The taxi ride to Gower st. was long and silent save the dull hum of city life zooming by in floods of noise and light.
John closed his eyes and tried to block out the propellant of cars, taxi's, faces, street corners and all that was carnivalesque about their great city.
Balls of bleached light zoomed by the windows and bled in through the thin layer of eyelid shutting John away from the world. The lights drew red and orange shapes behind his eyes and danced in unattainable swirls. Faces flashed in sharp pangs beside the twirling lights and John tightened his face in futile efforts to bash them aside.
Ralph. Vicky. Greg. Sherlock.
Every face brought with it reformed guilts and retiring detriments and in the grips of his mental paralysis, sharp, gnarled claws reached out from the darkness and burst through the fountain of lights. John slipped resultantly into his stream of consciousness.
Greg Lestrade sat nursing the hunched form of his boyfriend in the centre seat of the taxi. He lazily rubbed small circles with his fingertips into John's neck in an effort to sooth the knots of tension which stiffed his body. He stared out the window and sighed as street by street they made their way closer to the end of their line of enquiry.
"What does it all mean?" he asked, more to himself rather than to his comrades.
"Once again you're asking the wrong questions, detective." Sherlock sighed, tracing his fingers along the path of racing beads of rain on the cabs window, in their desperate dash for survival only to crash and disintegrate into the windows rubber frame.
Greg looked towards Sherlock's slouched form. He wore a dark suit and white shirt beneath his trademark high collared coat, but something looked… different about the man. His face seemed softer, less bone and more flesh, like he had gain several pounds by dressing himself. His eyes were dark but warm compared to the icy blue/green they sometimes reflected in the light. Overall Sherlock Holmes looked more… healthy and alive.
He smirked weakly before responding, "What questions should I be ask so, smartarse."
Sherlock twisted in his seat beneath the constriction of his seatbelt. His pupils blew out into eclipses and his mouth curled into its usual Cheshire cat grin.
"Let us look to all the facts we have. We have already established who killed Vicky Vance, the evidence is as plain as day. We know that some formal arrangement must have ensued between Ralph and Vicky Vance to do with the maintenance of the building due to the legal papers she carried with her. We also know that Ralph's business wasn't doing well judging by the frankly dilapidated state the shop was in. He couldn't pay for the upkeep or the renovations that the authorities were demanding. So the question is whether 'V' wanted to buy the building off him or to take it by force of legalities."
Greg shifted in his seat and leaned over John's dazed form.
"If she wanted to expand her business dealing in London it would have served local business' brilliantly. A high-end fashion designer moving into a relatively small area of town. If she had threatened his with a court case that would explain his rage."
Sherlock pondered this for a moment and brought his hands to a point over his lips.
"No. No there is something more to this."
He tapped his fingers together in drumrolls
Tat-tat-tat-tat.
Tat-tat-tat-tat.
Tat-tat-tat-tat.
In one moment, Sherlock drew a sharp breath into his chest and help it, releasing it slowly and with ease and pleasure as a wave of information flooded into his mind.
"Who sent us the tape?"
"What?" Greg asked, bewilderment musing his face.
"The tape! Who sent the tape? Ralph wouldn't have sent his own conviction to the police, the English police force no doubt. It is all over the news that the American forces have taken over the case so why would someone send it to the NSY?" Sherlock was practically jumping in his seat as he spoke.
Greg shrunk back as the animated man's eyes before him glossed with excitement.
"Someone who wanted New Scotland Yard to get the credit for the capture."
Greg connected the web of dots Sherlock had shown him and his eyes narrowed at the picture they formed.
"You can't honestly believe that it was someone on our own force that sent the tape! That's completely…"
"Idiotic? I know. Most of the staff in that place are though. Stupid enough to want all the credit." Greg stared penetratively at Sherlock's bouncing form.
"Don't take it personally, almost everybody is to some degree an idiot."
Greg rolled his eyes put played along. He would have to suck up his pride for the sake of prevailing justice.
"Ok. I'll bite. So we have to establish if any of the staff in the Yard has any connections to the Vance family or to the… the… John? Jooohn? What is Ralph's surname?" Greg cooed to the hunched man to his side.
"Majhskdk" John pushed through his tired lips, his eyes still closed and his face still in his hands.
"He's Russian?" Sherlock cocked his eyebrow questioningly.
John straightened himself in the seat and squared his shoulders, letting Greg's hand slip from his neck.
"Matthews. Ralph Matthews."
