This story will closely follow the canon, meaning I found the transcripts of the episodes and used them. They belong to the BBC, Moffatt, and Gatiss, and I do not claim them as my own.
This will be a very, very slowburn on the Johnlock end, but Mystrade is established.
Also, I will be adding tags as the story goes along, so please be mindful of them regarding warnings.
"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" a reporter asked the man sitting next to her.
Detective Inspector Lestrade sat up straighter, "They all took the same poison. They were all found in places they had no reason to be, none of them had shown any prior indication of-"
Abigail Coleman wrote down every single word the Detective Inspector said in sloppy chicken-scratch in an A5 size spiral notebook. A twenty-year-old girl who had just started at Scotland Yard as Lestrade's "assistant." Really, she was just an intern; in charge of fetching his coffee, filing paperwork, doing whatever the Inspector asked of her. She had applied for the position when the position didn't even exist, coming in three times a week, extensive resume in hand, fresh out of the Academy, but refusing any position that wasn't with the Detective Inspector's, basically begging to get a meeting with Gregory Lestrade. She had been turned away seventeen times before she finally caught Lestrade in the lift, and took her chance.
"I've wanted to work at New Scotland Yard ever since I can remember, sir," she said to him.
"Why?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee as the elevator doors opened. He stepped out and made his way to his office, Abigail following on his tail.
"I've just always wanted to be a detective. I've looked up to you for years, read everything about you, the cases you've solved. Sorry, that makes me sound like a stalker."
"Yes, but why do you want to become a detective, Miss Coleman?" he took a seat at his desk, folding his hands on his desk.
"I-I…" she was caught off guard by the question.
"I'm sorry, Miss Coleman, but I can't give you the job if-"
"I just want to help people," she said quietly. "Isn't that why you do it, Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
Lestrade pursed his lips. He had lost track of how many times this girl had come in. Actually, from the second time she came in and when Greg actually read her file, he was ready to hire her, but wasn't sure if she actually wanted it or not. "Fine. You'll be my assistant. You start next week."
Little did she know, she'd begin her job smack in the middle of a serial suicide case. It was only her second day on the job when she sat in a press conference, dictating every word Lestrade said. Her writing was interrupted by a buzzing in her pocket and an echo of ringtones throughout the room. She took out her mobile to see a text from an unknown number that just said, "Wrong!"
Abigail turned to Lestrade to ask about it but noticed he hadn't touched his phone, just rolled his eyes.
"If you've all got texts, just ignore them," Sergeant Sally Donovan, the woman running the press conference, said.
Abigail shoved her phone back in her pocket, putting all of her focus once again on what was being said. She didn't actually know what was being said, she just copied the words she heard, then that night she would go over her notes, making sense of them.
They were once again interrupted by a unison of ringtones and buzzes, again the text saying, "Wrong!" Lestrade and Donovan looked extremely annoyed, telling the reporters to ignore it.
"One more question," Sally said.
"Is there any chance these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?" a female reporter asked.
"I know you like writing about those, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference - the poison was clearly self-administered," Lestrade answered.
She followed up with another question, "Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"
"Don't commit suicide."
Abigail couldn't help but smirk. She wrote it down and underlined it, three times.
Sally whispered something to him and he quickly rephrased his answer, "Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."
Again, the room filled with the sound of phones going off, and a text that said nothing more but, "Wrong!"
Finally, Lestrade took out his phone and grimaced at the screen.
"You've got to stop him doing that. He's making us look like idiots," Sally and Lestrade reached the office above the press room, Abigail following.
"You tell me how he does it, I'll stop him," Lestrade said, going into his office.
"Sir, do you know who sent those texts?" Abigail asked after hesitantly entering his office. Technically, they shared it now. Lestrade had set up a space in the corner for her; just a table and a chair.
"A pain in my ass," Lestrade grumbled.
"I'm sorry, sir, I just-" she started to her desk.
"No, not you. Him. He's a pain in my bloody arse."
"Who is, sir?" she placed her notebook down on her table.
"Sherlock Holmes," he sighed. "A 'Consultant Detective,' he calls himself. Only one in the world because he made the job up. Doesn't get paid or anything just comes in and solves the case when we're at a dead end. I don't really know how he does it."
"He's a freak, is what he is," Sally was standing in the doorway, arms crossed. Abigail tried not to flinch at the word "freak" and hoped Lestrade didn't catch her small wince. "If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times. He likes it. He gets off on it. Weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing 'round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."
"I don't really think…" Abigail started.
"You've never met Sherlock Holmes. Once you do, you'll understand. He's a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored," with that, she turned and left his office.
Abigail did some research on Sherlock Holmes that night, writing everything she could find out about him in her journal. She found his blog, "The Science of Deduction," and found it quite interesting. Although, she didn't really believe he could identify an airline pilot by his left thumb. He was an odd man, yes, but she wouldn't necessarily label him as a freak, or even a psychopath.
"Where are we going, sir?" Abigail asked Lestrade, who was sitting next to her in the driver's seat of a police car.
"They've found a fourth victim," he answered.
