A/N: Unbetaed, not Brit-picked, and I don't own a thing.
Chapter 11: The Adventure of the Lonely Thumb
The light was mostly gone by the time they arrived at the crime scene. Only police officers were still occupying the ground – a park on one side of the Thames. A sergeant there greeted Sherlock. It seemed that Lestrade had told them to expect a visitor.
"We already got the idea to who might be the murderer, Mr. Holmes," said the sergeant, "It's a rather trivial case, you don't actually need to-"
"Where was the thumb?" was the first thing Sherlock said. No greeting whatsoever.
The officer was taken aback a little, "Thumb?" He looked puzzled, before he realized what the detective was talking about. "It's about a meter up the bank from the body. In a jar, too. Boy, these gangsters-"
"Show me where it was," demanded Sherlock with his usual annoyed and uncaring countenance. The sergeant winced a little before turning and leading them to the site. He tried to chat up Sherlock a few more times but failed miserably since, by then, Sherlock was already focused on the case. He didn't care about anything else aside from the thumb and the circumstance it had been in when it was found. The sergeant could give little clue to that as he was not in the team that scout the area.
He let Sherlock examine the place freely, but kept an eye on John and very cautiously on Ciel.
"You must be Dr. Watson," he greeted John at last, "Detective Inspector Lestrade and Miss Donovan told me about you. I read your blog, too, you know."
"Yes, emm…why, that's a surprise," John replied with a polite smile. Honestly, it was not entirely unexpected.
"I've never seen Mr. Holmes do that, you know," said the officer, "I don't think he can do much about the thumb, though. It's a complete mystery. A dead end."
Somehow, John felt offended by the comment. "Well, shouldn't you at least let him try?" he asked, reflexively standing straighter and crossing his arms.
"Of course. The DI told me to, anyway," the man shrugged. It was then that Sherlock walked up to them, looking passionless as ever. But something in the gleam of his eyes told John that he found something on the bank that no one had seen.
"Got everything, sir?" asked the sergeant.
"Yes, thank you," replied Sherlock as he walked off, not caring to explain to the sergeant or his two companions who had been waiting quietly. He just led them away from the park and into the street.
"So was there something there?" asked John, trying to discern whether Sherlock was happy or stuck.
"Nothing much," replied the detective, "I just confirm my hypothesis."
John frowned. "You mean you already know what it's all about before we got here?" he asked in disbelief.
"I have some ideas. Now I'm certain where it's going," said Sherlock, looking over his shoulder. "You two will need energy. Let's grab some Chinese."
They went into a small noodle shop close by. The place was crowded with people who wanted quick bowls of warm soup before they headed back home. John, however, knew it was going to be a long night. He ordered a big plate. Ciel followed his lead with a smaller one. Only Sherlock was there without the food, just some more caffeine from a pot of green tea.
"So, what are we after?" asked John as he munched on his Chow Mein.
"The thumb owner, of course," said the detective nonchalantly. John choked on the noodle.
"You mean the person's still alive?" John asked.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He replied, "Honestly, John. People don't die because they lose a thumb."
"With infection and improper treatment, that's possible," said John sternly; "So you're certain he's still alive? He might be hacked to pieces already."
"John," Ciel warned and John shut his mouth just in time as a girl walked passed them.
The doctor cleared his throat with a "Sorry" before resumed to munching down more calories.
The young man stole a glance before resuming his plate as well, "I'm fine with nasty talks over meals, but you might want to keep your voice down a bit."
"He's not dead, John," murmured Sherlock.
"Why?" asked John; "Someone who put a thumb in a jar might be interested in putting other things into other jars, too. Sounds almost like you, actually."
Sherlock let a small smirk come through before he resumed to his usual self. "I have an impression that you think whoever put it in a jar is a psycho-exhibitionist."
John nodded, but Ciel objected, "If he or she really is a psycho-exhibitionist, John, it would have been bolder. We'd probably have a full exhibition rather than just a thumb."
