Sherlock was standing next to the faceless corpse of John Douglas, but he was not looking at it. He stared off into space, a look of shock on his face.
"Um, Sherlock," Molly asked hesitantly, "Are you ok?"
Sherlock looked down at the body again. Fine, it was Douglas. So his initial theory was wrong, that was all right, maybe there was something else going on and this case was actually interesting enough to make it all the way to a ten. He would have to gather more data, because the ID had to be correct, the DNA couldn't be wrong. Because Hamish was HIS.
Sherlock spun around, acknowledging the presence of the other people in the morgue. "Lestrade!" he yelled. "Inform the members of the Douglas household that you plan to drain their creek first thing tomorrow morning."
"What!" Lestrade answered. "What creek?"
"The one in the front garden," John provided. "I noticed it when we arrived."
"Oh, that creek," Lestrade said. "But I need a good reason to authorize an operation like that, and it certainly won't happen first thing in the morning. Its too late tonight to organize anything. What would I be looking for, we have the murder weapon and the body?"
"The freak just wants to see us crawling through the mud," mumbled Donovan.
Sherlock growled and threw his hands up in frustration. "As much as I would enjoy seeing you all tromping through the muck, I honestly don't care if you drain the creek or not! I just want you to tell them that you are."
"Ok, ok, calm down," Lestrade relented. He got on his radio and informed the officers at the residence to notify Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Baker.
Sherlock quickly turned and rushed out of the room, his long coat flowing behind him. John hurried after him with a quick wave good-bye to Molly and Lestrade. John caught up just in time to be able to hop into the cab that Sherlock hailed. Sherlock, still agitated, gave the cabbie the address to Birlstone Manor.
Sherlock nervously tapped his fingers on his knees. What if Hamish was not biologically his son? He wondered if it was the biological connection that led him to quite unexpectantly bond with Hamish. Maybe that was why it took John longer to accept the baby. He frowned. He wanted to keep Hamish. He was composing a new lullaby for him on the violin, and was writing up some of his first experiments to share with the boy when he grew old enough. Would he change his mind if he found out the DNA results were incorrect?
John watched Sherlock stare pensively out the cab window, but assumed he was thinking about the case. "So what's in the creek?" he asked.
"I don't know yet," answered Sherlock. "But when a dumbbell is missing from a crime scene and there is a body of water nearby, it should be quite obvious to realize that someone has weighted down something and tossed it underwater. Since you don't have an umbrella handy that we can use to poke around the creek ourselves, we will let the guilty party do it for us. We will just have to wait and watch."
"We could swing by Mycroft's and borrow an umbrella if you don't want to wait," John quipped. The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched up a bit.
"That reminds me," John continued, "I saw Mycroft this evening, and I invited him to tea."
The smile on Sherlock's face turned into a grimace. "Why would you do such a thing?" he admonished.
"I don't know," John admitted. "He just looked like he wanted to spend time with Hamish."
Sherlock only groaned in response.
"Look, you can invite Harry over to get even at me," John offered.
This suggestion only made Sherlock wince more. "Do I have to be there while Harry is?" Sherlock asked.
"Only if I have to be there when Mycroft is," John replied. "Maybe we can both leave and Mycroft and Harry can just have tea." The two men stared at each other for a moment before giggling at the thought of their siblings having tea together.
"Oh!" Sherlock gasped and suddenly sat up straight. "A sibling! Of course!" He rubbed his hands together with glee.
"What?" John asked, not understanding the detective's actions. Sherlock looked over at John with excitement, but when he saw John's face his own fell. John wrinkled his forehead in confusion.
"John," said Sherlock slowly, "I don't think the body in the morgue is Douglas."
"But what about the identification, the mark on the arm and the DNA results?" John asked.
"I believe he has faked his death." Sherlock watched John as he said this. Would it bring back bad memories for his blogger? Would he be angry or sad? Still, it was best to deal with this now, alone, rather than when John's reaction might jeopardize the case.
"Oh," was John's only response, and he sighed deeply and sank into the cab seat. "Oh," he repeated.
Sherlock nervously squirmed in the cab seat. He had no idea what he was supposed to say or do. John had told him long ago to quit apologizing. Should he comfort him? How? John just stared out the window, not smiling.
"You know, John," Sherlock began nervously, "If I had confided in you, I believe you would have performed much more convincingly than Mrs. Douglas."
John scowled at Sherlock for a moment before bursting out in laughter. "She is pretty obvious, isn't she?" he giggled. Sherlock relaxed and returned John's smile.
OOO
As the cab pulled away from the entrance to Birlstone Manor, Sherlock nimbly lept up and over the fence.
"I thought they had motion sensors and perimeter cameras!" John called in a hushed voice.
"Oh, those have to be turned off now," Sherlock called back. "The police assigned to watch Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Baker are wandering around, they would set off the system. Now hurry up before one of them comes to this side of the yard."