"Oh. So, are we going to the scene?" she hadn't yet been to one. Greg didn't let her go to the third victim's scene, giving her a pile of paperwork to do instead. She hoped she would at least be allowed to go to this one to see Detective Inspector Lestrade at work.
"No, not until later."
"Then where are we going?"
"221b Baker Street, to see Sherlock Holmes."
"Why?"
"This time, they've left a note. The rest of them didn't. So, now I'm bringing Sherlock in."
"Is that allowed, sir?"
"No," he smirked. "But, we're doing it anyway."
"Whatever you think is best, sir," she had taken to doodling in the margins, mostly circles overlapping themselves.
"What is it you write in that journal?"
"Everything, sir. I believe it's the best way to become a great detective, by studying an already great one." Lestrade didn't say anything, but from the corner of her eye, she swore he smiled.
They parked outside 221b Baker Street, but Lestrade had told Abigail to stay in the car while he went in. He wasn't in there long and when he came out, he had an accomplished look on his face.
"Well?" she asked as he got into the driver's seat.
"He said he'll do it."
Abigail looked out of the car window, "Is he coming?"
"With us?" Greg pulled back out into traffic. "Oh, no, Sherlock won't ride in a police car. He'll meet us there. Listen, he does this thing where-"
"Deducing?" she cut him off. "I read his website. It sounds pretty cool."
"Yeah, in theory. No one likes it when he does it though, it's kind of creepy if you ask me. Just, I don't think he means for it to be rude, but if he does it to you, ignore him."
She nodded, "I don't really mind, Inspector. I'm sure it's harmless."
"Suit yourself."
A cluster of police cars surrounded an abandoned house on a quiet street. While the forensics team worked upstairs, inspecting the body, while Lestrade and Abigail stood on the bottom floor, waiting for Sherlock.
"Hello, Freak," she heard Sally say outside in the street. Abigail peered out the door. It was drizzling rain, the only lights in the streets were from cop cars. Two men stood in front of Sally near the yellow police tape. The tall man, lean, curly dark hair, in a long trench coat, must've been Sherlock Holmes. As for the man standing with him, shorter, dirty blonde hair, with a cane, Abigail had no idea who he was. From what she read on Sherlock Holmes, she didn't know he had an assistant or anything.
"You didn't tell Donovan that Sherlock Holmes was coming?" she asked Lestrade.
"Absolutely not," he said.
"Freak's here. Bringing him in," Sally called over to Greg's walkie-talkie. Again, Abigail flinched at the word "freak."
As Sally led Sherlock and the other man towards the house, Anderson pushed his way past Greg and Abigail and outside.
"I take it he and Anderson don't like each other much either?" Abigail kept eyeing the group outside, trying to listen while also keeping herself present with Lestrade.
"Sherlock Holmes doesn't like many people," he replied.
"But he likes you?"
"That's debatable," he began pulling on a fresh pair of white latex gloves, already clad in a crime scene coverall. Abigail still stood in her work clothes that made her look like any ordinary work-woman: slacks, a blouse, and a coat.
She caught the last of whatever conversation was going on outside the door, "I'm not implying anything - I'm sure Sally just came round for a lovely little chat and happened to stay over. And I assume scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees —"
Abigail gaped at Lestrade, "Donovan and Anderson?"
"Do not say a word," he pointed a finger at her, trying to hide his amusement.
"Ewww," just the thought of those two together.
"Not a word, Coleman."
Sherlock and the other man walked into the dimly lit, narrow hallway.
"I can give you two minutes," Greg told him.
"I may need longer," Sherlock replied, striding past him into the kitchen.
The kitchen was set up as the operations base for the investigation. It was filled with policemen and equipment and harsh, portable lighting. Sherlock grabbed a blue crime scene coverall to the smaller man. Lestrade looked at him, then looked at Sherlock, "Who is this?"
The man looked surprised, like they met before, but Greg didn't remember ever seeing him. Perhaps the man was with Sherlock when Lestrade went to Sherlock to ask him about the case, but he was in and out so quickly, Lestrade probably paid no attention to him.
"He's with me," Sherlock said and the man started to put the coveralls. "Who is she?" he motioned to Abigail.
"She's with me," Lestrade answered, crossing his arms. "Really though, who is he?"
"I told you— he's with me."
"Aren't you going to-?" John started to ask, but Sherlock gave him a look that simply said, "No."
"So, where are we?" Sherlock asked Greg.
"Upstairs. Coleman, put that on," he pointed to the last coverall sitting on the table. She quickly slipped it on over her clothes and white paper booties over her shoes. The gloves were a bit large for her petite hands, so she had little empty nubs at the tips of her fingers. As long as she could still write, she tucked her journal under her arm.
Sherlock followed Greg upstairs, Abigail and the man trailing behind. "Abigail," she whispered to the man on the stairs.
He turned to her and gave her a small smile, "John."
A woman laid face down in an atrociously bright pink coat and matching pink shoes in the middle of the room.
"Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards - we're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long - some kids found her," Lestrade filled them in. It was silence after that, except for the sound of a pen scratching on paper as Abigail took notes.
