This thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.
Luke 15:32
"What happened to his phone, Greg?"
"Good morning to you, too," Lestrade greeted John, gesturing him inside his flat. "Mel and Hayley aren't here, so swear as much as you like. What happened to whose phone?"
"Whose phone do you think?"
Lestrade sighed. He'd been looking forward to a day to himself—his first day off in a fortnight—while Melissa and Hayley went shopping together; clearly that wasn't going to happen now. "John," he tried, leading him into the kitchen and testing whether the kettle had water in it. "Come on—"
"It isn't mentioned in the autopsy report." John held up the manila folder in his hand, then put it down on the kitchen table and opened it in a businesslike way.
Lestrade put the kettle down and went over to look at it over John's shoulder, frowning. "Where'd you get that?"
"Molly," John said, not noticing Lestrade's visible relief. Well, at least it wasn't Donovan, anyway. Molly might be looking down the business end of a firing at Barts, and she might not; either way, it wasn't Lestrade's professional problem.
"Would that kind of thing be on an autopsy report?" he asked instead.
"If it was in his pocket, I can't see why it wouldn't be listed among his clothing and effects, which are here." John pointed to the written inventory, which included everything down to Sherlock's watch, underwear, and socks. "It isn't. No mention."
"Maybe it fell out when he… you know…?"
"I'd have seen it if it fell out when he… landed… and either way, it should have been in the police report, since the entire hospital became a crime scene. And you know what, if it was on the police report, I'm sure Donovan would have mentioned it to me."
Lestrade closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm going to bloody kill her," he muttered.
"Don't. She's done me more favours than you have over this… no, wait." John had just seen Lestrade's expression. "Sorry, Greg. I didn't mean it like… that."
Still struggling with his temper, Lestrade collected himself for a few seconds before he spoke. "John," he finally said, "you lived with me for two weeks after… after all that happened."
"Yes."
"And I went against Dawson's direct orders on that. I could have been fired over it."
"Yes."
"You asked for my blessings before you proposed to Molly, and I both gave her away and was best man at your wedding, remember?"
"Yes."
"Threw you a Stag Do as well, as I remember. During which I was the only one who voted against putting you on a train bound for Edinburgh."
"… Really?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. So kindly cut the bullshit implying that we're not friends. I'm trying to protect your sanity—"
"Yeah, but you're not listening to me. This is wrong, Greg. It's a bloody mess, and I mean that literally." John was flicking through the file. He handed Lestrade an 8x12 colour photograph. "Look at that," he said. "Look at it. That's contusions to the upper left quadrant of the chest. There is no mention of it in the PM report."
Lestrade obligingly took the photograph and looked at it. Contusions were no big deal for a detective who solved murders, after all. "Yeah," he said, suddenly understanding what John meant.
"The injuries described in the report aren't consistent with a fall, aren't consistent with the photographs attached to the file, and they aren't what I saw for myself at the hospital that day."
"John, you were knocked out cold just before you… saw it," Lestrade reminded him. "I wouldn't trust your memory too far."
"Thanks."
"Didn't mean it as an insult. Do you know how many witnesses I've talked to who remember things that didn't happen?"
"He fell perpendicular to the building," John continued regardless. "And don't tell me that I don't remember that, because…" He swallowed. "Fell perpendicular, landed parallel. Bodies can… bounce on impact… but not spin ninety degrees like that. And not to be indelicate, but while there was a lot of blood, I'd expect there to be more. His head seemed undamaged… and there was no evidence of voiding. Not on the scene, and not in the autopsy report either. Violent death. Nearly always happens, Greg. I've never known it not to."
Lestrade flinched. That had never before occurred to him.
"Not to mention," John said, "When it… when it happened, a bunch of people ran over, which you'd expect, a couple of bystanders, suits, city boys, probably. Some employees of the hospital, but there was something wrong… why were they even there, five seconds after it happened?"
