inhaled a toxic cloud of smoke.
"Sherlock!" John's voice yelling at him brought him back to the now, with eyes of every colour scrutinizing his sudden lapse of silence before he had choked on a big gulp of air. He let his face fall into a flat expression of nothing discernable to be read, straightening his almost always perfect posture (except for when he would slouch in his armchair) while he glanced back at John. "Did you just realise something?" His doctor asked.
"Nothing concrete." He said brusquely.
Lestrade took a step out of place, looking haggard from his work, but not defeated. "We'll continue our investigation into finding the shooter. NSY is also carefully monitoring surgeries throughout the city. There seems to be shorter waitlists for corneal transplants. I've been looking into it ever since you came to my office that day with Avery. Speaking of whom, how has she been? I've noticed she hasn't been around you two the last few days."
John shared a not so discreet look with Garon, while Sherlock let his face remain impassive. "She's been on holiday with her family." He lied smoothly.
"Really, Vicarious let her go? I can't imagine that place can run smoothly without her," Lestrade shrugged, seemly unfazed by the news. "Oh well, tis the season I suppose."
"Yes." He answered blankly, his mind already creeping on to other things. In all the excitement he had been caught up with in the last two days, he had nearly forgotten the establishment she worked for. Only nearly of course. Small details such as that never strayed far from his mind, and he was suddenly feeling the need to make a generous visit to thank Wendi for her assistance while she was at work.
"Text me when you have something." Spinning on his heel, he started back towards the exit of the morgue, trusting John to follow behind him.
"You're not coming back with us Garon?" He heard John ask from where he stood in the middle of the morgue, between the doors and the metal slab that held the dead Marcus Shepard.
"I can't. I've still got work to do, but I'll chat you up later okay?"
"Sure thing," John said, narrowly avoiding a collision with Donavan as he made his way after the Consulting Detective who had paused to wait for him. In the distance before either of them had strode too far away from the morgue, they could hear Sally give Garon a flustered greeting. Apparently Molly wasn't the only one charmed by the new forensic photographer. "Oh I would have loved to have seen Anderson's face just now. Should have stayed two seconds longer."
"It only proves women share the same guilt for vanity as men," Sherlock commented while flicking up his collar. "Though in Anderson's case, I think he can expect less visits with Donavan on her knees."
"Sherlock Holmes just made a crude comment; I think the order of the world just became distorted." John said in a bark of laughter.
He pulled a face at his blogger as they stepped outside the hospital. "I can be crude."
"Yes, usually accidentally because of something case related. Not in the usual teasing sense like just now."
"There's a difference?"
"One I don't want to get into or you'll never do it again, and I'll miss out on moments like this."
Not feeling as petty as he normally would to continue the debate, he opted for silence as he hailed them a cab for Baker Street. John was shuffling around with the extra breathing room that he had back now that Garon had left them, but once he settled, he immediately went back to speaking. "So, do you want to tell me what that was really about back there?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean John." He replied evasively.
"Oh come off it. I saw your face the moment I brought up the coincidence between the Yard being at the practice, and the shooter having the knowledge of that. A lot of people in organized crime, including those with ties to black marketers, could have hired a hitman."
"I never know what it is you see in my face," He let his frown show this time as he was spurred into the conversation. "But the timing John. Why now? A serial killer who claims the eyes of his victims, and then sells them illegally for profit? It makes for too small a thing as compared to what we've witnessed before. There's something larger at work here."
"Oh Sherlock," John hung his head back against the seat, speaking exhausted as if he had just come from a marathon. "He's dead. You and I both know that."
"But for how long?" He looked his blogger clear in the eyes with nothing to hide. "From your perspective, after myself and The Woman, that should be enough proof that everything is not always as it appears. It has all become trite."
"Death has become trite, is that what you're saying?"
"Well hasn't it?"
It was John's turn to frown, and he lost his chance to retort as they pulled up before Baker Street. Sherlock took a quick second to reflect on the last two years before he made it to the door of their building. After everything he had put forth into dismantling Moriarty's criminal empire—the physical strain, deceiving his friends, the crushing loneliness—he thought he was finally free to go back to the way things were, only to realise it wouldn't be that simple. Mycroft had assured him that it was safe to return, and he was certain enough himself to believe that. They couldn't both be wrong, could they?
"Sherlock, you're doing it again." John piped up beside him as they stood outside by the door, long after the cab had drove away.
He pushed his key into the slot, unbolting the door as he walked stiffly inside. He took the stairs at his normal pace, his footsteps making loud thuds as they collided against the creaking wood. Something foreign in their flat that had not been there before they had left caught his eye, and he halted in the doorway, John nearly walking into his back behind him at his sudden pause in step.
"What is it?" John asked in annoyance, trying to peek over his shoulder.
He took a long step into the room, looming over the brightly wrapped box as he pushed at it with his index finger. "What do you think this is?"