John looked shocked at the sight of the corpse as if he didn't expect it. Honestly, Abigail thought, did he think we put these on to play dress-up? She, on the other hand, wasn't paying attention to the dead woman, but rather to Sherlock Holmes, whose eagerness was obvious in the way he looked at the body.
"Shut up!" Sherlock looked at Lestrade. Abigail quickly put her pen down.
"Didn't say anything," Lestrade said, looking back at Abigail to ask if he may have said something and not noticed he had. She shrugged, she didn't hear anything.
"You were thinking. It's annoying."
Lestrade just rolled his eyes, he was obviously used to this. But, John and Abigail were thoroughly fascinated with whatever the hell Sherlock Holmes was doing. He circled the body, paying close attention to every little detail about her. He took note of what was carved on the floorboards. From where Abigail was standing, she read "Rache," although she didn't know what it meant. He knelt next to the body and ran a gloved hand over her coat. He pulled a white foldable umbrella out of her coat pocket.
He took out a small, extendable magnifying glass from his own coat pocket and inspected her left hand, then pulled off her wedding band and inspected that closer. Finally, he took a closer look at her face, then when he was done, stood up, indicating he was finished.
"Got anything?" Lestrade asked.
"Not much," Sherlock said. Lies, Abigail thought.
"She's German," a voice came from behind them, Abigail jumped ever so slightly. No one noticed it, well, maybe except Sherlock Holmes. It was Anderson, leaning against the doorframe into the connecting room where more policemen and people in coveralls were. "'Rache' is German for 'revenge.' She could be trying to tell us something," he continued.
Abigail jotted that down in her notes. Sherlock walked past her, "Yes, thank you for your input," and slammed the door in Anderson's face. She couldn't help but smirk, she hadn't liked Anderson very much either.
"She's German?" Lestrade watched as Sherlock walked back across the room to the body.
"Of course, she's not German. She's from out of town though. Planned to spend a single night in London, before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."
Abigail crossed out her notes from Anderson. Then, with a large asterisk, wrote, "Do not listen to Anderson!"
"Sorry, obvious?" John looked flabbergasted.
"What about the message though?" Greg asked.
Ignoring him, Sherlock looked at John, "Dr. Watson, what do you think?" "Dr. John Watson," Abigail wrote in her notes.
"Of the message?"
"Of the body, you're a medical man."
"We have a whole team right outside," Lestrade pointed at the door Sherlock slammed.
"They won't work with me."
Getting frustrated, Lestrade said, "I'm breaking every rule letting you in here!"
"Yeah, because you need me," Sherlock retorted.
Greg glowered at him; glowered at him because Sherlock Holmes was right and Greg knew it. "Yes, I do. G-d help me," he walked over to the wall and leaned against it, crossing his arms, stepping out of Sherlock's way. But, he motioned to Abigail, encouraging her not to do the same. She stayed right where she stood, pen, and paper ready.
"Dr. Watson!" Sherlock called him over to the body.
John gave Lestrade a questioning look and he just shrugged, "Oh, do as he says, help yourself!"
John stepped forward and knelt next to the body while Sherlock knelt on the other side. They exchanged some whispers, Abigail couldn't hear, before John sniffed the woman's mouth. "Asphyxiation probably. Passed out, and choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her - could've been a seizure, possibly drugs." Scribbling once again filled the room.
"You know what it was, you've read the papers."
"She's one of the suicides. The fourth one." Perhaps John Watson wasn't a Consultant Detective like Sherlock Holmes was, because all this man was doing was stating the obvious.
"Sherlock, two minutes I said. Need anything you've got," Greg was beginning to lose patience.
At that, Sherlock Holmes sprung up and was off like a bullet, "Victim is in her late forties. Professional person going by her clothes - I'd guess something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. She's traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay for one night - that's obvious from the size of her suitcase -"
"Suitcase?"
"Suitcase, yes. She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them have known she was married -"
"For G-d's sake. If you're just making this up…" he looked at Abigail, who was rapidly writing down everything she heard verbatim.
"The wedding ring, ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding rings - state of her marriage, right there. The inside of the rings are shinier than the outside - that means they're regularly removed; the only polishing they get is when she works them off her finger. It's not for work - look at her nails, she doesn't work with her hands - so what, or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover - she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over time - so more likely a string of them. Simple!"
"Brilliant," Abigail and John muttered at the same time. She took a breath, clenching her cramped writing hand. Sherlock and Lestrade looked at them both before they apologized.
"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked about one of the details Sherlock had spewed.
"Obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock looked around at the three other persons in the room. Abigail had taken to writing again.
"Not obvious to me," John said.
"Dear G-d, what's it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring. Her coat!" But, there was nothing on her coat. "It's slightly damp - she's been in heavy rain within the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London at that time. Under her coat collar is damp too. She turned it up against the wind! She's got an umbrella in her left pocket but it's unused and dry. Not just wind, strong wind - too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she's staying overnight so she must have a come a decent distance. But she can't have traveled more than two or three hours, cos her coat hasn't dried. So where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He held up his mobile phone, "Cardiff."