"I don't know, John; I wasn't there either."
"One of them had a stethoscope around his neck," John said. "He had a stethoscope around his neck, and he tried to take Sherlock's pulse with his fingers."
"So?"
"So you never take someone's pulse with your fingers if you've got a stethoscope. You just don't, Greg. A real medical professional would never do that."
Lestrade, struggling to keep up with John's mental processes, brought himself back to basics. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I need to find Sherlock's phone. We need to find it. We know he had it on him when he was on the roof. He was talking to me on it, just before he…" John swallowed hard.
"I know," Lestrade's tones were gentle again; John wasn't the only one who was still raw about the details of 'it'.
"So where is it now?"
Lestrade shrugged, trying a little bit too hard to remain nonchalant. "I haven't the faintest. I don't remember ever seeing the police report, and I certainly didn't see any of… the evidence. Gregson's team took care of that case."
"Can you ask Gregson then?"
"No," was the prompt answer. "I know you and Donovan think this is all very clever, but I could get fired over this. So could Gregson. So could Donovan. And for what? And it's not as if Gregson would be likely to remember all those details anyway, it was nearly three years ago."
John did not respond to this. He seemed deep in thought. "Okay," he finally muttered, pulling out his own phone and running through his address book.
"What—"
"Hang on, just shut up for a second."
Lestrade waited while John held the phone to his ear. He could hear the soft purr of an open line. Otherwise, there was silence for a couple of minutes, and finally, John hung up.
"What was that?"
"That was Sherlock's phone. It's ringing."
Lestrade felt sure John considered this to be a major clue, but as he had no idea why, he shrugged. "Okay, it's Sherlock's phone and it's ringing," he said, "So what?"
"So Sherlock's been dead for two and a half years, Greg, and his number is still ringing?"
"Maybe the number was reallocated."
John shook his head. "It rang twenty times. Nobody's phone rings twenty times—except Sherlock's. He had that tweaked on purpose when he bought it—he was so paranoid that he'd miss a call…" he trailed, off, deep in thought again. "The phone's GPS enabled," he finally said. "Can I borrow your computer?"
"John, please… okay, fine, yes. But for God's sake, what's this going to accomplish?"
"We're going to find that phone," John said as Lestrade headed into the sitting room to retrieve his laptop, "And we're going to find out who has it now."
Lestrade stopped arguing, returning with the laptop and setting it up. In a way, John was right. Not knowing was way worse than any of the horrible details. Lestrade had been on the murder squad for too long, and liaised with far too many grieving families, to believe otherwise. I'd prefer you to find my child dead than to not ever find them at all.
"You're going to need a password to get into his account," he reminded John, who laughed a little. In life, Sherlock Holmes had been amazingly inconsistent in the knowledge he held, and that which he didn't bother with. Early in their stint as flatmates, he had realised that John had a good memory for figures and codes and passwords. From that day, he had created room on his "hard drive" by deleting certain details, and expecting John to know all of his passwords, PINs, blood type, bank account details…
"It's CAugusteDupin," he said. "One word. Capital C, Capital A, Capital D."
Lestrade blinked, then asked him to spell it. "What's that mean?" he wanted to know, typing it in with two fingers.
"It's a detective," John explained. "A fictional detective, created by Edgar Allan Poe."
"Wouldn't have picked Sherlock to be one to read detective fiction for fun."
"Oh, not without nitpicking the pieces to death, and driving me spare doing it. But he loved that stuff, really, even if I'm not sure he ever really grasped the idea of 'fiction.'" John was smiling. Some of his fondest memories of Sherlock involved his fanboy adoration of Edgar Allan Poe. He'd even had a framed portrait of him on the far wall of his bedroom. It was so unexpectedly touching and human of Sherlock to have an affiliation for Poe that he had for so few living people.