Greg sat in silence and remembered just that day the short nervous man who had hacked the emailed from his account, his beady eyes hidden behind thick rimmed glasses.
"Matthews." He sighed loudly.
"What? What? Who? Who is Matthews?" Sherlock shot his questions to the shocked detective inspector.
"Daniel Matthews. He's an IT techy in the office. He deciphered the email I got from… from…"
As the pieces slotted together Greg gasped and brought his hand to his mouth.
"He was right under our noses this whole time." Greg growled balling his hands into tight fists and trying to maintain his breathing.
John turned to Greg and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"It's ok, love. I know for a fact that Ralph doesn't have any children which must make Daniel his nephew or godson or something." John soothed Greg speaking to everyone.
"But why would Daniel want to convict his uncle or whoever he is to prison? Up until this point there was nothing leading to Matthews' residence."
"We're about to find out" Sherlock spoke gravely as the cab pull up to the side of the clothes shop, to Lost souls inn.
Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Greg Lestrade hopped out of the cab and sprinted to the front door of the old, time-worn building. Sherlock slowed the crowd with his arm and pinned his ear to the door.
John and Greg watched as Sherlock's expression changed from blank to curious to heightened animation.
"Two male voices. One old, one young. Can't hear specifics. Oh, wait. Something something 'contract', 'will'. Ah ha! Inheritance. Got you now Daniel."
Sherlock turned back to John and Greg and asked, "Did either of you bring your guns?"
John threw his arms up in the air and Greg stared at the consulting detective.
"No I didn't bloody well bring my gun with me" John threw back at the younger man.
"I left it in your flat."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Why in the world would you leave it in our flat when there is actual danger here."
"I've taken the precaution of always bringing my gun to your flat for fear that one of your experiments has come to life and might start a rampage on the city!" Greg aggressively whispered to Sherlock, who only groaned in response.
"Ok. So now what?" Greg continued after a few moments of tangible aggravation between all parties.
"You know jiu jitsu, Sherlock. You might finally come in useful at a throw-down." John sarcasictaly suggested.
"It's Bartitsu, you moron." Sherlock scowled at John.
"I don't care what it is, just use it!" John shouted in a whisper.
"Yes and the velocity of a bullet can be impeded by the speed of my feet! You were a soldier, as you like to keep reminding us. Go on. Do something soldiery." Sherlock whispered aggressively back.
"Keep that tone up and I'll do something very soldiery to you, prick!" John's eyes narrowed and a silence ensued between the two men.
"Ladies. Calm your tits. Listen." Greg sighed and planted his ear to the door.
The room was silent.
"Quick. I think they heard you two bickering." Greg stood up from the door and braced himself. In one, two, three strikes, DI Lestrade kicked in the worn lock on the front of the shop. He grabbed his badge and held it up in full view of the occupants. The unarmed DI, unarmed soldier and a consulting 5 year old crept quietly through the open door.
The shop was dark and empty, save the dim light of an energy-saving bulb, swinging from its plug from the force of the door. The finely tuned ear of the DI twitched as the dull murmur of hushed restraining echoed from down the passage to the general store room.
John surveyed the area, knowing exactly where they might be hiding admits the railings and shelving. He stepped out of the huddle towards the front desk when he was stopped by the force of Lestrade's hand clasped around his wrist.
John turned and was spooked by the sheer terror in Greg's eyes.
"Don't. Please." Greg mouthed noiselessly and squeezed John's wrist tighter.
They stared at each other for a long moment before John sighed and returned back to where he stood behind Greg who reluctantly let go of his wrist.
Looking behind at John and smiling weekly, Greg called out to the empty room, "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. Please come out slowly and quietly with your hands where I can see them."
The room filled with a desperate tension as the sound of movement from the storeroom amplified in the sharp silence of the vacuum.
A parade of twisted limbs emerged from the darkness as a small dark hair man clutched the shop owner around the throat with his left arm, pointing a sharp letter-opener against the sinewy neck of the elderly man.
Ralph Matthews cried quietly in the grasp of the young man and reached helplessly towards John's stunned form. A large slash gaped open on his forehead and dark blood trickled into the deep wrinkles of his eyes and cheeks.
John could taste bile in the back of his throat at the sight of his old family friend bound and injured in such an indignant manner.
"Daniel-", Lestrade spoke in a soft but authoritative tone, pointing his fingertips and ID badge towards the perpetrator. "-this doesn't have to end like this. You're a good kid. Let the man go."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Or are you the sort that likes to be tied up? " Daniel spat ferociously, thick veins visible on his neck and temple, an American twang in his accent.