"Fantastic!" John exclaimed, but Abigail kept quiet. The three of them all turned their heads towards John.
"Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked him.
"Sorry, I'll shut up."
"No, it's fine," Sherlock smirked. Abigail, someone who hadn't even known the two men for twenty minutes, could see there was something there between them. She wasn't quite sure what exactly that was, but it wasn't just an ordinary look. Sherlock liked the attention and praise John was giving him. Lestrade had seen every trick of Sherlock's trade, but now Sherlock had a new audience, but he could certainly care less about Abigail.
"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Greg asked.
"Yeah, where is it? She must have a phone or an organizer - we can find out who Rachel is."
"She was writing 'Rachel?'"
"No, she was leaving an angry note in German - of course, she was writing Rachel. No other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait till she was dying to write it…"
"But, how do you know she had a case?"
"Back of her right leg. Tiny splashes on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her, with her right hand - you don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag. So we know she was staying one night. Now, where is it - what have you done with it?"
"There wasn't any case," Abigail mumbled.
Sherlock spun around and stared at Abigail. She felt all of the color drain from her face as she stood there frozen. "Say that again…" he said to her.
"T-there wasn't a case, sir. There was never any suitcase here." At least, Abigail swore she saw no suitcase with the other evidence.
He shoved past her into the hallway and bellowed throughout the house, "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase - was there a suitcase in this house?"
No one answered him. "Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade assured him. The three filed into the hallway with him.
"But they take the poison themselves. They chew and swallow the pills themselves, there are clear signs - even you lot couldn't miss them!"
"Right, yes, thanks - and?"
"... it's murder. All of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings - serial killings. We've got a serial killer. Love those, there's always something to look forward to."
"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked.
"Where's her case? Come on, where is it? Did she eat it? Someone else was here - and they took the case. So the killer must have driven her here - forgot the case was in the car…"
"Maybe she checked into her hotel, left her case there," John tried.
"She never made it to her hotel Look at her hair - colour coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she'd never have left a hotel with her hair still like-" then he just stopped. He looked like a light bulb had gone off above his head, like the answer to the universe arrived in an instant. He clapped his hands over his face, "Oh! Oh!"
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock bounded down the rotting wooden stairs and stopped at the bottom. Lestrade, John, and Abigail all stood at the landing and peered over the balustrade. "Sherlock?" John asked.
"What is it?" Lestrade asked.
"Serial killers, always hard. You've got to wait for them to make a mistake…"
"We can't just wait!" Greg yelled.
"Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her! Really, look! Houston, we have a mistake! Get on to Cardiff, find Jennifer Wilson's family and friends - find Rachel."
"Of course, yes. But what mistake?"
"Pink!" with that, he stormed out of the house.
"Okay! Let's get on with it!" Anderson called to his team. They all rushed into the room with the dead body in it. Lestrade just looked so exasperated. Sick of Sherlock Holmes' shenanigans, Abigail said to herself.
With all of the hustle around him, John looked lost, not knowing what to do with himself.
Abigail tapped on his shoulder, "Dr. Watson?" He flinched slightly, turning around to the girl. She was shorter than John. Pale greenish-blue eyes and light brown hair loosely curled and fell right below her shoulders. She smiled at him, "I'll see you out."
"O-okay," he followed her down the stairs and they discarded the coveralls. "What were you writing?"
"Hm? Oh!" she opened up her journal. "I write down everything I hear. Everything Lestrade, you, and Sherlock said. I have an impeccable short-term memory, but my long-term memory is cloudy." She showed him her hastily written notes. "Really amazing what he does, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it's really something. Sorry, what is it exactly that you do?'
"Oh, I'm a trainee. I'm like, Inspector Lestrade's assistant."
"You're training to become a police officer?"
"Well, I technically graduated from the Police Academy. Not technically, I did graduate. But I didn't want to be just a police officer. I want to be a detective, but I have to work up the ranks, of course. But, I want to be on Lestrade's team specifically. Spent two years as a probationary constable, and they offered me a job. Well, they offered me several jobs, I was top of the class, but I declined, said I wanted to work with Greg Lestrade and only Greg Lestrade."
"But- where the hell did he go?" when they got outside, Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen.
"He's gone," Sally Donovan was still standing by the bundle of police cars and yellow police tape. "He just took off. He does that."
"Is he coming back?" John asked.
Sally shrugged, "Didn't look like it."
He looked humiliated again. "Um, where am I?"
"Brixton," Abigail answered. Sally sneered at her like she had no business to speak, or rather, be there.
"... Where would I get a cab? It's just... well, my leg…"
"You can try the main road," Abigail smiled again, a kind, warm smile. She lifted the yellow police tape for him while he limped under it.
"Hey!" Sally called after him. Abigail and John turned to look at her. "You're not his friend, he doesn't have friends. So who are you?" What a bitchy thing to say.
"I'm - I'm nobody, I only just met him," John replied.
"Bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy."
"Why?"
But Lestrade was coming outside, "Donovan!"
"Coming!" she answered. She started walking over to him, but yelled over her shoulder, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!"