Lestrade typed the password in, as instructed. The last time John had used this website, he'd been hovering over Sherlock, not Lestrade; that had been years ago, and the password had been Rachel. The technology had improved some in that time, and it was only a half a minute or so before the GPS locator gave a meek little bleep of triumph and zoomed in over a map reference.
Over Lestrade's shoulder, John peered at the map, then swore softly. "Battersea Power Station," he said. "Right, how the hell could Sherlock's phone be there?"
"I don't think it's any use trying the boltcutters," was John's opinion of the matter. He looked the crooked iron gates up and down. "But I think I could climb that. What about you?"
"You do realise this is all sorts of trespassing, right?" Lestrade said, arms folded.
"Yes," John said. "Yeah, I suppose it is. But could you climb that?"
There were perks to being a DI—it was very much a "sitting-down job" for most of the time, with underlings to do your dogsbody work for you and make you coffee. But Lestrade had an inner adrenaline junkie, too, and was never dismayed when called upon to drive like a maniac or scramble over a seven-foot iron gate. He took a step back, sizing it up for a foothold. "Yeah," he finally said, though he didn't sound confident. "But John, seriously, what do you expect to find…?"
"A phone. Sherlock's phone. It's important, Greg."
There was no point in trying to talk him out of things, and Lestrade wasn't totally sure he even wanted to anymore. He had to admit it, Sherlock's phone—and John was sure it was Sherlock's phone—being in a derelict power station was intriguing. Just for a second, he wondered if it would have been better to bring a backup unit of officers, or at least some kind of a weapon. Just in case.
How the hell was he going to explain that one, though? There was no way he could justify bringing in a team to help him break into Battersea, for no better reason than to placate someone who'd apparently lost his mind.
"John, use your common sense," he said. "Please. We have no proof the phone is even in there—"
"GPS isn't proof?"
"Not in a court of law, no. And look, does it really matter who has Sherlock's phone? Maybe someone found it after the... whole thing. Maybe it's... someone..."
John turned to him. "No. If Moriarty took Sherlock's phone after he died, I'd be dead too," he pointed out.
"That doesn't mean this is safe. If you—"
John was a better climber than he was. Lestrade cleared the gate, however, with only minimal damage to his knees and a minor tear in the cuff of his trousers; he landed well enough on his feet on the other side, letting go of the clanging, protesting gate. "Right," he said, in tones that implied this was all in a day's work. "Well, that's at least one law broken, anyway. What now? This place is huge."
Huge or not, John seemed to know exactly where to go; the GPS map reference wasn't specific enough to be useful here, but he seemed well able to get along without it, leading Lestrade in a very definite direction along boardwalks and through corridors. Presently they came to a long, narrow room on the western side, where light filtered through filthy-paned windows and threw soft beams onto the debris on the floor. A hollow room, strangely sterile; it echoed back even their lowest of voices.
"John, you'd better have a seriously good explanation as to why we're here," Lestrade grouched.
John couldn't explain why they were there. He paced up and down quietly, searching the floor, the skirting boards; kicking aside the occasional discarded bolt or screw that had been left there over a decade ago. Lestrade watched him, but did not speak. Finally he stopped, facing the window.
"Of course," he muttered, the words amplified by the room. He pulled his phone out, fumbling at the keypad. Then a pause, and both heard it: the familiar little trill of Sherlock Holmes' phone.
And judging from the changing acoustics of the ringtone, it was in motion, coming down the outside corridor toward them.
Lestrade glanced at John and saw that his face was grey and his chest heaving, his right hand fumbling at the back of his belt instinctively for a pistol that wasn't there. John had gone to Lestrade's that morning seeking an answer, not a phone; and he had gone to Battersea Power Station seeking a phone, and not the man who rounded the corner, slowly and stealthily, with that phone in his hand.
"Good morning." Sebastian Moran held the phone up. Then he killed the ringtone, as abruptly as a slap, and slipped it into his coat pocket.
Simultaneously, John and Lestrade saw the gun he held down by his right side.