"My thought precisely," Sherlock added;"This is a call for attention from a reluctant accomplice of the captor. Most likely a female. She left the jar in a public space so someone would find it and call the police. It would go into the news due to the sensational nature of it, and they would have heard."
"And flee," muttered Ciel. He swallowed his last bite and slammed the chopstick down a bit too forcefully, a bit too angrily. "Where do we start, then?" he asked.
"The garbage," replied the detective.
They were out on the street in fifteen minutes, scouting every dump sites and backstreets near the park. John found himself literally ankle-deep in garbage at one point while following Sherlock who was more focused on the window above than whatever at his feet.
The dump sites were the places Ciel wouldn't follow them in, not for the life of him. He would stand further away with a frown of disgust and wonder as he watched Sherlock dived into the site without ado. Nevertheless, the young man would always have a thumb on his fancy phone to mark the place down if Sherlock told him to.
"I still don't see why you think the garbage dump has anything to do with the room we're looking for," said Ciel after their third time venturing into such a place, voicing John's own curiosity which the doctor didn't feel like asking, yet.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder with raised eyebrows. "I thought you follow," he stated with a mild surprise which seemed to irritate the young man more than he would admit.
"I understand up to the part that the jar was from garbage, obviously, but that said nothing of the room or the building. You were looking up to the windows right above the sites, so, logically, I would think you think that it had fallen down from a window which is just one of the possible scenarios," clarified Ciel.
"What other do you think there is?" asked the detective, and John thought he heard amusement.
"Well, there is a possibility that the jar came directly from the flat that the person was held in. Whatever caused the thumb to be cut off might as well happen in the flat and the thumb was sneaked out later."
Sherlock seemed to mull over the idea for a few seconds with a faint 'hmmm' before he spoke, "Possible, but less probable."
Ciel frowned.
"If the thumb was cut within the room, it wouldn't have dropped far from the captor who, by all mean, wishes to keep his kidnapping a secret. He would rid that thumb as soon as possible but without the actual need to hurry. Therefore, he would finish up whatever he was doing before flushing the thumb down the toilet."
This time, it was John's turn to frown. "Why a toilet?" he asked.
"Most efficient way to get rid of a thing of that size without possible discovery. His accomplice wouldn't have a chance to get to the thumb in that case."
"Maybe she was able to snatch it without him knowing?" John offered, and Ciel looked at him expectantly.
"She had to be quite lucky. She would need an excuse to be out long enough to reach the park. He would have discovered her intention and the thumb would have been retrieved very quickly."
"Okay," muttered John as he licked his lips, "so from your line of logic, what most likely happened was the thumb had fallen out of a window."
"With great risk of being discovered and the task at hand, he would have told her to go down and get the thumb before anyone found it. That was when she thought up the plan. She put it in a jar found in the dump site and hurried off to the park. She would have the excuse to be out for a considerable period of time."
"But she would be back without a thumb," Ciel interjected, "Wouldn't that draw suspicion to her as well?"
"Might have, but she need to risk it. Possible excuses are abundant."
"Yeah, I can see that," said John, "but, Sherlock, there are still tens of flat above dump sites around here. How do you know which one might be it?"
The detective's reply was "I'll know."
The doctor exchanged a look with Ciel. They said nothing.
It didn't take that long to find the flat, John was quite surprised when he saw his friend grinned at the drain pipe running down the wall next to a fire escape. He looked up, scanning the length of the pipe, before his eyes spot something on the second floor. "There they are," he whispered. John saw nothing.
"What?" asked the doctor.
"Don't you see the cut on the drain pipe?" he said excitedly, pointing to the second floor, trying to show them the said cut in the dim light of an back alley. John could barely make out a dark gash among other shadows.
"That's it?" he asked.
"That's all we need for now," replied the detective as he signaled Ciel to mark the location down and retreated from the alley. "Now we need the police. We won't get that standing in a backstreet."
"They are not going to make a move just because of a gash on the drain pipe," muttered Ciel; "We need convincing evidence that there has been a kidnapping going on."
"Of course," Sherlock agreed with one quick look to the young man; "You'll get me that evidence."
