FYI - I'm going to switch back to UK spelling for now!
x
We settled on taking a cab back to New Scotland Yard, coming to the conclusion that the freedom of having our own car for the day (and the ability to push speed limits) would serve to be more efficient than relying on taxis.
"Just head towards Big Ben." John sighed upon shutting the passenger side door.
"Righto." The dapper old cabby nodded, "Music alright?"
We sat wordlessly in an attempt to concentrate on the inspired string and horn sounds that were ever so faintly trickling through the speakers, having not even realised that the low volume music had been playing at all. Not your standard soundtrack for a black cab ride, but seemingly fitting for the rather austere part of London we had found ourselves in.
"Holst is good." I stated politely, breaking the unsure hush. The driver shot me a warm grin in the rearview mirror before we took off, the orchestra beginning to swell as we drove past a ventriloquist shop, a boarded up pub, and a sombre corner grocery store with a flickering light. My gaze traveled upwards as a few raindrops splattered my window, the sky finally having something to show for its dreary behaviour all morning. I pulled out my phone to check the weather, realising that Mrs. Hudson had sent another series of texts.
9:46 Smart casual is well and fine.
9:48 A dress would be lovely though, wouldn't it?
9:54 You're going to a French restaurant that I can't for the life of me type out.
I became self aware of the fact that I was pulling a dour face when I tucked my mobile back in my pocket, having rather suddenly lost all interest in looking into the weather.
"Holst is good?" Sherlock repeated back to me.
"Are you challenging that statement?" I asked surprisedly, unsure what to make of his questioning tone. Though I had heard him casually play his violin, he had yet to properly speak on the hobby or offer much insight into his taste in music. It struck me in that moment that I hadn't even entertained the idea of Sherlock having favourite films or composers or musicians or artists. Entertainment almost seemed too trivial for the detective.
"Of course not."
I opened my mouth to respond, but as was the theme of the day, couldn't rightly think of what to say in return, so I shut it and simply nodded.
"You like this piece?" He prodded.
"Jupiter is my favourite of the Planets Suite, so, very much. Do you? Or are you more of a Mars enthusiast yourself?"
"Jupiter." He replied with a rare glint of fondness in his eye, "You're surprised?"
"I did place you in the camp of Mars, The Bringer of War as opposed to Jupiter, The Bringer of Jollity."
"Jupiter is rooted in philosophy."
"More so than Mercury? Analysis, Mathematics -"
"Someone care to translate?" John interjected.
"Care to? Not really." Sherlock replied simply.
"It isn't my desire to interrupt," The cabby stated after a few moments of silence, "but I'm a part-time usher at Royal Festival Hall. It would be amiss if you didn't mention to you that The London Philharmonic Orchestra is playing The Planets to close out their summer series. I do have vouchers for the venue that need to be honoured. Normally my daughters run them dry, but they're both studying in Glasgow this year…"
Sherlock absentmindedly (in appearances, though I could be certain the term could never sincerely be applied to him) toyed with his lapel as his attention seemed to be captured by the passing streets as opposed to the dialogue inside of the vehicle, though I certainly couldn't vouch for what was actually going through his head.
"It would be a shame if they were to go to waste," I acknowledged to the kind stranger, though my eyes were still stuck on Sherlock, "If you're positive they would go unused-"
"I am," He assured, "Just give me your name and I shall gladly place them in will-call. It's one of my favourite suites of the last century, so I'll confess I've been playing it in my cab as a sort of excited preparation."
"What's the date on that one?" John asked, not appearing to be as enthusiastic about the offer.
"Rather short notice, but next Friday."
"All yours, I'm afraid." John nodded towards me, his eyes crinkling as his face communicated covert disinterest that I instantly picked up on.
"Two tickets then. Evelyn Bennett." I smiled deeply, hoping he would notice it in the rearview, "I'm sure I'll be seeing you there, where I'll thank you again for your generosity." Quite frankly, I didn't expect Sherlock to come, but I had a fair amount of other friends in London that would be thrilled to spend an evening at the theatre.
The rain fell infrequently as the ride progressed. I was maddened by the weather's inability to commit, unsure why, and in turn was agitated with myself for letting something so mundane wear on my patience. I had to consistently remind myself to be gentle on my nerves, for the day was certainly as pressurised as one could be. John pointed the driver to the parking garage as we neared London's coveted clock tower, shouting my thanks once again as we hurriedly walked towards my car. Sherlock was meters ahead of John and I, so I took the opportunity to inquire about what I had personally deemed as the morning's most compelling happening.
"Sherlock cried earlier. Why?" I failed to hide my amusement.
"I can't believe you missed it," John said enthusiastically, "It was scary, honestly. We were speaking with Mrs. Monkford, trying to get information, when Sherlock lied about being her husband's friend as a probe. The waterworks turned on in an instant."
