Chapter Thirty Seven.
While Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen, and they waited for Cassia to finish in the shower, John decided to tidy away the bed linens from the chairs and couch, folding firstly his own blanket, then Sherlock's, then carried them over to the couch where he placed them neatly on the end seat cushion, and set about folding the blanket that Cassia had used, placing it on top of the others, along with the pillows, smiling softly to himself because they were still warm from her body.
As he moved around the couch, straightening the cushions and pushing them back into place, his foot caught on something, and he looked down to find that it was Cassia's sketchpad, which had been propped up against the side of the couch.
He bent down to pick it up, meaning just to put it back, but as he lifted it, the air got between the pages and they fanned open, giving him a brief glimpse of some drawings on a few of the pages.
Curious, he flicked up the cover sheet, and was suddenly confronted with a stunning charcoal sketch of his own face smiling back at him.
Wow…
He let out a startled gasp of surprise, stunned by just how accurate and alive the picture seemed to be, even down to the slight hint of amusement in his eyes.
It was astonishing and it took his breath away momentarily.
He carefully lifted the next sheet, noting as he did so that a sheet of paper had been torn out of the sketchpad between them, and found a sketch of 221B's living room, perfectly reproduced in every minute, masculine, disorganized detail, so accurate and so three dimensional, he felt that he might just be able to step inside it.
On the next page, he found the sketch of Holmes.
The portrait was so realistic, for a moment, Watson almost expected it to snap something caustic and sarcastic at him.
She had captured the very essence of Holmes beautifully, his smug, aristocratic, haughty features, those sculpted cheekbones, the long face and the bold chin, and those eyes...
It was stunning in its beauty and accuracy, but she had also, somehow, miraculously caught his complexity, those beguiling eyes, full of intelligence, and yet, an air of innocence, the haughty expression softened by just the hint of a sweet smile, and that sweep of fringe, falling softly over his brow.
The image on the page almost made him want to weep because it was almost as though it were alive.
It was also obvious that the artist had created it out of affection.
"Sherlock, come and look at this," Watson called out, and Holmes appeared in the kitchen doorway with a frown on his brow.
Watson took the sketchpad over to Holmes and held it out to him.
Holmes was pre-occupied, his mind on not burning the toast which was on a low setting under the grill, while also contemplating what the day ahead held for him, but as Watson held the sketchpad under his nose, he had no other option but to give it his attention.
He recognized the pad as the one that Cassia had been using the previous afternoon, and expecting to find some idiotic squiggles, recalling that she had told him that she was merely doodling, Sherlock was surprised to find the monochrome sketch of his friend and colleague, John Watson, jumping off the page, and it immediately grabbed his attention.
He snatched the sketchpad out of Watson's hand, walking somewhat unsteadily across the room to the window so that he could get a better look.
It was an exquisite piece of work. A lightness of touch, technically brilliant, but also possessing a unique sensitivity, and, as he continued to look at the sketch, observing each nuance and detail, it suddenly occurred to him that he recognized the artist's style.
Holmes flipped over the page and found the sketch of his living room in all its glorious, riotous detail, and then he turned the page, noting the mkissing sheet of paper and realizing that it must have been where she had drawn the sketch of Mrs Hudson, the one he had taken little notice of because he had still been half asleep, and found himself faced with a very familiar countenance, and the breath suddenly caught in the back of his throat.
Dear God...
The sketch was absolutely the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen, not because of the subject, but because of the way that she had drawn it.
She hadn't just captured his likeness to the tee; she had also captured his personality, character and spirit.
She had been kind, ignoring the obvious signs of his present illness and weariness, but she had also kept it pretty damned honest.
Holmes was both amazed and touched, for he recognized the warmth and affection with which the artist had committed the image to the page, whilst marvelling at the technical brilliance, the clever use of light and shade, the weight of charcoal against the paper, the pen strokes, the perspective and the minute detail that brought the image to life, and he suddenly knew exactly what he was looking at.
Luca.
The name suddenly popped into his head as he continued to marvel at the sketch.