John Watson would be lying if he said he wasn't furious. "Ciel is not going into that place," he hollered; "I won't allow that."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "If they recognize us, they'll be alarmed," said the detective calmly.
John bristled. "I don't care. Ciel is not going into the den of a psycho-kidnapper who just cut a thumb out of his captive."
"John, you're making a scene."
"Yeah? You know how to stop me."
Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "We don't have time for this."
"This is a bad idea." The doctor turned to the young man and punctured his point. "I'm not letting you in there, not for the life of me."
Ciel nodded in acceptance and John felt a bit more relaxed, just a bit, before he realized that the young man was not actually looking at him, but at his flatmate who stood just behind him in the same line of sight. That realization, however, came a second too late as the young man started to run. John automatically followed but Sherlock pushed him back. The doctor stood dazed for a moment before he tried again to push through, but his flatmate pushed him back again, this time enough to shove John to the ground. John looked at him, but there was no explanation. Sherlock was simply looking down at him with not a tad bit of emotion. That only elicited anger from John.
"I can't believe it," the doctor muttered between his teeth. "You just let him go off like that," he stood up, "him of all people. You- HOW COULD YOU!"
"I said before that someone might recognize us," muttered Sherlock, "Now play along."
Before John could understand what was going on, Sherlock punched him in the face.
Ciel ran with all he could to the front door of the apartment building flustered, panting and terrified. He took the quick glance at the intercom buttons before he pushed 'Office'.
A male voice answered him, "Yes?"
"Please, can you let me in?" He pant, "Please, I need a moment," he gave a quick glance over his shoulder, "Someone's after me. I need a place to hide. Quickly. Please."
A large man in security uniform came to the door just a moment later. Upon seeing how flushed and distress the young man at the glass door was, he buzzed him into the common area.
"Thank you," said Ciel. "I'm sorry. It's…it's a stupid fight, but I need a place to hide or he'll kill me."
At that point the security was concerned enough to suggested calling the police. Ciel shook his head. "Please, don't. He's just mad; he'll calm down. If you call the police he'll be after my head for sure."
The security looked unimpressed but seemed to get the idea. "Your boyfriend?" he asked.
Ciel managed to look embarrassed and nodded slightly.
But it worked better than he had hoped. While the security sure thought this was a hassle, he didn't force Ciel out the door. Instead, he took him to a small office down the hallway so he could keep an eye on him. Ciel asked for half an hour. The man quietly agreed.
The young man was given a seat on one side of the room. The security resumed his place at the desk in front of a dozen of monitors. With his head turned towards the wall away, Ciel could openly observe the room as he wished. He spent a few minutes watching the display from over the security's shoulder. There were only monitors for building doors and elevator. He then turned to a floor plans on one wall. There was clearly stairs inside the building.
It was ten minutes in before Ciel told the security he would be stepping out to make a phone call to his friend, complaining about lack of signal inside the room. He nodded, busily filling out something in front of him.
Ciel slipped out of the room that way. In all appearance, he was calling his friend to pick him up in half an hour so he would have someone to help him handle his vicious boyfriend. In reality, he was calling Sherlock Holmes.
"Brilliant. Now try to get the room number," murmured Sherlock into his phone while wiping his bruised lips. John was a good fighter alright. They were convincing enough to have people shouting for police, but, of course, they ran off before the officers actually arrived. John was also with bruises – Sherlock didn't actually back down just because it was for show. But the doctor had taken much more than this. Bruises didn't bother him at all.
After exchanging a few more words, Sherlock hang up and rested his back against the wall. The fight had drained them both considerably.
"God, I need more exercise," muttered John, breaking the silence in the backstreet they are standing in. "So what are we doing now?"
"We wait," Sherlock replied, "We'll give him twenty minutes before we pick him up."
"And you said we aren't supposed to show up there."
"Not if we are after something else."
John frowned, "Excuse me. What are we doing again?"
"Ciel just made up a story that you are his boyfriend in need of anger management and completely mad at him. I can easily pretend that I've been working on your case."
"Is that what the fight is for?" asked John, bemused; "You…when did you two agree on this."
