Here we are again!
I'm loving this.
Most unfortunately, all the chapters are short :(
Purely because they all end at certain points (not that you don't know what happens, anyway)
Anyway, enjoy :))
Not thirty minutes later, Sherlock, John and Watson were sitting in the lab of St. Bartholemew's. The detective was inspecting the shoes – their laces, their sole, the inside. He had collected samples, and was looking at them through the microscope sitting on the bench. Florene was sitting near him, staring at her hands in her lap. John was pacing the room, the noise from his own shoes causing an irritating clack that was beginning to annoy Florence. He eventually stopped to speak.
'So, who do you think it was?'
'Hm?' Sherlock replied, his mind obviously preoccupied. His phone chimed, notifying him of a text. He ignored it.
'The woman on the phone. The crying woman.' John said, beginning to walk again.
'Oh, she doesn't matter – she's just a hostage. No lead there.' Sherlock said, and Florence made a face.
'For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads.' John muttered.
'You're not going to be much use to her.' Sherlock replied, and Florence rolled her eyes. He gave her a look, before his attention turned to the screen connected to the microscope. It flashed with 'no match'. Sherlock felt a stab of annoyance.
'Are they trying to trace the call?' John asked.
'One was too smart for that.' His phone bleeped again. 'pass me my phone.'
'Where is it?'
'Jacket.' The screen connected to the microscope continued to flash with the 'no match', and John gave Sherlock a look that could kill. He stalked pointedly over to Sherlock, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder before reaching in front of him to his jacket pocket. Sherlock frowned in aggravation. 'Careful!'
'Text from your brother.'
'Delete it.'
'Delete it?'
'Missile plans are out of the country now, nothing we can do about it.' Sherlock muttered, not looking up from his microscope. Florence marvelled at his concentration skills, then remembered what he was like when he was younger. The very memories agitated her.
'Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important.'
'What does it say?'
'"Any progress on Andrew West's death? Mycroft".'
'If it's so important, why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?' Sherlock looked up from his microscope.
'His what?'
'Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look. Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, then got his head smashed in for his pains.' Florence winced. 'End of story.'
'I'm sure it's a bit sadder than that.' Florence muttered, and Sherlock cracked a very slight smile as John glared at her.
'The only mystery is this. Why is my brother so determined to bore me whens somebody else is so delightfully interesting?'
'Sherlock,' Florence said, her voice frustrated. 'A woman might die for your amusement.'
'What for, though, really? There's hospitals full of people dying. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside? See what good it does them.' Sherlock snapped, and John turned away in disbelief. Florence stared at him, her eyes suddenly ablaze with the same anger he saw in the hospital room when he had yelled at her.
'It would show them someone cared.' she said quietly. 'which is more than my mother had.'
John looked at her, his eyes suddenly sad, and his expression understanding. Sherlock's face softened, and he turned back to the microscope just as the screen bleeped loudly.
'Ah!' he exclaimed, just as the door flew open and Molly Hooper rushed in.
'Any luck?' she said enthusiastically, before noticing Florence sitting quietly opposite Sherlock. She frowned slightly, but Sherlock was answering.
'Oh, yes.' he said excitedly, and Molly walked over to look.
'Oh, sorry.' a different voice said, and a man walked in after Molly. 'I didn't...'
'Jim!' Molly cried, and she laughed nervously. 'Hi! Come in, come in.' Florence watched Sherlock carefully as his gaze turned from the man at the door back to his microscope. He was clearly uninterested. 'Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.'
'Ah!' Jim said, and he had quite the skip in his step as he walked over.
'And, uh...' she paused, looking at John. 'Sorry.'
He sighed. 'John Watson. Hi.' he didn't meet either of their eyes.
Sherlock looked over at Florence, his mouth creeping towards his right eye in a smile the others couldn't see. She grinned back at him, and Molly noticed.
'And, ah, who's this?' she said awkwardly, taking Sherlock by surprise.
'Oh! Molly, this is Florence Wood. Remember, you helped in her case?'
'Oh. Oh, dear God.' Molly said, her expression turning wondrous. 'Hi!'
'Hi,' Florence said, her smile kind. 'Thank you for... you know.'
'Yeah.'
'So you're Sherlock Holmes.' Jim said. His voice was light, and somewhat breathy. John sighed again. 'Molly's told me all about you. You on one of you cases?'
Sherlock ignored him pointedly as Jim walked around him.
'Jim works in I.T, upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance.' Molly said, her hands fumbling. Florence cringed internally as they both giggled.
Sherlock looked up at Jim for the first time, properly. 'Gay.' he muttered, quietly.
'Sorry, what?' Molly said, her face falling.
'Nothing. Um,' Sherlock said, and Florence closed her eyes in frustration. 'Hey.'
'Hey.' Jim said smoothly, as he dropped a clattering metal bowl onto the floor. He apologised nervously, and Sherlock looked up, rolling his eyes. Florence bit her lip, and John turned away, bringing his hand up to his forehead.
'Well.' Jim said, as if nothing had happened. 'I'd better be off.' he looked at Molly, and smiled. 'I'll see you at the Fox. About six-ish?'