In the months when he had been laying low and maintaining the illusion of his death, London's art world, and the newspapers had been awash with the news of a new and exciting talent emerging.
Luca.
Just a name to begin with.
A prominent gallery had shown the artist's work over several weeks, and, incognito, Holmes had managed to get in to see a preview viewing, just to see what all the fuss was about and to relieve the boredom of being dead.
He had been surprised by the amount of work on show.
Usually a showing only had a few pieces, a taste of what the artist could do, the rest held in reserve, but, what had impressed him most of all had been the standard, and variety of the work on display.
It seemed that this artist could turn their hand to any subject matter.
There were beautiful rolling landscapes and stormy, roiling seascapes, grand mountains and stark, empty beaches and desert scenes, so vibrant and alive he could almost hear the motion of the sea, almost feel the heat of the sun and practically see the clouds scudding across the sky.
They were so alive it was eerie to look at them, rows and rows of oils, and watercolours jostling for position on the gallery walls.
There were still life's that looked anything but still and lifeless, and both human and animal subjects, pencil sketches and pastels, as well as charcoal drawings and water colours, and oils, giant canvases and miniatures, all crafted with the same beautiful technique and each giving the sensation that far from being inanimate, they were living, breathing creatures and people.
Technically they were brilliant, light, but confident brush and pen strokes, the perfect use of light and shade and colour, all caught the eye and drew the viewer in, so much so that one soon found oneself mesmerized.
Indeed, they were so good, Holmes had briefly considered buying a piece as a future investment, but, then had realized that that would have been rather difficult for a dead man.
He had left the gallery with a lasting impression of the work, and had then begun to pay more attention to what those in the know in the art world in London were saying about the artist.
It transpired that there was as much interest in Luca, as there was in the work, for the artist remained something of a mystery.
No-one even seemed to know if Luca was male or female, although the name inferred masculine rather than femanine.
The gallery claimed never to have met the artist.
Indeed, they made a big show of revealing that they had worked exclusively with an intermediary who represented Luca, and that they had been forced to work under a confidentiality clause that also protected the identity of the advocate working on the artist's behalf.
At first, Holmes had considered it a stunt, a ploy to create more interest and hike up the prices of the work, and that at some point there would be a big splash of publicity, and a big 'reveal'.
However, the quality of the work, he had judged for himself, was excellent and stood on it's own merits, not needing to be promoted or hyped up, and reported sales seemed to back that up, and as the days and weeks rolled on, and the show got more and more publicity and the artist, more praise and acclaim, no-one came forward, and the gallery issued a press release stating that the artist had made it clear that there would be no personal appearances and definitely no interviews.
The press, nevertheless were ruthless in their pursuit of Luca's true identity, but alas, thus far, they had come up blank.
Luca was a pseudonym. That much was obvious.
No-one needed to have a massive intellect and superior powers of deductive reasoning to reach that conclusion.
However, Holmes had seen the significance immediately.
Luca.
San Luca.
Saint Luke.
The Patron Saint of Artists and Painters.
And now, he knew who Luca was.
She had just spent the night on his couch.
Now it all fell into place and made sense.
Obviously, he still had no idea who Luca/Cassia Ingram really was, but, he did know that she had not tried to deceive him or trick him after all.
She had simply been maintaining her anonymity.
"She's very talented," Watson observed as he saw the expression of utter amazement on Holmes' face, especially as he scrutinized the sketch of himself and the gentle, loving way it had been drawn.
"Yes she is," Holmes answered somewhat absently, still rather in awe of the way that Cassia had depicted him, the way that she saw him, and her ability to bring all of that to life on a blank piece of paper. "Brilliant."
Suddenly, Holmes' expression changed to one of wide eyed incredulity, and then, just as suddenly, morphed into a look of glee as he span around to face his friend full on.
"John, I'm a dolt!"
"No argument from me..." Watson responded, and then frowned as he recognized the look on Holmes' face and the spark of fire in his eyes.
"We've been going about this all wrong," Sherlock elaborated.