"It wasn't agreed prior to this, John. I simply suspect that it is something he would attempt seeing how he sprinted away from you. Us fighting would make it more believable. We simply put the plan together along the way."
"Wow," uttered John weakly, "You two would make a great team."
At this, Sherlock narrowed his eyes and turned to John, "What do you mean?"
"I mean the way you seem to understand each other," John replied rather brightly but his posture faltered… very slightly, "He's a very bright kid. He'll go far."
They stood in silence for a few moments long enough for John to feel like an idiot saying what he had said. Why was he insecure anyway? It was not like this was his life. This was Sherlock's adventure; he just tagged along, being a walking talking skull Sherlock could blast his genius at and that was all.
He didn't notice Sherlock moved into his personal space until the detective was almost breathing down his neck. He jumped a bit as his head shot up, seeing something pensive in Sherlock's eyes.
"John," he began, "I think you need to know that your company is invaluable to me. While I agree that Ciel is a smart person and can be trained to be fine detective and colleague, he cannot be trained to replace you. Your combat skill and medical knowledge is far more essential than another jabbering head."
John found his month ajar by the end of the little speech. He willed himself to shut it. "Why, that's…" flattering? He wasn't sure what he should say. He did feel a bit flattered, just a tiny bit. "And jabbering head? Didn't know you are the type to make fun at yourself."
John was sure he saw an upturn of Sherlock's mouth. "I didn't say whose head is jabbering, John. And I think that was hardly funny."
The doctor chuckled.
They stood there in comfortable silence afterward, and John wondered what Ciel was up to.
It was easier than he thought getting up to the second floor without anyone noticing. The security was at the door looking out after hearing about a fight in a street nearby. And it was not like he was away for long. He got up there, paced quietly through the hallway to where he was sure was the room, remembered the number, and got back down.
He spent the next ten or fifteen minutes acting a distressed young man just had a fight with his lover. Then Sherlock called, and he just needed to act a devastated client in front of the security.
They were out of the area in ten minutes to join John at another location.
"You little rascal," muttered John exasperatedly and fondly upon seeing them, "if you ever do that again."
"We're clear now, John. That speech is unnecessary, don't you think?" said Ciel with a teasing smile. His eye was still a bit red from the attempt to look frightened and stressed out. He, then, turned to Sherlock, "And it's Lysander Stark on the nameplate. His flat on the second floor has three bedrooms. Should be all facing the backstreet by the look of the plan."
There was a strange glint in Sherlock eyes the moment the name was spoken. John had never seen that glint before. "Tell me everything," said the detective.
They sat down at the coffee shop a moment later and Ciel told them everything he saw in that half an hour inside the building, describing possible partitioning and floor plans he had seen in the office. How he was certain of the flat number and the name of its occupant. They even looked up the internet to check for advertisement on the building.
It was strange for John to see Sherlock so focused, not that he typically wasn't. He was quizzing every detail and reasoning Ciel presented with no sign of contempt. He was seriously assessing the young man, and John swooned a little knowing that his young friend had earned respect from one of the most proud person in Britain. How he wished he could elicit that kind of respect from Sherlock sometimes.
After the intense session which John spent mostly sipping a cup of coffee, his friends sighed in exhaustion. The amount of mental capacity involved must have been immense.
"If I were to be introduced to you now, I would have thought you are a professional just by how observant and adroit you are with the whole operation," Sherlock murmured.
It seemed to startle Ciel a bit, just a bit, before he shook his head with a smile. "Just luck," he replied. "I simply took in what was already there. A professional would be able to elicit information deliberately."
Sherlock nodded sipping a bit on the cup of coffee on the table, which unfortunately belonged to John. The doctor eyed his flatmate before letting out a sigh.
"Great. So we got the name and the reason to suspect something's going on, but what do we do next?" asked the doctor.
"I would have suggested moving in, but it's a family complex, not bachelors. We can't really do it without being scrutinized," replied the young man.
"And it would be a big waste of time and resource as well," added Sherlock. John thought he could hear the gear in his flatmate's head turning. "We'll break in."