John now turned to Abigail, looking utterly confused. "She doesn't like Sherlock Holmes," she told him and started following him towards the busy street at the end of the deserted one. "She was going on about it all yesterday, calling him a freak, a psychopath, even saying that Sherlock Holmes could be capable of murder!" She shoved her hands into her coat pockets, journal tucked under her arm. She scoffed at the last comment as if it were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard.
"G-d help me if he is…" John said.
"Why?"
"We're flatmates."
"Oh! So you are friends?"
"Again, only just met him."
Abigail nodded, "Right, right… Well, who knows. Maybe that's just what Sherlock Holmes needs."
"What's that?"
"A friend," she grinned. They had reached the end of the street by then, "It was really a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Watson." She opened up her journal and wrote something on the corner of a page before tearing it out.
"You too, Miss Coleman."
"Oh, please, Abigail," she handed him the tiny piece of paper. On it was her mobile number. "Call if… well, if you need anything. Have a good night!" she turned away and started back up the street towards the crime scene.
"Bye!" John called back. When Abigail turned back around, he had already turned the corner.
"So, what did you think?" Lestrade asked as he walked up to Abigail, no longer in the blue crime scene coveralls.
"About the crime scene? Well, it wasn't the most macabre thing I've ever seen but-" she started to answer.
"No, about Sherlock."
"Oh! He was very… interesting, I guess the best word is, to watch. It's very fascinating how he figured out all of those things about her simply by how wet her coat was or how shiny her ring was."
"Did you copy down every word he said?"
Abigail nodded and showed him her notes.
"Wow," his eyes scanning the pages. "Didn't know it was possible for someone to write as fast as Sherlock Holmes speaks. Yes, well, are you ready?"
"For what, sir?"
Lestrade held up a finger and pulled out his mobile and dialed a number on speed dial, "It's Lestrade. I need a warrant for a drug search at 221b Baker Street for Sherlock Holmes. Send it over with the team." Abigail stood there gaping at him.
"Sir, why did you just do that?"
He smirked, "Knowing Sherlock, he will have found that damn suitcase by time the warrant goes through. And he isn't going to exactly notify us immediately."
"So you're going to break in?"
"It's not breaking in if we have a warrant."
Later that night, with the proper warrant, Lestrade rang Sherlock's doorbell at 221b. A small elderly woman answered the door and spoke in a sweet voice, like a grandmother, "Hello, how can I help you?"
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. We have a warrant to search Sherlock Holmes' flat," he stepped around her, making his way up the stairs. Abigail and the rest of Lestrade's team, including Donovan and Anderson, followed him.
Just as Greg had suspected, the pink suitcase was sitting on the table. Lestrade sat down in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace and began to rummage through it. The team spread throughout the flat, searching every room, every corner.
"Oh, dear. What a mess," the old woman brought her hand to her mouth looking around the flat.
"Mrs. Hudson?" a man called from downstairs.
"Upstairs!" she yelled back.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson burst through the door. "What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.
Lestrade smirked, "Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid."
"You can't just break into my flat!"
"You can't withhold evidence, and I didn't break into your flat," Lestrade pointed at the case.
"Well, what do you call this?" Sherlock gestured around the room.
"A drugs bust," Greg grinned.
Sherlock looked like a guilty child that just got caught red-handed, but John burst out laughing, "Oh, come on, seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"
"John…"
"Pretty sure, you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational-"
Lestrade raised a brow.
"John, you probably want to shut up now…" Sherlock whispered to him.
"Yeah, but come on-" Sherlock gave him a warning look and shook his head slightly.
"No!"
"What?"
"You?"
"Shut up!" he turned to Lestrade as Abigail made a quick note in her journal. "I'm not your sniffer dog!"
"No! Anderson's my sniffer dog."
Sherlock spun around and looked in the kitchen where Anderson was rummaging through things. He gave Sherlock a wave which only further infuriated the taller man. "What's he doing here? On a drugs bust?"
"I volunteered," Anderson said.
"They all did. They're not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they're very keen. Except, well, Coleman, she's new." Abigail gave a small smile.
Sally popped out of the kitchen holding a jar, "Are these human eyes?"
"Oh my G-d!" Abigail gasped and dropped her notebook.
"Put them back," Sherlock told her.
"They were in the microwave!"
"It's an experiment!"
"Keep looking, guys!" Lestrade called to his team. He turned back to Sherlock, "Or you could start helping me properly, and I'll stand them down."
"This is childish," Sherlock pouted.
"I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case! I'm letting you in, but you don't go off on your own - clear?"
"What, so you set up a pretend drugs bust, to bully me?"
"Stops being pretend if they find anything," Lestrade shrugged.
"I'm clean!"
"Is your flat? All of it?"
Sherlock tugged up the sleeve of his shirt and revealed several nicotine patches on his forearm. "I don't even smoke!"
Greg stood up and stood next to Sherlock and pulled up his sleeve, revealing a single patch on his arm as well. "Neither do I! So let's work together. We've found Rachel."
He now had Sherlock's full attention, "Who is she?"
"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."