"What are you cooking up now?" Watson asked, suspicious because Holmes' suddenly looked more animated than he had seen him in days, and he had that look on his face, the one that annoyed Watson so much.
I know something that you don't know... So there!
"I've been a fool, John."
"Like I said, no argument from me..."
"You're repeating yourself again, my friend!"
Holmes turned back to the window, glancing briefly down at the street as he grew thoughtful.
Suddenly he turned around and began to walk around the room, the fingers of both hands steepled against his chin, as though in prayer, and Watson watched and waited for that Eureka moment he surely knew was coming.
"We still have time..." Holmes was muttering to himself as he began to pace up and down. "And I think there might be a way for us to do this without Cass having to go through all the emotions involved."
He handed the sketchpad carefully back to Watson as he walked past him, moving purposefully toward the living room door now, calling out as he did so.
"Cass! Cassia? Are you decent...?"
"Sherlock! Don't you bloody dare go barging in there!" Watson exclaimed in horror, realizing where Holmes was heading.
"I have no intention of barging in anywhere. Cass!"
Holmes bellowed advancing through the living room door and out onto the landing, where he almost collided with Cassia Ingram as she emerged from the bathroom, now dressed in fresh clothes and her loose hair damp from the shower.
There was a soft flush on her cheeks, no doubt from the heat of the shower, and she looked startled as she almost barrelled into Holmes chest, and he suddenly grabbed her by the hand and pulled her behind him back into the living room and to the couch.
"Sit," he commanded, then softened his tone slightly. "Please," he added, then crossed the room and snatched the sketchpad from John Watson's fingers, turning on the spot, no sign of dizziness or loss of balance now, just excitement and barely controlled jubilation, and advancing back towards where Cassia Ingram had sat down on the couch with a hearty sigh, a wary, crestfallen expression on her face.
She saw the sketchpad in his hand and knew that she had given herself away.
Damn him!
Oh well, you got what you wanted sooner than you expected, after all, Sherlock. I hope you're happy!
The look on Holmes' face, the twinkle in his eyes, they all proclaimed, loud and clear, that he knew who she was.
Or at least, he thought thathe did.
"You drew these?" he waved the sketch of Watson under her nose. "These doodles?"
"Yes, Sherlock. You know I did," she sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping now.
No point in denying it when he had seen her with his own eyes.
"They're exquisite by the way, and to call them doodles is an insult to your talent, Cass."
"Thank you. I think..." she frowned, surprised by the softer tone of his voice now.
"I'm so sorry, Cass. I've been a brute to you..."
"I beg your pardon?"
The words were out before she could stop herself.
That was the last thing that she had expected to come out of his mouth, however, there was such a look of sincerity on his face as he continued to regard her, she could not help believing that he meant it.
Even Watson could not hide his surprise at his friend's sudden change in attitude.
"I've behaved abominably and treated you disrespectfully, and you do not deserve that," Holmes went on, unabashed now. "Alas, that is who and what I am. I cannot change my nature. However, I do realize that I have been insensitive, and I would understand completely if you no longer trusted me, or wanted to work with me."
"Sherlock, you ninny, will you please just get to the point, before we both get another year older..." she urged.
"I've been a fool..."
Twice in one day!
Bloody hell, Sherlock, don't lay it on with a trowel!
"I'm sorry. I got tunnel vision. It happens some times. I get an idea into my head and I can't shake it, but, I see things differently now, and I realize that we have been approaching this from the wrong direction," he explained hurriedly in excited tones now.
"I have an idea, but I don't know if it is even possible," he rushed on, looking very pleased with himself. "But, if it is, I think there may be a way to get the information we need to get this killer off the streets, and in such a way that will hopefully alleviate the problem of your being overwhelmed by the killer's emotions. Will you hear me out?"
"Of course, Sherlock. I want this resolved too. But, I want you to promise that whatever happens, you will go to the hospital with John straight after."
Her fingers fluttered briefly to her temple, indicating to him that she was aware of his still considerable pain.
Holmes nodded in understanding, beginning to believe that she really could feel his pain along with him.