'Yeah.' Molly replied, and Jim bid farewell to the rest of them. His eyes turned to Sherlock, and Florence frowned as he noticed the adoring expression on his face.
'It was nice to meet you.' he said, and Sherlock ignored him. There was silence.
'Uh, you too.' Florence said, and as Jim looked at her, she could have sworn she saw a look of distinct hatred on his face. It flashed for a second, but it was replaced with another quite clearly fake smile. He left, and Florence was secretly glad.
'What do you mean gay?' Molly said, before the door had even closed. 'We're together.'
'And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you.'
'Honestly,' John muttered, so quiet only Florence could see his lips move.
'Two and a half.' Molly said, and she was quite obviously fuming.
'No, three.'
'Sherlock.' John said, a little louder.
'He's. Not. Gay.' Molly snapped. Florence started to stand as she moved slightly closer to him – an instinctive reaction since working with her aggressive friends. People went for them all the time, and she would assist their fights. 'Why do you have to spoil... he's not!' she yelled, and Florence sat again, placing her head in her hands.
'With that level of personal grooming?'
'Because he puts product in his hair? I put product in my hair.' John countered.
'You wash your hair. There's a difference. No, no. tinted eyelashes, clear signs of tourine cream around the front lines, those tired, clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear.'
'His underwear?' Molly whispered, aghast.
'Visible above the waistline, very visible. Very particular brand. That, plus the suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here.' he said, and Florence raised her head in time to see him pull the slip from under the bowl. She placed it back in them as she saw what was happening. 'I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain.'
Molly stared for a moment, and then ran, quite quickly, from the room. Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised she had left, and John prepared himself to say something.
'Charming. Well done.' He muttered, and Florence pulled another face in disbelief.
'Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?'
'Kinder? No, Sherlock. That wasn't kind.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes and placed the slip of paper Jim had left him down. He moved the trainer closer towards John, and the man stared at it. 'Go on, then.' he said.
'Mmm?' John asked, raising his eyebrow. Florence raised herself so she could see properly.
'You know what I do. Off you go.' He sat back, and after what must have been .3 of a second, he looked impatient.
'No.'
'Right. Florence?'
'Hm?' she said, looking up at him innocently.
'Oh, for God's sake. Deduce the fucking shoe.'
'What?' she glanced down. 'Oh. Right. Uh,' she said, and she stood on the bar between the legs of the chair and looked at the shoe. 'It's a trainer.' She held her hand out, and Sherlock passed it to her. 'Good condition. The sole, however, has been significantly worn. The owner liked 'em. He cleaned them all the time, judging by the white colour.'
'He?'
'Mhm. It's possible a woman would wear these, but let's give them the benefit of the doubt and just say he. Also, they look like they come from the mid-eighties, if my three years in that era remember. Also, the size. Women can have big feet, but somewhat rarely, so I'd say a man.' she looked at Sherlock, who began to speak, before she interrupted him. 'However,' she said, and Sherlock sighed in annoyance. 'the inside shows it's been written on. Probably a name, indicating a young person wore these.'
Sherlock nodded in approval, but it seemed Florence was feeling extremely cocky today. 'The interior sole is worn in certain places, so the foot-arch-thingy-' John winced, '-was small.'
'Foot-arch-thingy?' he said, raising his eyebrows at the girl who was now grinning. She nodded.
'I'm sorry. I didn't know if the "foot arch" was the right term.'
'It was.'
'Anything else?' Sherlock said, his voice growing impatient. Florence looked at the shoe, and recoiled in disgust.
'Is that fucking skin?' she exclaimed, and Sherlock grinned before reaching over and taking the shoe from her.
'What does that suggest?'
'I don't know, eczema? Maybe? I know I had it, but I didn't remember my skin flaking off like that.'
'Because you put so much cream on it the skin couldn't come off.' Sherlock answered, smirking. 'Right. Yes. Good. Well done. Failed to notice, however, that they are British made. Twenty-two years old.'
John raised his head. 'Twenty-two?'
'They're not retro – they're original.' he looked something up on his phone, and showed a picture to them both. 'Limited edition: two blue stripes, nineteen-eighty-nine.'
'But there's mud still on them. They look new.'
'Someone's tried very hard to keep them that way. There's a lot of mud on these shoes. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it.'
'How do you know?'
Sherlock nodded pointedly towards the computer screen. 'Pollen. Clear as a map to me. South of the river, too. So, the whoever owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty-two years ago and left them behind.'
'What happened to him?' Florence asked, frowning.
'Something bad. He loved these shoes, remember. They were always clean. Wouldn't let them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets...' he trailed off, and his expression turned black. 'Oh.'
'What?'
'Carl Powers.'
'Who?' John asked, but it had already clicked inside Florence's head.
'Carl Powers, John. It's where I began.'
Fantastique!
I'm so excited by this. I know I shouldn't be, because it's not actually my creation (Florence, Arthur, Michael and James are!), but I love it regardless.
'Till next time, cheerio!