"Her daughter. Why would she write her daughter's name, why?"
Anderson appeared in the archway of the kitchen again, "Never mind that, we found the case. According to someone the murderer has the case - and here it is, in the hands of our favorite psychopath."
Sally snorted within the kitchen and Abigail glared in their direction.
"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson - I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!" Sherlock barked at Anderson.
Abigail took the risk of speaking up, "The suitcase is covered in muck and smells like it too, so obviously, Sherlock Holmes didn't have it. If you would please stop accusing Mr. Holmes at every chance, maybe this case might be solved soon!" She didn't mean for it to come out so snappy, but with just standing in the corner, watching all of the excitement before her while she remained silent, a lot of things pent up inside her.
Consequently, eyes were on her now and all rather surprised. She flashed an apologetic look at Greg, but he just grinned, telling her that it was okay. Actually, he found it quite amusing.
Sherlock gave her an inquisitive look, now that Abigail had caught his attention for the second time that night because she couldn't keep her mouth shut. "And what might that mean?"
Abigail looked nervously around the room for someone to throw her a life-float, but they didn't say anything. "Well… I-it means that… Well, he probably had the case. She left it with him, or forgot it, or… well, he had to get rid of it anyway, so he dumped it… Right?" All Abigail wanted to do at that moment was crawl under a rock forever. Or jump out of the window.
Sherlock smirked and turned to Anderson, "Would you look at that, Anderson? The trainee is more competent than you." He turned to Lestrade, "You need to bring Rachel in, you need to question her. I need to question her-"
"She's dead," Lestrade told her.
"Excellent! How? When? Is there a connection? There has to be!"
"I doubt it since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter fourteen years ago."
Sherlock looked taken aback and confused, "No. No, that's not right. Why would she do that?"
"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments. Yeah, sociopath, seeing it now," Anderson rolled his eyes. Abigail could see why Anderson annoyed Sherlock so much; he was starting to annoy her as well.
"She didn't think about her daughter, she scratched her name on the floor. She was dying, it took effort, it would've hurt - she was trying to tell us something!"
"You said the victims all took the poison themselves. Somehow he makes them take it. Maybe he ... I dunno, talks to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow…" John said.
"Oh, but that was ages ago - why would she still be upset?" John cringed at him, and standing behind Sherlock, Abigail cringed as well. Everyone else in the room was unfazed by Sherlock's comment. "Not good?"
John shook his head, "Bit not good, yeah."
Sherlock started pacing around the room, "Yes, but listen! If you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last seconds, what would you say?"
"Please G-d let me live," John guessed.
"Use your imagination!"
"I don't have to."
"Yes, but if you were clever; if you were very clever... Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers. She was clever, and she's telling us something!"
Mrs. Hudson, as Greg told her, ran up the stairs, "Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."
"I didn't order a taxi, go away," Sherlock waved her off.
Mrs. Hudson looked around the room at all of the police officers searching the flat, "Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"
"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," John told her.
"Oh, but they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers," she rubbed her hip.
"Shut up! Everybody shut up, I'm thinking, don't move, don't breathe, Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off!" Sherlock was pacing faster now.
"What, my face is?" Anderson scoffed.
"Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back!" Lestrade ordered him.
"For G-d's sake-"
"Your back, now, please!"
Anderson huffed and turned his back, obviously furious and embarrassed.
Sherlock kept pacing fast and faster, clutching his head like it was going to explode, "Come on, come on!"
"What about your taxi-"
"Mrs. Hudson!" She jumped and John put an arm around her.
"Oh, she was clever. Clever, yes, I love her! She's cleverer than you lot dead! Do you see? Do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted in on him. When she got out that car, she knew she was going to her death - she left the phone to lead us to her killer!"
"But how? Lestrade asked.
"What do you mean, how? Rachel, don't you see? Rachel! Oh, look at you lot, you're all so vacant! What's it like, not being me, it must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name."
John asked, "Then what is it?"
Sherlock sat down at the table in the sitting room and opened up his laptop, pulling up the Internet. He pointed at the suitcase, "John, the luggage label, it had an email address on it."
John went to the case and opened the flap that covered the luggage label and read off the email address, "Jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk."
"I've been too slow, she didn't have a laptop, which means did her business on her phone. So it's a smartphone, it's email enabled. So there's a website for her account." Sherlock pulled up mephone dot com, where there was a box for the username and one for the password. "The user name will be the email address -" he typed in her email address. "- and all together now, the password is ... ?"
"Rachel," both John and Abigail said in unison.
"So we can read her emails - so what?" Anderson was once again turned back around to face the sitting room.
"Don't talk out loud, Anderson, you lower the IQ of the whole street," Sherlock chided. Abigail snorted and Anderson glared at her, but she brushed it off as her clearing her throat. "We can do more than read her emails - it's a smartphone, it's got GPS. And if you lose it …" He clicked the "Update Location" button on the Find My MePhone page. "… You can locate it online." The page began to load. "She's leading us right to the man who killed her."
"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade said.
John shook his head, "We know he didn't."
Sherlock was starting to get impatient, now shouting at the laptop, "Come on, quickly, quickly!"
"Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver!" Mrs. Hudson pointed at the door.
"Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" Sherlock shot up from his seat and walked over to Lestrade, "Get some vehicles ready, get a helicopter, we need to move fast - that phone battery won't last forever." John sat down in the chair Sherlock was in and waited for the page to load.
"We'll just have a map reference, not a name!" Lestrade said.
"It's a start!"
"Sherlock-" John stared at the screen.
Sherlock ignored him, "It narrows it down from anyone in London, it's the first proper lead we've had."
"Sherlock!" John said a bit louder and finally caught not only Sherlock's attention but everyone in the room's attention.
The page had loaded, now showing a map of and a red dot where the location of the phone was. Sherlock joined him in front of the laptop, crouching down, "Where is it, where, quickly!"
The two stared at the screen and John brought his finger up to the red dot and frowned, "It's… here. It's in 221 Baker Street."
"But it can't be. How can it be here? How?"
"Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back - fell out somewhere." Lestrade shuffled through the suitcase while Abigail checked the surrounding area.
"And I didn't notice. Me? I didn't notice."
"Anyway, I texted it and he phoned back," John added.
"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here - belonged to the victim …" Lestrade called out.
Sherlock looked completely lost in his own thoughts while a man appeared from the stairwell behind Mrs. Hudson. He must've been the cabbie that was outside for Sherlock. He stared at the cabbie with narrowed, confused eyes. Abigail caught glimpse of a bright pink phone, the same pink that matched the victim's suitcase and outfit, in the cabbie's hand. A moment later, Sherlock's phone beeped within his pocket.
"Sherlock? You okay?" John asked.
"What? Yes, yes," he pulled out his phone and stared at it as the cabbie disappeared down the stairs.
"So how can the phone be here?"
"I don't know…" something strange was going on.
"I'll phone it again," John pulled out his own mobile.
"Good idea," he walked over to the door and grabbed his coat from the hook and put it on along with his scarf.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere. Fresh air, just popping out for a moment."
"You sure you're all right?"
"I'm fine!" Sherlock hurried down the stairs.
John glanced around the room, wondering if anyone else had sensed something strange was going on. Abigail was the only one who mirrored his look, who looked interested in what was going on rather than looking for imaginary drugs in the flat. John went to one window that overlooked Baker Street and Abigail went to the other and watched as Sherlock and the cabbie talked for a few minutes before Sherlock actually got into the cab.
John turned away from the window, "He just got in a cab. Sherlock, he just drove off in a cab!"
Sally glanced at him and shrugged, "I told you. He does that." She turned to Lestrade, "He bloody left. Again. We're wasting our time!"
"Something obviously isn't right," Abigail said.
John dialed his phone, "I'm phoning the phone, it's ringing out."
"If it's ringing, it's not here," Lestrade brought his hands up in defeat.
"Try the search again," Abigail pointed to the laptop, and John refreshed the page to update its location.
Sally stepped into the sitting room, "Does it matter? Does any of it?" She leaned closer to Lestrade, "He's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down. And you're wasting your time. All our time."
Lestrade sighed, "Okay, everyone - we're done here…" The police officers began to pack it up and exit the flat.
When everyone had left, only Greg, John, and Abigail stood in the flat. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" Lestrade asked John.
"You know him better than I do," John was still waiting for the phone's location to be updated.
"I've known him five years, and no I don't."
"Why do you put up with him?"
"Because I'm bloody desperate, that's why!" Greg turned to leave, but hesitated and turned back to John, "Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think, one day, if we're very, very lucky he might even be a good one." He left, now leaving Abigail with John.
"I'll see you later, Dr. Watson."
Thirty minutes later, Abigail and Greg were in his office, just about to finally go home, until Greg's desk phone rang. He was outside of his office, at Sally's desk, talking to her. Abigail apprehensively picked up the phone, "Detective Inspector Lestrade's office, this is Abigail Coleman."
"Abigail?"
"Dr. Watson? Are you okay?"
"Where's Lestrade? I need to speak to him, it's important, it's an emergency!"
"Hold on," she set the phone down on the desk and ran out into the office space. "Sir! John Watson is on the phone!"
Lestrade looked exasperated, "What now?"
"He says it's an emergency, sir!"
Lestrade hustled to his office and picked up the phone, "Hello?… He's where?… And he's been there for a while?… All right, we'll meet you there." He hung up and grabbed his coat, "Looks like we're not done yet!"
It was the second corpse Abigail had seen that day when they rolled the cab driver out on a gurney, covered by a white sheet. He had been shot, they didn't know by who, and Sherlock Holmes wouldn't tell them.
He was sitting on the ledge of the ambulance, alone. Abigail took the opportunity when Greg was speaking with the coroner, to sneak away and walk over to the consultant detective.
"Hello," she said walking up to him. He had a styrofoam cup of water in his hands and an orange blanket next to him. "Are you doing all right?"
Sherlock looked up at her with narrowed eyes and looked her up and down.