Greg, Sherlock and John looked from one to the other, genuine confusion laced in their features.
"You what?" John asked, his brows knitted together.
"You've an American accent?" Greg dropped his hands slowly, easing the tension that had built between the two sides.
"Are you sure this is Daniel?" John continued speaking much more relaxed than he should be to Sherlock and Greg.
"Oh it's him alright." Sherlock spoke.
"What?" John and Greg asked simultaneously.
Sherlock turned and lowed his rigid hands to his side.
"Daniel Matthews, my dear friends, is in fact Ralph's son."
"What?" once again Greg and John spoke as one.
"Will you please stop doing that? It's rather annoying." Sherlock twisted his lips and nose into an irritated scowl before turning back to the hostage situation and continuing, "You're how old? 25-26? Which would make your birth year late 80s. Funny how you were born around the time that Lost souls inn disappeared off the map. You were one of the first children to be adopted by gay parents in Britain. You used to ask yourself why did you have two daddy's when every other boy and girl had a mommy?"
Daniel twitched and licked his lips, his gaunt face trickled with sweat.
"Do you know what is was like? Growing up with two fathers! The other kids teased me for years." He shouted pinning the blade further to his father's throat.
The three men raised their hands in protest to calm the situation, their eyes wide with fright. After a few minutes of heavy breathing Sherlock continued.
"Your father's moved to America when you were born, a more understanding and liberal country in the 80s, to raise you. But let me tell you now. It wasn't the fact that you had two fathers that resulted in other boys and girls teased you. That was just children being children. You had adapted a British accent off your parents and the other children were just picking up on that. Innocent and harmless. But you saw that because you had two father and other children didn't that they were the reason you were being picked on."
Daniel furrowed his eyebrows and dug the blade deeper in Ralph's neck, a tiny trickle of blood rolled down the length of skin.
"You grew to hate everything about your parents. They loved you and went to great lengths to ensure your happiness, you were better looked after than most children of heterosexual couples. Private schools, tutors, sports scholarship, top class at university graduating at 18 years of age. There are very few in the world as fortunate as you. But you weren't happy with all of that because you were different. Your difference moulded you into the highly successful man you are today. Am I right Lestrade?"
Greg was startled by the sudden urgency his words would weigh. "Y-yeah. We had a battle against other companies' f-for your employment."
Daniel relaxed his hand and the blade released the father's skin from its grips. Ralph whimpered from the release and screwed his eyes shut. Whatever Sherlock was doing, it was working. Very, very slowly, Sherlock urged his way towards the desk and John followed suite, barely noticeable to the naked eye.
"When your family returned to England to look after this place, you were set to inherit it all. You took a job here in London and everything was going great. You would set up your own business and live here, happy as a clam."
Daniel's face relaxed, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.
"How can you possibly know all of this?"
"Well it's simply a matter of looking in the right places. For example by looking around this place I can tell you have a very keen eye for…" Sherlock began to rattle of his deductions, a distraction no doubt to give Greg and John times to think of a plan.
John spied as Ralph raised his hand up to the blade, which was now resting on his shoulder. John locked eyes with the elderly man and they stared knowing to ready their positions.
"…and at the way you tie your shoe laces…"
John touched Greg lightly on the back. The DI looked to the tensed prepared form of the elderly gentleman, who by this time had his arm placed between his pressure point and the letter opener.
Both men stared as Ralph readied himself.
The tension mounted and Sherlock just kept talking.
"Really? And what about if I had used a different detergent?" Daniel asked, forgetting himself and falling, like an insect into Sherlock's trap.
Ralph met Sherlock's eyes and nodded. John and Greg held themselves at the ready.
The game was set.
"Then that would lead to- VATICAN CAMEOS"
In a flurry of limbs, Ralph dropped out of Daniel Matthews' loosened grip to the floor. Sherlock hurled his large frame across the desk and slammed the young man's wrist into the wall. One, two three hits and the young man's bunched hand relaxed and the blade fell to the floor. Lestrade climbed the counter and pinned Daniels small frame to the back wall. Sherlock searched the desk and grinned as a long clear length of zip-tie flopped in his hand. He locked the perpetrators wrists together and threw him to the floor. The dull thud of bone crashing against carpet sent a chill through John as he nursed the superficial wounds on Ralph's neck.
It was all over in less than 10 seconds.