I squinted in reflection, registering that I'd missed much more than just Sherlock finding a business card for a car hire service.
John caught on quickly, giving me a breakdown, "The car had been rented by Ian Monkford. He was a banker, from the city. You saw the blood?" I nodded. "His. He had told his wife he was going away on a business trip," John tilted his head and remarked with an ironic tone, "Clearly he never arrived."
"Some trip." I grimaced sympathetically.
Instantaneously upon settling into the driver's seat a phone was held centimetres from my face, "Directions." Sherlock stated brusquely. I wrapped my fingers around the device, fighting off the urge to convey any exasperation. The ride to the car rental service was longer in mileage than I'd anticipated, but I made up for it by having as much of a lead foot as I felt bold enough to possess.
"It's closed." Sherlock commented as I pulled up to the curb.
"Janus Cars?"
"No, not Janus Cars. Eyes, John, use your eyes." Sherlock snapped and gestured to the clearly open rental agency across the street, "There's a cafe on this block. Closed. One of us may be inclined to make themselves scarce and wander that way for a drink, but it would be fruitless." He finished pointedly.
"And miss this? Never." I quipped with an unenthusiastic tone, "Strange name for a car rental agency, no?"
"Ancient Rome is trendy." Sherlock supplied.
"Janus, the two faced god of doors." I scrunched my nose, "Mercury was the Roman god of travellers and money… Mercury Motors!" I declared, "Missed opportunity, eh?"
"I can't say you're wrong," Sherlock grinned ever so faintly, "Here. Your penmanship is better than John's." He pulled a notepad and pen out of his coat pocket and flicked his wrist out as we walked. I looked between him and the papers before plucking them from his grasp.
"And this is for…"
"You're going to take notes."
Sherlock wasted no time in whipping open the business' front doors and seeking out the manager. He peeked behind the front desk before rather dramatically rotating in place, surveying all three hundred and sixty degrees of the space.
"Micheal Ewert. How can I help you boys?" A man declared as he emerged from a side door, "And lady, of course." He added with a patronising smile in my direction. Hates women? I jotted down out of spite more than necessity.
"We'd like to ask you a few questions about one of your clients." Sherlock explained.
The man's chipper facade faltered as he visibly racked his brain before inquiring, "You're coppers then?"
"We are not." Sherlock answered nonchalantly as his vision remained fixed on the rentals in the lot, "No need for concern. Unless, however, you -"
"I'm not concerned about anything I've done, no, no. You see, we have a collection of affordable vehicles, but when you have a hand in renting out luxury cars at any capacity, well, the clientele can be overbearing to say the least." He began walking towards the door he had originally surfaced from, beckoning for us to follow as he continued, "I've had men threaten to sue me over 'uncomfortable' seats, certain radio stations having too much static, windows not rolling down fast enough..."
"Would you say you've built a solid rapport in the years you've operated, Mr. Ewert?" I asked flatly, noticing that John had masked a laugh under the guise of a cough.
"With most I'd say, yes." He nodded, not picking up on the subtle jibe.
"Ian Monkford hired a car from you yesterday. Does that ring a bell?"
"Sure. A Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't forget that." He laced his fingers together over his stomach and leaned back in his chair.
Sherlock strolled over to stand beside Ewert's chair and pointed to a car in the lot, "Is that the one?"
As Ewert turned to see for himself, Sherlock took the opportunity to lean down and closely examine the man's neck. Ewert swivelled back into place and laughed, "No, mate. Those are all Jaguars. I can sense you're not much of a car man."
"You like Mazdas, though? Quality vehicles?" Sherlock persisted. I did my best to continue note taking, but failed to see how anything I could think to record at this point would be useful to us or failed to be remembered by Sherlock.
"Oh, they're superb. I wouldn't say no to a piece of machinery like that."
"And surely someone like yourself could afford one? Add it to the personal collection?"
"Listen, I always make this comparison; my wife, Sheila, she loves Maltese dogs. We already have three. If I popped down to the local pet shop and bought my lady a Maltese every time she mentioned wanting another, we'd have to buy a farm." At the mention, he picked a strand of dog fur off of his sleeve.
Sherlock ran his tongue over his front teeth as he continued to observe Ewert, apparently making up his mind to join us back on our side of the desk.
"Was Mr. Monkford a regular?" John inquired.
"No," He shrugged, "seemed like a normal enough guy, in good spirits, good taste in cars. Can I ask what happened to him?"
Sherlock ignored the question, "Did you have a nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?"
"Sorry?" He replied, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head.
"You've been away, haven't you?"