John huffed, but after a few attempts he managed to pull himself up and over the fence, joining Sherlock in the heavily landscaped garden. There was no shortage of trees or bushes to hide behind as they crept towards the creek. They made their way along its edges from one side of the property to the other, before settling into a hiding place on the north side. Here the creek widened into a deeper pool before disappearing into an underground tunnel, and was the most likely place for a dumping spot.
John would never understand how Sherlock, a man so easily bored and demanding, could sit patiently for hours at a stakeout. It wasn't long before John himself was bored, and feeling cold and clammy from the dew. His shoulder was starting to ache, and his legs were stiff. He tried to silently adjust his position to a more comfortable one.
"I will dispatch a memo to the criminals of London," Sherlock whispered, "asking that they conduct their activities as regularly as the train schedule."
John glared at him in the darkness but stopped moving.
Finally they heard the rustle of foliage and the sound of soft footsteps on the ground. A figure, obviously male, crept to the shore of the creek and reached into it with a long stick. After a few tries he dragged a bundle up from the pool.
"Thank you, Mr. Baker," Sherlock said, approaching the man. Baker yelped in surprise and dropped the bundle. He turned to run, but was stopped by a strong forearm thrown up by a former soldier.
"You have prevented me from getting wet, and you can no longer deny your involvement," Sherlock continued. He bent to pick up the bundle, but before he could open it the officer assigned to Baker came running up.
"You there, drop it!" ordered the constable. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the young officer.
"I'm glad you're here," Baker said to the officer. "I caught these two men on the property."
Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could begin insulting both Baker and the officer John broke in. "Just call DI Lestrade," he told the young man. "He'll straighten this out."
"Yes, yes he will," the officer replied, getting on his radio.
Lestrade was not pleased at being called to return to the crime scene at such a late hour, but it took him less than thirty minutes to arrive. The bundle that Baker had pulled from the creek contained bloody clothes, which Lestrade immediately had sent to the lab, and he ordered Baker to be taken back to the station.
John stepped away while Sherlock and Lestrade argued over whether or not Sherlock should be allowed to interview Baker. He had promised Sherlock that he would occasionally call Mrs. Hudson to check up on Hamish, although he really hoped the baby was asleep by this hour. Unfortunately he could hear the cries as soon as Mrs. Hudson answered the phone.
"He's just fighting his sleep," Mrs. Hudson explained over the phone. "He did take a short nap earlier, but now he's just so tired, but doesn't want to sleep."
"I'm really, really sorry," John apologized. "I'll try to get back soon."
"Oh, don't worry about me," Mrs. Hudson said. "I just feel so bad for the poor little dear."
"Did she play the CDs?" Sherlock snapped loudly.
It took John a moment to realize Sherlock's question was directed at him, not Lestrade. "Um, did you play the CDs?" he repeated to Mrs. Hudson. Her answer indicated she was as confused as he was as to which CDs. "What CDs?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I recorded some of his favorite music for him," he explained. "I also recorded myself reading him some stories. They are on your laptop."
Both John and Lestrade smiled at Sherlock as John relayed the information to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock however was focused on the case again. "How about if I listen while you interview Baker?" he asked Lestrade.
Lestrade chuckled. "All right," he agreed. "But no interrupting me because I'm asking the 'wrong questions.'" Sherlock rolled his eyes, and headed to the street to catch a cab.
OOO
Lestrade had his police car, and arrived at New Scotland Yard before Sherlock and John's cab. He was drinking a cup of coffee outside the interview room when the detective and the doctor walked in. John was very jealous of that cup of coffee, and tried to stifle a yawn.
"You may as well go home," Lestrade told them. "Baker's not saying a word. He asked for his solicitor."
Sherlock scowled. "Your officer should have let me question him back at the house."
Lestrade only shrugged in response. Sherlock huffed and glared at the window of the interview room. Baker was sitting motionless in the room.
Lestrade cleared his throat. "So how's the baby-proofing of the flat coming along?" he asked softly.
Sherlock stiffened. "Fine," he muttered. Lestrade looked pointedly at John, and John realized he wasn't asking about the safe they had purchased for the guns and knives. John nodded.
"Good job," Lestrade grinned, taking another gulp of his coffee. "Now go home. I'll call you when I have something. And I expect you to do the same."
Sherlock pouted, but turned with John and headed out of the station and into a cab. John was pleased to note that it was silent when the entered 221b. Hamish was sleeping soundly in his crib, and Mrs. Hudson was asleep on the sofa. Sherlock frowned at her.
"John!" he whispered. "I need to be horizontal to think. I need my sofa!"
"You are not waking her up," John answered him. "She is doing us a favor. Lay down on the floor, or, God forbid, go get in your own bed."
Sherlock's scowl deepened and he flopped down in his armchair, sprawling out as horizontally as possible in it, resting his head on the back of the chair and splaying his legs out in front.
"I'm going to bed, I'll be upstairs if you need me," John said through a yawn. "Please don't need me for at least six hours."
Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared at the ceiling.