They'd gone through the plan twice before they reached the same backstreet they had been in earlier. They managed to find a place behind dump site to sit and silently observe the light from the flat. Sherlock was radiating impatience during the hours that the light from the windows had been on. Still, he managed to sit still, his eyes occasionally darted to the room next to the drain pipe. Not a single gleam was ever seen through that window.
During that time, John could make out an outline of a woman. He could only imagine what it must be like for her right now. What she might be thinking after placing the thumb in the park. What this was actually all about. Why the kidnapping. There was so many questions that John had to stop asking before he drove himself into frustration.
Hunching next to him was Ciel, for once allowing himself into close proximity with a garbage bin without complaint. He was hugging himself as it was a rather cool night. John could smell rain in the air.
It must have been hours of staking out in the backstreet before the light finally went off. Sherlock looked at his watch and waited, still. They agreed to give it an hour before breaking in.
When the time came, they didn't even have to speak. Sherlock turned to them and gave a curt nod before he got up from behind the dump bin and walked to the building. The fire escape was up, but Sherlock was able to get it down surprisingly noiselessly in no time. John followed him in a heartbeat, climbing the ladder just behind the Detective.
He wasn't actually quite prepared for Sherlock to bring out a glass-cutter, complete with suction cups, and started working on the window oh-so quietly. Before John could ponder on how his flatmate managed to get such equipment, the piece of glass was pulled out, and Sherlock quietly opened the window to let them in. John turned to Ciel one last time and with a curt nod disappeared into the flat.
Ciel looked at his watch then. The plan was to give Sherlock fifteen minutes to investigate the inside, probably located the captive and freed him, before Ciel called the police to report the break-in. The clock was set, but he had another call to make before that.
It didn't take long before his call was picked it up. No one ignored his call, not even if it was one in the morning.
"Aberline," he muttered, "I need you to do something for me."
The room they came in was completely dark, and, god-blessed, unoccupied. It was not even a bedroom as floor plan made it out to be. Nobody would ever sleep in a room stink of ink with a machine sitting in the middle of it.
Sherlock moved to open the curtain wider and let more light in. Their eyes were used to the dark by now thanks to hours of sitting in the shadow in a backstreet, but it was not enough to examine the detail of the machine. The Detective moved closer, avoiding stacks of papers as he passed. John, on the other hand, occupied himself with something he could see which was, unfortunately just ink cartridges and papers. They were strange kind of papers too from the feel at his fingertips, but oddly familiar. And they had loads of them, but for what…
It was then that realization came to John, he gasped and turned to Sherlock who, upon hearing the gasp, also turned to him and nodded. John swallowed and gestured for them to move on. They might start to grasp the true nature of this case, but there was still the person they must save; that was, if he was still alive to be saved.
Sherlock slowly and quietly turned the knob and pushed the door open. Nothing stirred and John was able to breathe a bit easier. They walked down the hall, passed the actually bedroom where they know the two occupants were in, and approached the other door. If Sherlock was right, the captive should be there. John would be able to assess his condition and decided whether they should alter the plan and called for help right then.
They stood on both side of the door as Sherlock gently pushed it open. They didn't hear a thing coming from the inside nor were they able to see anything through the small crack. Sherlock pushed it open a bit more and John could hear something shuffled, a strange shuffled, it sounded like…
John pushed the door back and rushed in. There was a small yelp but he managed to quiet it. The detective followed closely behind him and sat down in front of a disoriented man. He was cuffed to a heater with just a thin blanket to sleep on. His left thumb was clearly missing even under a bundle of bandages. It reeked of blood, limp and disinfectant. However, it didn't take a doctor to see that they man was suffering from high-fever and delusion caused by the infection of his wound.
"You're safe now," muttered Sherlock as he quickly scooted to the cuff and started working on it. John needed to hold the phone for him so his flatmate would have enough light to work with. The only thing he could do for the man, then, was talk to him.
"Victor Hatherley," muttered the man, still disoriented and scared, "You the police?"
"The police will be here very soon," assured John. Their fifteen minutes were almost up.