It was visible in his features when the recognition clicked. He seemed all too dismissive when he fluttered his fingers next to his cheek, "This is just - just tanning beds. Spray sometimes when my mum gets on my case about the health effects, all that. I work too much to leave the city these days." He chuckled.
"Have you got any change?" Sherlock persisted.
"Change?"
Sherlock rambled with mounting anxiety, "For the cigarette machine. It's rather embarrassing, but we've had a long afternoon and the thought of now having not establishing further leads is -" If my curiosity wasn't already peaked by whatever was motivating his current thought processes, it surely was now.
"I got it, mate. Just hold on. I'll check, alright?" Ewert cut him off and sighed as he opened his wallet, "Afraid I'm coming up empty."
"Very well then. No worries. Thank you for your time." Sherlock said cheerfully, catching us off guard by turning and taking quick leave. I didn't bother returning Mr. Ewert's smile as we left.
"Are you going to tell us what all of that was about?" John inquired, scratching his neck as he shot one more glance at the rental agency after our exit.
"I needed to see the contents of his wallet."
"What did that tell you?" I questioned.
"Everything I need to know. Mr Ewert is a liar." He smirked victoriously. His satisfaction was contagious, even though it hardly felt as though we played a part in any of his successes. The detective had been in his element the last couple of days, and as much as my nerves had been frazzled, I almost dreaded the excitement of this case being over. How would one return to normalcy after this? The thought of putting on a dress the following evening and simply going out for dinner seemed frivolous and uncanny.
"I can assure you these won't be of much use, but here." I tossed the notepad into Sherlock's lap as we jumped into the car.
"Bart's." He stated simply, flipping to the page I'd filled.
"On it."
I chewed on my bottom lip as I turned the possibility of the fastest route over in my head, abruptly making a u-turn and shooting us back towards the city centre.
"Good call." Sherlock stated, having not even removed his eyes from my slanting scrawl.
The hours between breakfast and lunch were bustling, with tourists and local students on summer holiday crowding the streets and jaywalking as they pleased. I took a deep, frustrated breath as a hoard of young boys leisurely strolled in front of my vehicle, some pausing in the middle of the street to take pictures of themselves around a broken road sign.
"This isn't half bad, you know. Verging on extraneous, but entirely up to scratch." Sherlock offered during the forced stop, finally closing the notepad.
"I'm glad," I raised my eyebrows in surprise at the unexpected praise, "I knew all of those afternoons filled with museum cataloguing had to count towards something."
I skirted around traffic cones and roadblocks because of summer construction, feeling relieved when I finally pulled in front of Saint Bartholomew's.
"Just drop me off." Sherlock stated, closing the door behind him before either of us could contest.
"What?" John asked frustratedly as he stepped out of the car, repeating himself with even greater and louder vexation, "What?"
"Go get lunch. You get testy when you haven't eaten, John - I'm just being proactive. Keep your phones on." He bellowed from the top of the steps before slipping inside.
John stood defeatedly outside of the car for a handful of seconds before running his hands through his hair and slumping into the passenger seat.
"Why do I feel as though I've been stood up?" John huffed.
"He has a point." I mentioned with a friendly smirk.
"I know!" John said loudly, "That's what's frustrating!"
"Why don't you pick a pub then? You're the connoisseur."
"Bishops Finger." He stated confidently, quickly abandoning any cantankerousness. "Park on the next block if you can."
My brown Oxfords splashed through puddles as the afternoon's unpredictable weather took an even soggier turn. We hustled into the comforting warmth of the old establishment, its storefront painted black with gold details and lanterns invitingly lit because of the stormy skies. The walls were lined with old photographs and paintings, the tavern not exceedingly busy but beginning to fill with patrons - many with dripping hair and noses red from the cold. I sipped from a cup of strong tea as we sat at our little corner table and waited for our meals.
"How's Sarah?" I asked.
"Sarah's good." John said bluntly.
"Is there cause for brevity?" I cradled the warm mug between my palms as I watched sheets of rain come down outside.
"No, no." He chuckled, "It's just that I hardly expect anyone to express interest. We get wrapped up in a case and everything else gets pushed to the wayside, and for good reason," he emphasised, "but it's to the point that I almost forget I have a personal life."
I recognised that though we lately had been spending the majority of our time together, we still had slivers of an existence outside of each other's company. I didn't take for granted our collective ability to devote ourselves to these cases, unsure how John was compensated for his efforts and grateful that I didn't have any financial worries or pressure to find a job. Even though I didn't receive or expect pay, I was certain that tagging along on these adventures was exceedingly more taxing and far more rewarding than any other legitimate or more sensible career opportunity I could pursue.
I hadn't realised how hungry I was until a plate of ham, eggs, and chips was set in front of me. John tucked into his steak and ale pie as I turned the ringer of my phone on, not wanting to miss any sort of communication from Sherlock.
