Florence woke abruptly, as if she had been pulled out of a body of cold, dark water. She gasped a little, wondering where she was, before realising she was on the sofa, underneath the yellow smiley face on the wall she knew to be 221B's. She breathed a small sigh of relief, before sitting up and looking around her.
Sherlock was pacing the room, hands on his lips in his praying position. John was nowhere to be seen, but she could hear the kettle boiling, so she presumed he was in there.
'What happened at Janus Cars?' she said, and was surprised when her voice sounded hoarse. She cleared her throat, and Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and looked down at her. His face relaxed for a second – he was relieved she had woken up.
'The man – Mister Ewert – he was an obvious liar. He had been away, to Columbia, where he had taken Monkford to relocate. I also went to the lab, analysed the blood, and found out that it had been frozen – so Monkford had donated it, exactly a litre, which was found in the car – a stupid mistake on the bomber's behalf. Basically, we solved it.'
'How long was I out for?'
'About seven hours. You were drugged.'
'I noticed.' she swung her legs over the side and stood. She swayed slightly, and Sherlock stepped towards her, ready to catch her if necessary. It was not. 'Anything else happened?'
'The messenger is fine. He was in Piccadilly Circus, decked out in so many explosives the coat he was wearing bulged. I'm surprised he wasn't noticed before. If you're talking about the phone, nothing's come up yet.'
'I'm still puzzled as to why he gave you the pink phone if he's not going to use it.'
'I'm pretty sure it's just a case of, he found something better. Psychopaths work that way.' he said, and Florence fixed him with a look that said 'good thing you're not one of them' in a sarcastic manner. He rolled his eyes at her. 'How do you feel?'
'Sick.'
'Do you want anything?'
'Not to be sick.'
'Helpful. Tea?' Florence shook her head, and sat down again. She fell asleep promptly, and slept through to the morning.
'Must you do that?' Florence growled at Sherlock as he drummed his fingers impatiently on the table of a greasy spoon café. 'My head is actually beating.'
'Is that possible?' Sherlock asked mockingly. He stopped drumming.
'Forgive my phrases, Sherlock, I'm not all there.'
'That you aren't.' he stared down at the phone in the middle of the table, willing it to ring, as John ate a large cooked breakfast that, in Florence's opinion, smelled disgusting.
'It's like I'm hungover.' she said, and her head fell into her hands.
'Maybe you're just unwell.' John said, and knew immediately that that was not the case, remembering she had been drugged. 'I wonder what was in that drug.'
'I recognise the effect – it was a strong sedative. I've become almost immune to them – they can knock you out for days on end. Arthur used to... acquire them. I think he made them, or Michael did, or James. One of them. They only used them on me when I had some sort of hysterical fit. Even then, they asked my permission. They never told me about their drugs, just that they delivered them, which is what I did.'
'You were a drug runner?' John asked, aghast. She nodded.
'The drug that I had used when I was found – the pretend-dead one. It has a name but I can't remember...' she trailed off, and knocked her fist against her temple, as if it would somehow help. She winced as it got worse. 'fucking hell.'
'Water? Cold water?' John asked, and pushed her glass towards her. She took a tentative sip, and put it down promptly. 'Has it occurred to you-' he began, turning to Sherlock.
'Probably,' the man cut off, and John sighed.
'No – has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the shoes – all meant for you.'
Sherlock smiled slightly. 'yes.'
'Is it him then, Moriarty?'
'Perhaps.'
The phone in front of them beeped, and Sherlock snatched it before Florence could. She scowled at him. 'I do have people trying to contact me, you know.'
'Unwise of them,' Sherlock said dismissively before opening the phone. Two short pips sounded before a long one, and a photograph of a woman flashed up on the screen.
'That could be anybody.' Sherlock said, disgruntled. Florence smirked, and looked at John.
'Well,' he began, sharing Florence's joke. 'it could be, yeah. Except it isn't. Lucky for you, I've been a more than a little unemployed.'
'How do you mean?' Sherlock asked, frowning.
'Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly.' John said, and he stood to change the channel of the television above the counter of the café. One of the makeover shows that Florence steered well clear of popped up on the screen, and the woman depicted in the photograph was hosting it.
The phone rang in Sherlock's hand, and he answered it quickly. 'Hello?'
'This one is a bit... defective. Sorry.' a trembling voice from the other end of the line. 'She's blind. This is... a funny one.'
Florence stared at the phone, her mouth opening in shock. 'She's old!' she hissed, and Sherlock nodded, putting a finger to his lips. John walked back to the table, frowning in concern.
'I'll give you... twelve hours...' the woman said, and she gasped in fear.
'Why are you doing this?' Sherlock growled, and Florence winced in pain.
'I like... to watch you... dance.' she gasped again, and the line went dead.
Sherlock looked at John, surprise on his face.
'She's dead.' Florence said, looking at the TV screen with a look of dread. 'She's fucking dead, Sherlock.'
Florence knew she was distancing herself from her best friend, and it was visibly affecting him.
He was acting a little quieter around her, not wanting to see her as much, but what stung the most was how he was treating her with caution.
She was so relaxed around him, at all times. For her to potentially lose this rock, the only person she could be herself around, it was causing her to spiral.
And, of course, he didn't see any of that. He just presumed she didn't want to spend time with her, so he didn't try to pressure her. It made perfect sense to Florence, but it still hurt.
Hurt like absolute Hell.
'Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those makeover shows on the telly. Did you see it?' Lestrade was saying as they leaned over the pale corpse of the woman from the TV.
'No.' Sherlock said.
'Very popular. She was going places.'
'Not anymore.' Sherlock replied, and Lestrade sighed. 'So: dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound.' He inspected at the wound on her hand, and John looked down at it. Florence looked, then looked away in disgust. 'Tetanus bacteria enters bloodstream – goodnight Vienna.'
'I suppose'
'Something's wrong with the picture. It can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong.' He looked at the body closer. He ran his gaze up her arm, and settled on some claw marks on her upper arm. He then spied her face, where pinpricks donned her forehead.
'John?'
'Mm?'
'The cut on her hand – it's deep – would have bled a lot, right?'
'Yeah.'
'But the wound's clean – very clean, and fresh.' Sherlock said, and smirked slightly as Florence gagged from the corner. 'How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?'
'Eight, ten days?' Sherlock looked at him pointedly. 'The cut was made later.'
'After she was dead?' Lestrade asked, shocked. He obviously didn't understand why.
'Must have been. Only question ins, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?'
John looked up and down the body, and Florence averted her gaze. 'You want to help, right?' Sherlock asked him, and he nodded.
'Of course.'
'Connie Prince's background – family history, everything. Give me data.'
'Right.' he left promptly, presumably to go and carry out his task.
'There's something else we haven't thought of.'
'Is there?' Sherlock said, his voice tinged with sarcasm.
'Yes. Why is he doing this, the bomber?' Sherlock looked at Florence, his expression thoughtful. 'If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?'
'Good Samaritan.' Sherlock replied sarcastically, and Florence snickered.
'Who press-gangs suicide bombers?'
'Bad Samaritan.'
'I'm serious, Sherlock. Listen, I'm cutting you some slack here – I'm trusting you. I'm even letting you bring her-' he pointed at Florence but continued to look at him, '-with you. But out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So tell me, what are we dealing with?'
Sherlock smiled slightly, and looked at nothing in particular. He was thinking. 'Something new.'
:))