"Nice job" Greg smirked, patting Sherlock on the back. They watched as the small man wriggled on the ground. Greg picked his mobile phone out of his pocket and called for backup officers.
When he finished the call, Greg studied the tall, proud form of the consulting detective he had grown to admire over the years. He thought about the changed exterior of the once stern, unfeeling being that so easily let the lives of the innocent wash away and was capable of causing further physical pain to the dying.
This was not simply the Great Man that he told John about during the drugs bust in their flat all those years ago. Sherlock Holmes had become a Good Man. By his affections and his companionship he had become more than a man, he had been humanised.
Sherlock turned and smiled. He pointed to the wriggling man and giggled.
"The frailty of genius, it demands an audience."
Greg laughed heartily at the irony. He checked his watch. It was nearly 3 am. Greg stalked towards Daniel on the floor and bent to look directly into his eyes.
"What were you doing here his late in the night with your father? We're you expecting us to come?"
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I may as well finish my deductions before you are taken away." His face contorted into a hateful grimace as he looked at the small narrow face of the young man.
"You did some research into the history of the building, so you would be able to modernise it when your time came. But you didn't expect to find out the true history of what happened here. When you found out that it was an establishment for gay men to meet and date, you were enraged. That was how your fathers' met and this building was the reason you are lying on that floor right now. You couldn't handle the thoughts of keeping the historical 'den of solicitude' open under your name. So you brought it to the attention of your father here with us. Having a great fondness for the memories that the place held for him, Ralph drew up a new will that stated that you would only inherit the building if it were to remain untouched. It could be revamped alright but no wall was to be knocked, no brick to be removed. This further enraged you."
Daniel snarled on the floor, twitching violently as Sherlock's narrative hit all the spots correctly.
"It was then that you decided to contact 'V', an old childhood friend you had made on her frequent trips to the States as a child. You told her than the building was in desperate need of repair but that your father was unwilling to do anything about it. You told her that if she were to settle the legalities that you would sell her produce rent free. What you didn't expect was for 'V' or Victoria as you have always known her as, and as how you addressed her in your email to our dear DI, to die by the hands of your own father."
Ralph, who had been quiet up to this point, began to sob solemnly cradled in John's arms.
"You're plans were ruined by the man you had blamed for the teasing and the name calling you endured as a child. So you decided to get your own back on him by exposing his crime and because you work for the Yard you would be indirectly praised for bringing down your own father. Well done, I say. Bravo."
Sherlock mockingly clapped and the young man rolled on the floor.
"Gentlemen, it seems we've got ourselves our very own gay-hater. Did I miss anything?" he smirked, curling his lips in a devilish grin at his own success.
"I would have owned this place. But at least he will rot in jail for the rest of his miserable existence. You're all nothing but dirty fa-OOOOF"
The young man cried out in pain as the toe of Greg Lestrade's shoe sharply collided with Daniel Matthews' stomach.
"You ok, son? Looks like the 'shock' is setting in." Lestrade spoke, very diplomatically.
"I wholeheartedly agree with you" John spoke aloud.
"As do I." Sherlock tapped Greg lightly on the back and both men smirked as a team of officers barged in through the front door.
John whispered to the weak, blood-soaked elderly man in his lap, "I'm so sorry, Ralph. I r-really am." John cleared his throat and tried to maintain his composure.
"I know. You do the right thing. I'm old anyway. I've done my living. I've travelled the world and raised a son. Some people never get the honour of either. I'm happy knowing that I tried my best from him. I would have given him my blood. But it seems blood just wasn't enough. I'm sorry. I'm so terribly sorry for the pain we have caused you."
John smiled weakly as a single tear streamed down his cheek. "It's ok. No bother to us young men."
John and Ralph looked at each other knowingly before they both rose off the floor.
Ralph nodded to Lestrade and walked proudly towards the arresting officers.
"My name is Ralph Matthews and I am responsible for the death of young Victoria Vance." He held his hands out and the officer slapped handcuffs on his narrow wrists.
As father and son were walked in handcuffs out of thee building, Greg walked towards John and pulled the shorter man into a tight hug.
"It's over. It's done," he cooed into John's ear, threading his fingers through the older man's blonde hair.
"I just want to go home at this stage" John sighed before the DI captured John's lips tenderly in his own.
Sherlock stood awkwardly watching as his two friends kissed.
"Hmm. Right ok. I see. I will. Just. I mean. I'm going to… ok. Right." Sherlock stalked out of the building, leaving the two men alone and giggling at their clueless genius.