"Well, not straight after, Cass, John and I have a pre-arranged appointment to attend first, and that if what I have in mind works out, we will by necessity have one more stop to make, but yes, I promise, after that, I will go willingly."
"Ok. I'm listening, so, fire away," Cassia invited, sitting back and making herself comfortable in her seat on the couch, feeling a little more benevolent toward him now that she had a good night's sleep under her belt, and realizing from his manner that he might really be on to something positive.
"Thank you," Holmes gave her a small, genuine smile now. "Right, I need some information from you first though. I'm rather out of my element with this," he admitted. "Last night, you indicated to us that the spirit world were concerned for your safety and wanted to protect you, and to that end, they deliberately blocked your ability to see. You made it clear that if they refused to co-operate, you were helpless."
"Yes," she confirmed, regretfully.
"What if there is a way to get the information that we need, without all the anxiety and upset? What if you didn't have to dream?"
"Go on," she invited, curiosity sparkling in her eyes now.
"Do you think we could try what we did the first time you came here to tell us the details of your visions?" he asked as he squatted down before her, wanting to be at the same level as her now, his electric blue eyes dancing with life.
"Do you think you could put yourself back in to your vision, your dreams, but while you are wide awake?" he asked, regarding her with expectation. "I definitely need you to be wide awake," he continued. "As you were then, that first time we spoke of this business. Do you think that the spirit world would peel back the veil and allow you to see again?"
"Perhaps," she sighed softly. "What are you getting at, Sherlock? What exactly is it you want?"
"Do you think that you could negotiate with them?" he persisted without revealing anything of what was on his mind. "Does it work like that?"
"I don't know. I've never tried it. I can ask."
"Good. Please do."
"So what is your plan? What do I tell them you need?"
"I would like you to try to reach the children, Cass, and see if you can get them to describe to you, or show you, whatever it is they do, however it works..." he gave her a rueful look then.
"I want you to get them to describe in as much detail as they can, what they remember of the man who took their lives, and then, I want you to draw him," he declared waving the sketchpad carefully under her nose once more.
Oh my God!
Why didn't I think of that!
"Perhaps you could also draw the children," Holmes added as an after thought. "And then, John and I could take the drawings to Inspector LeStrade at Scotland Yard, so that he can distribute them to other Forces around the country and they can then cross reference them with known offenders and any missing children reports."
"You want me to draw an identikit picture of the killer?" she repeated, still silently chastising herself for not thinking of this herself before now. "Sherlock, that's brilliant!"
Cassia's face suddenly erupted into a wide, eager smile.
She had known that left to his own devices, Holmes would come up with something.
She had said as much last night.
He wasn't the kind of man to rest on his laurels, or to admit defeat easily, and she had felt sure that he would have continued to seek a solution, right up to the last minute, even while she slept.
He hadn't disappointed her.
It was the perfect solution.
If they could do it.
If she could do it.
"Could you do it, Cass? Do you think it's possible?"
"Yes, Sherlock. I think so," she didn't doubt that she could produce a good enough likeness, but she still had concerns about her reaction when she came face to face with the killer, or what spirit would make of the request.
"If my guide can get the others to co-operate, to bring the children forward, it might work. They will, of course, be more concerned for the welfare of the children, and might limit my access, but yes, I think I could swing it, but, you'll have to promise to be patient and gentle."
"Anything, Cass. At this point, I will do anything; promise anything that it takes to get the right result."
"Ok."
Cassia smiled softly down at Sherlock, a look of genuine relief on her face now, as she contemplated that finally, she might be able to do something positive to help him complete his part in this business.
"Good. How soon can we get started?" Holmes asked excitedly, anticipation dancing in his eyes now.
"I don't know. You'd better let me make contact with my spirit guide and see if they're willing to put the children through that."
"Very well."
Suddenly an acrid smell wafted in from the kitchen, and the smoke detector on the hall wall began to beep urgently.
Oh drat…
"In the meantime, my friend, you'd better go and rescue that toast, before you burn Mrs Hudson's house down."