"Well, judging from the bow, I'd say a Christmas present," John said smartly, appearing unfazed as he shrugged off his coat and hung it up by the peg on the door. "Why, what do you think it is?"
"It could be any number of malicious things," He muttered before standing straight up to shout. "Mrs. Hudson!"
There were scuttling footsteps from downstairs, and the sound of a door opening before dainty footfalls started up towards their flat. A moment later their landlady appeared, a curious but tired expression on her face as she greeted them. "What is it dear?"
He indicated to the offending object that remained in its place on the table. "When did this get here?"
"The postman brought it early this morning, shortly after you had gone. He said it was for you, with no return address," She smiled pleasantly at the package, her cheeks a soft rose colour. "Oh isn't it lovely. You're the first one to receive a gift this year."
John laughed at his horrified expression. "I'm afraid he doesn't share that sentiment Mrs. Hudson. I think he's under the impression that someone is trying to bomb him."
"I never said bomb," He refuted. "It could be something riddled with anthrax spores."
John and Mrs. Hudson shared a look behind his back that he was privy to through the mirror over the mantle, but chose to ignore as he continued to deduce the package. He was standing stock-still, even long after his landlady had turned out from the room to return downstairs. John let out an audible sigh, shifting on the couch as he waited. "Well, are you going to open it or not?"
He knelt down close to the wrapped box, inhaling deeply to see if it was anything pungent contained inside, but frowned when smelling only the paper and the adhesive from the tape. Carefully he reach out with one hand, tugging with his finger underneath the fold of paper to see if it would tear with the minimal amount of force used by him. As he continued to fuss with his task, he felt someone brush up against the side of his coat, tracking hair on his Belstaff as she leapt up onto the table beside the mysterious gift. Lucy didn't seem to share his apprehension, because she crawled up upon the package, chewing on the bow between her sharp teeth as if it was the bones of a fish. He acted quickly without thinking, plucking her up from under her legs, bringing her to his chest protectively.
"Oh you unintelligent animal. You're lucky I decided to save your life from a—"
"Handgun?" John interjected. He had managed to take the package from the table before Sherlock could protest, peaking inside as he had torn off the wrappings and the lid. "A Smith and Wesson 38 special, and with the five inch barrel too."
"Really?" He dropped Lucy on his armchair, prompting a hiss from the feline before she scurried off the piece of furniture. Stepping over the wrappings on the floor, Sherlock peered over the lip of the box, taking the revolver before John could put his hands on it. He had seen the chrome finish and the coal black butt of that particular handgun before, and it fit into his hand the same way as it had the first time he had held it. "Well this is something. A Christmas gift sent in confidence, what a clever way of reaching out."
"There's a phone in here as well," John said, reaching in to turn the mobile on. "The number is no longer in use, and there's nothing stored on it, but the lock screen reads 'Happy Holidays'."
"That part is meant for you."
John's eyes widened with realisation. "You mean this is from Avery?"
"Correct John. This is the exact same revolver I fired at her wall."
"She certainly has a cute sense of humor. I guess she didn't want there to be any bad blood between us after she disappeared." John said as his thumb traced over the screen of the phone.
"I would like to have her on our side given the state of things," He looked over the 38 in his hand, something close to a smile threatening to break out on his face. "What do you say John, would you like to find our head of security?"
"But we don't even have the first idea of where to look . . . or do you?"
"We know her last place of business, and the few people she associated with."
"Not to mention the past few weeks of her life story are up on display in your bedroom," John pointed out casually while fighting a smirk. "But hang on, why did you lie to Lestrade and say she was on holiday? He could have been of assistance."
"No, she's no longer in the country."
"I won't even ask how you know that."
John sat back on the couch, fiddling with the phone in his hand while Sherlock finally got around to shedding his coat and scarf. With the weight of the handgun still in his palm, he continued to pace the floor back and forth repeatedly, placing together pieces of his strategy in his head. He hated to think there was nothing more to be done that day, but the boredom was already setting in, along with a bad ache for nicotine.
Taking two long strides, he quickly found his patches, slapping two on his arm before he was overcome with irritation to bark out demands for his secret stash of cigarettes (that didn't exist). He exhaled in relief as the subtle smoothness of the nicotine patches were already bleeding into his system, fixing his addled nerves. The boredom still wasn't cured, but looking down at what lied in his hand he knew he could rectify that quickly, and he lifted his arm up straight, clicking off the safety before firing at the wall. He watched as John's hands flew to his ears, covering them from the loud sound as pieces of drywall fell in flakes to the floor. His flatmate shot him an incredulous look without speaking, and he grinned back in return as he heard the door downstairs slam opened, their landlady's usually soft voice carrying up the flight of stairs as she sternly scolded.
"Sherlock Holmes, you are paying for that wall!"
So the first case came to an interesting end. Keep it in the back of your mind for later, because its conclusion is important. Now Avery has been moved someplace else, damn that Mycroft (who we love anyway) More on Garon, I love the mixed feelings you guys have on him by the way! Let me know your thoughts!