"You're going to take him to the planet thingy?" John pointed to my mobile and asked through a mouthful of golden pastry and mashed potatoes.
"I don't know," I said sincerely.
"Do you want him to go?"
I popped a small chip into my mouth as I thought about it, "An evening at the theatre with Sherlock Holmes? I don't think I could pass up that sort of opportunity. Ultimately, though, it's up to him."
"As much as I'm sure he's wanting to go, you'll have to be the one to bring it up first." He smiled knowingly.
"I know."
He pointed his butter knife at me while chewing, a meditative look in his eyes, "You know what? I think you're very good for him."
"How so?" My cheeks betrayed me yet again that afternoon, but I hid my face behind my mug as I took a rather large gulp.
"You're very loosely wound, more patient than most, but simultaneously determined and assertive. You have a broad view of things, which means you can compartmentalise some of his more blatant quirks, while recognising that he does in fact have redeeming qualities -"
"You do realise that you could be describing yourself?" I added.
He paused mid chew and squinted one eye, "Patient?"
I frowned lightly, "I retract that statement."
"For the better." He smiled lopsidedly, "Either way, you're a positive influence, whether you accept it or not."
We took our time in the pub, drawing out our meals as we waited for any word from Bart's. John finally decided to grab an ale after an hour and a half of waiting.
"Is there any harm in just going to the lab?" I asked wearily, my cheek resting on my palm as I watched a passerby struggle to keep their Labrador from charging forward on its walk.
"I'm a notch," John held his pointer finger a centimetre from his thumb, "too stubborn for that."
"He never said we couldn't join him."
"He also told us to keep our phones on, which implies he'd rather summon us when necessary."
"He'd only rather you not be grumpy."
"If I have to resort to buying a second pint," he checked his watch, "then he need not worry."
I was lackadaisically flipping through a London events magazine when my phone finally vibrated.
Be here in five.
We made our hurried way back to Saint Bart's. It was refreshing to spend a proper amount of time alone with John, but I couldn't deny that as the hour wore on, I began to miss having Sherlock around to complete the trio. He remained rather secretive after climbing into the car, only guiding me to the police car pound to touch base with Lestrade. Once there, we naturally followed Sherlock, who was glued to his phone and continuously typing as we strolled. For the second time that day, we found ourselves in the company of the blood stained Mazda.
"Oy!" Lestrade called from across the lot as he strolled over, "All right?"
"Thriving." Sherlock tapped his foot.
"What have you got for us?" Lestrade crossed his arms and settled next to the passenger side.
"How much blood was on that seat?"
"Er - we got about a pint."
"No, not 'about' a pint. It was exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood is definitely Ian Monkford's, but it's been frozen."
My lips parted slightly in surprise when Sherlock made his findings known, thoroughly impressed by his discovery.
"What?" Lestrade's features scrunched in minor disbelief.
"Its previous state became very apparent as I ran my tests. Monkford had likely donated a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what was spread on the seats."
"Any inkling as to who spread it, though?"
"Janus Cars. The clue is in the name." Sherlock raised a brow as he glanced in my direction.
"It all seems so obvious now." I muttered.
"The god with two faces!" John said enthusiastically.
"They provide a very special service. Regardless of your troubles, whether they be legal, financial, marital - Janus Cars will help you disappear. Monkford was neck deep in something, odds-on involving money as he's a banker. There was no way out, was there? Aside from the ultimate way out. If he were to vanish and his car be found spattered with his blood, well, he's good as permanently gone."
"You know where he is." I gathered.
"Colombia."
"Blimey, that's a bit of a trek." Lestrade exclaimed.
"Mr. Ewert had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet. He had a very apparent tan line, which obviously doesn't coincide with his tanning bed excuse. Even if he weren't in his right mind, he wouldn't pop into one after work still sporting his button down shirt. Evelyn -" I lifted my eyes to his at the unexpected mention of my name, "you noted the irritation of his arm, his frequent scratching?"
"Travel vaccinations." I stated slowly, connecting the dots.
"Attagirl. In summation, Ewert had just returned from helping our missing Monkford to settle into his new life in Colombia. Mrs. Monkford will have cashed the life insurance and split it with Janus Cars."
Lestrade stood with a hand wrapped around his chin and a slack jaw as he processed all of the insight that had just been thrust upon us.
"What are you waiting for? Things to do, people to see, arrests to be made." Sherlock said matter of factly, giving him a light slap on the shoulder on our way out of the lot.
"First-class job, yet again." John remarked to the detective as we neared our parking spot.
"I know!" Sherlock declared, brimming with excitement and the thrill of the chase, "Time to get in touch with the captain of this ship - kindly let him know that the jig is up for Janus."