Victor, however, didn't seem to get it. "You not the police?"
"We work with the police, don't worry," said Sherlock. He managed to get the cuff off just in time when the hallway lit up. Victor shrieked and John cursed under his breath. Their perpetrator was awake.
A man rushed to the room in no time. In his hand was a club, but it was no match with John's gun and the man knew it. They stood in a stand-off for what felt like an hour before John take out his phone and, without taking his eyes off the perpetrator, pressed for 999.
It was then that the man dug and rushed off. John shoved the phone back into his pocket and sprinted right after. He followed the man to the print room, but the door shut right in John's face. The doctor let out a loud curse. He tried to open it, but it was locked. He kicked it opened in two tries and rushed in, but the man was gone, out the open window. John followed quickly.
As soon as his head popped out, droplets of waters hit his face. He let out another curse as he realized that the chase would be far more difficult with the rain pouring. He couldn't let that bastard escape, though.
"John!" he heard a shout. It was Ciel half way down the alley motioning him to follow. "This way!"
John basically slide down the ladder and started to sprint. So was Ciel. They were going as fast as they could, but John started to notice that he had no problem catching up with Ciel at all. Military training had made him more enduring in desert and London rainstorm. Soon he was able to see the figure of a man running in pyjama bottom. He sped up a bit more, trying to gain on him, but a loud splash had him turned. Ciel was down in the puddle groaning and cursing. Another footstep gained on them from behind. It was Sherlock who was still focus on getting the man. John's body was telling him to run ahead, but…
"Just go!" shouted Ciel; "I'll be fine. Go!"
John nodded. He turned and ran with all he had to catch up with his flatmate.
It didn't take long before they approached the main street, fortunately occupied with police who rushed out of their car and caught the man in the pyjama even before the perpetrator even realized who he was looking at. His less than adequate clothing would have brought him to attention anyhow, but it was good that someone stopped him before they actually have to chase him down the road of the forever busy London.
After subduing the man, one of the police turned to them. John realized then that their circumstance was as suspicious as the man himself.
"Alright gentlemen, can you tell me what's going on?" the cop asked.
John swallowed between his breathing, trying to remind himself that they needed to omit the break-in part. "He ran out of a flat through the window in a rush, so we decided to chase him down," answered the good Doctor. He gave them the description of the building. "You might want to check the flat," he added.
"We'll do that," replied the police; "And what were you two doing in the backstreet?"
The only thing in John's head, then, was 'Oh, Fuck'. How was he supposed to avoid mentioning the break-in now.
Suddenly, he felt a hand placed on his shoulder as he felt Sherlock pressed himself against John's side. His hand slowly, pointedly slid down his back to rest against his hip.
"I don't think that is your business, gentlemen," said Sherlock, accompanied by some eyebrows rising from the two coppers. The doctor coughed and then, in turn, wounded his arms around Sherlock's waist in mimicry to his flatmate's action. He flashed a nervous grin.
"He's impatient, you see," he said and left the rest to imagination.
The police seemed to have a wild one at that as their eyebrows disappeared into their hairlines. But they decided to focus on the subject at hand and called for backups to investigate the flat – just as planned. They asked for John's and Sherlock's name and contact information before letting them go.
By the time, the rush from the chase had somewhat wore off, and John slumped unceremoniously against the nearest wall. God, running in the rain was actually a bit harder than in the desert.
"John?" asked Sherlock, understandably concerned, but John gave him a grin. "I'm fine," he said; "I really need more exercise."
Sherlock nodded in agreement. He waited a moment to let John catch his breath before they headed back to get Ciel. But after a few steps, Sherlock's phone chimed. It was Ciel message saying that he was alright and that he had already headed home.
"I doubt he'll come with us again," said John; "This is rather rough for a first-timer."
Sherlock replied with a disagreeing humph. They turned to the street and tried to hail a cab for Baker Street.
TBC.
A/N: So, how do you like my take on "The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb"? I personally am not a fan of this particular story because I feel like it is a bit of a letdown, so I decide to turn it around. Like? Dislike? Please leave a comment. Thanks!