"I'm Abigail Coleman I'm-"
"You're a Scotland Yard trainee fresh out of the Academy, approximately in your early twenties, but you dress and act much older than you are to make people take you more seriously but you have poor posture and hunch your shoulders and make yourself look smaller which means you have absolutely no self-confidence not to mention you wear makeup especially for a confidence boost and judging by the heavier makeup on your cheeks and under your eyes, you hate your freckles," he rambled off to her without skipping a beat and, of course, not showing any emotion.
Abigail gaped at him, How could he have possibly known all of those things just by looking at me? After a few seconds of silence, Sherlock expected her to slap him or tell him off, as most people did when he dissected them like that. But instead, she smiled. It wasn't a malicious smile and she wasn't laughing at him; it was bright and soft. "Absolutely brilliant," she looked at him the same way John had looked: awestruck. "You're absolutely brilliant, Sherlock Holmes. Not a freak, not a psychopath, just. bloody. brilliant." She grabbed the blanket and draped it over his shoulders. He opened his mouth to say something, but Lestrade came up behind Abigail.
Instead, Sherlock turned his attention to the Detective Inspector, "Why do I have this blanket? They keep putting a blanket on me."
"It's for shock."
"I'm not in shock!"
"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs," he smirked. "Thanks, Coleman." Sherlock sent her a glare; he had been betrayed.
"So, the shooter. No sign of him?" he looked over at the open window of the room the cabbie had been shot in.
"Cleared off by the time we got here. A guy like that would've had enemies, I suppose. One of them could've been following him. But we've got nothing to go on …"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that…"
Lestrade rolled his eyes, knowing, of course, Sherlock would have a lead. He nudged Abigail, who took out her journal and pen, hopefully for the last time that night. Her hand had really begun to hurt. "Okay, gimme!"
"The bullet they just dug out the wall was from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon - that's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksmen, a fighter - his hand couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire 'til I was in immediate danger, though. So, strong moral principles. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel -" Abigail stopped writing just as he had broke off and was now staring in the other direction. She followed his line of sight and saw John standing there, hands behind his back, smirking at Sherlock. "Actually, you know what - ignore me."
"Sorry?" both Lestrade and Abigail asked.
"Ignore all that. It's the shock talking!" he stood up, the orange blanket still around him, and began walking over towards John.
"Where are you going?" Greg asked.
"Just need to ... discuss the rent," he lied.
"Still got questions for you."
"What, now? I'm in shock. Look, I've got a blanket!" he flapped it about.
"Sherlock…"
"And I did just catch a serial killer for you. More or less."
"... Okay. We'll pull you in tomorrow - off you go," Lestrade waved him off.
Sherlock grinned and took off the blanket and tossed onto Abigail's head and hurried off to John. She giggled and took it off and threw it back into the ambulance.
"Never a dull moment with that one," Lestrade said.
"I like him," she grinned up at him. "He's odd and brilliant and I like him."
Another police officer had walked up to Lestrade and began talking to him while Abigail secretly watched the detective and doctor talk. They started giggling, but John told them to quit it. She couldn't quite hear them or read their lips very well, but she could see the looks they exchanged. Before her, she witnessed the start of a lifelong friendship, although, she swore that Sherlock looked at John in a slightly different way.
They began walking towards the gates while another man, tall and well-dressed, and a woman preoccupied on her mobile walked and met them in the middle. She watched as the man and Sherlock talked, or maybe, bantered, while John looked between them utterly confused. They continued to speak for a few minutes before Sherlock walked away, John and the other man exchanged a few words, then he awkwardly spoke to the woman who in return, looked entirely disinterested, and then he hurried off to join Sherlock. The man watched the partners leave, then he turned to the jumble of police officers and medics engulfed in yellow tape and flashing lights.
He was gazing in Abigail's direction. After a moment of shock and embarrassment, she realized he wasn't looking at her at all, but rather looking past her. His line of sight landed directly on Greg Lestrade, who was still talking to the policeman. I'll make a few deductions myself, Abigail thought. She stepped forward a bit to get a closer look at the man, but her movement caught his attention and she froze. Quickly she turned back to Lestrade and tugged at his sleeve, rather childlike, "Sir?" she nudged her head in the other man's direction.
Lestrade looked and met eyes with the other man and they both smiled slightly at one another. Oh, they like each other, Abigail smirked. When the man finally got in his fancy car and drove off, she turned to the Detective Inspector, "Who was that, sir?"
"Mycroft Holmes. He's Sherlock's older brother."
"Is he a friend of your's too?"
He ignored her question and began walking to his own car, "I'll take you home."
"Oh, you don't need to do that, sir. It's not in the greatest part of the city."
"That's why I'll drive you home. Now shut up and hop in, Coleman," he got in the driver's seat.
"Yes, sir," she quickly got into the passenger's side. As they pulled away from the scene, Abigail flipped through her notes. She couldn't believe how much she had gotten just from one day. "Today was fun," she grinned.
"Fun?"
"Yeah, we should do it again sometime," she turned to her superior and smiled widely, while he just smirked and shook his head. He knew he'd have his hands full with this one, added on to the load Sherlock Holmes brought him. He was getting too old for this.