Chapter Nine: The Madness Begins
John honestly thought that being accused was, on the whole, boring. It was a mistake, anyone with half a brain could have seen it. How many murderers went back to the crime scene...bringing chocolates for their victim? He'd decided on that by way of an apology, as Livia had gone beyond what anyone could ask. It wasn't her fault that her uncle was a stuck-up prick. Matteo had let him know the flat she shared with a friend, only for John to find said friend in hysterics outside the building. She didn't seem capable of forming any coherent sentence, even if John had been much better versed in Italian.
He'd gone to check what happened, thinking maybe he could help. The flat's door was wide open, and Livia's body lay twisted across the hall's floor, enough blood splatters around her to be sure his services as a doctor weren't going to be required. A few policemen were flittering around, taking samples and photos. They yelled at him, asking—he assumed—his name and intent. Shit didn't really hit the fan, though, until the Professor himself appeared. The man noticed him before the body, and greeted him—with a different name than the one he'd just given to the police.
Plenty of screaming, accusations, and general chaos later, he'd been brought to the station and allowed a last call. After that, they took his mobile phone, locked him in a cell and promptly forgot about him.
Oh well. He'd endured plenty of boredom in the army. Boredom was fine. They would realise that he had literally no reason to hurt such a casual acquaintance, and let him out. Apologies would be nice, but he wouldn't insist on them.
When someone came—a fresh-faced, smiling policewoman—he smiled back. She told him, in decent English, "You won't believe what I'm here for."
"To let me go, I suppose," he replied.
"Yes, well...not exactly. To be frank, I am wondering what commissioner De Giovanni was thinking. Ok, no reason to beat around the bush. You will be released, but I am supposed to follow you and your...friend?...around. At all times," she was almost bouncing on her feet.
"I don't understand." John frowned.
"You're still a suspect, as is...oh come on, his name can't seriously be Sherlock!"
"He is. Swear to God. So, why not just forbid us to leave our rooms instead of following us, if you have figured out that we don't deserve jail anyway? Not that I am complaining, mind you. Just wondering," John replied, still unmoving.
"Because you're to solve the case, obviously," she quipped, snapping her fingers.
"What?" He didn't mean to yell.
"I told you it was insane." She shrugged. "Now let's get a move on, your friend was sure we'd release you in seconds and he's been waiting for the last four hours. He managed to get a lawyer and...his brother, I think?...to the station in the meantime. I don't think he will like having to wait any longer."
Trailing after the agent, John saw the group waiting for him in the front area of the small police station. Mycroft (at least he assumed so; there was a definite family resemblance) was sitting down, a suited, white-haired man at his side who looked like a lawyer from the telly. John just hoped that he was an actual professional and not an unemployed actor. Sherlock, however, was striding around, and getting in the way of anyone who came in or tried to actually accomplish anything, mumbling under his breath. When he saw John, he froze. "What took you so long?"
"How did you come up with such a crazy project?" John countered, though his grin belied his tone.
Mycroft sighed. Loudly.
"This is highly" the lawyer started, but before he could get "irregular" (or any synonym for insane) out, Sherlock was already leaving, and they all had to do their best to catch up with him.
John thought that they looked like ducklings trotting after an especially aloof and shiny-feathered one. He giggled, ignoring the dirty look the lawyer sent his way. Instead, once he had his breath back, he asked the cop—who 'd fallen in step with him—"Sorry I didn't ask before, but...since we're going to be together for a while, what's your name?"
"Gemma. I mean, agent Berti if you want to be formal, but it seems odd to be formal when the situation is so fantastical. I mean, unusual. I mean…"
John never knew what she meant.
Sherlock led them through the minor opening at the base of the tower that John had refused to use at his arrival in town, and that shut her up. A staircase spiralled upwards, low stone steps climbing under obviously ancient brick arches. After a few steps, deeply splayed windows gave light to their path. John debated with himself if it would be bad form to follow his curiosity and look from the windows, or peer down into the stairwell. The structure looked ancient, in its stern beauty, and he wondered idly if it dated back to the Renaissance (and maybe the professor would spout an architect or two if asked about it) or if it was a bit more modern. He suspected that Sherlock picked it simply because the temperature was at least ten degrees lower in here, though.
John walked up to him—Gemma a shadow just one step behind his back—saying, "You know, it's almost a pity that a place that has such spots would even allow murders in normal houses. It'd be much more atmospheric here."
There was a sound almost like choking behind him, and he looked back to see if there was trouble, only to find the lawyer gasping. The poor man looked ready to have a conniption, and possibly fall to his death as a result. Was John's wish going to be fulfilled?
Catching his eye, the old man finally caught his breath and roared, "Silence!" It echoed among the vaults, making even Gemma jump a bit.
"Oh, come on! Can't people even say the obvious, now?" Sherlock snapped.
"Mr. Holmes, you've hired me. And then negotiated without my presence something that is beyond all customs, and which lends itself to at least three different objections from a legal standpoint. And now when I offer suggestions that should be obvious to anyone, you argue. Why am I needed, exactly?" the lawyer asked, stepping closer.
"Because I thought you'd be needed, but you've come too late to be of any use. I accepted the task of solving this on my own because the commissary is an idiot, and people in power famously choose only even more stupid people to surround themselves with." Sherlock didn't even look at him.
"I. Quit," the man announced, crossing his arms.
Before John could say a word to try to mediate or apologise, the journalist replied, "Suit yourself."
"By the way, this place was always supposed to prevent murders. Having a fortified way from the base of the palace to out of town that you can, if necessary, rush through on horseback is a good way to survive, sirs," the lawyer announced, before theatrically turning away.
"Are you all for real?" Gemma interjected. She nibbled on her lower lip, eyes shifting between them.
"Sadly, yes," Mycroft said, sighing wearily.
It was the agent's turn to erupt into giggles—and Sherlock's turn to glare.
"Oh, quit it, you insulted her. At least she's a good sport!" John said.
His friend's eyes narrowed. "Insulted her? I just stated universal truths. The truth is never insulting."
"Ignore him, agent," interjected Mycroft, "that's the only way we have survived with most of our sanity intact."
Gemma smiled at him. "Well, that's comforting...if you managed it."
"Can we just go and solve this case before the crime scene is completely compromised?" Sherlock said, leading them upwards. John glanced at some more abstract art—was that bronze? Copper? Rust?—at the sides of the highest, white-plastered area, before they popped out of the tower. Not that it felt much like 'out', given they were hurrying under a portico.
"Crime scene? Are you seriously thinking that you'll be allowed in?" Gemma frowned, a hand almost going to stop the journalist, before she thought better of it.
"I've been asked to investigate this by your own superior. I hope that she doesn't expect me to do so without acquiring any data. My name is Sherlock Holmes, not Merlin. If I am expected to solve this case by the use of psychic powers, I am sorry to inform you I don't have any. You'll be with us at all times. If that isn't enough to ensure that we won't plant evidence to excuse ourselves from something we've never done in the first place, you must have a very low opinion of your own capabilities, agent." Sherlock retorted, swivelling to face her and crossing his arms.
"In case you weren't listening, her name's Gemma," John pointed out. As much as the current events sounded like the most interesting thing that might happen in his life, if only by way of being hands down the oddest, he had a feeling that they would require a lot of feather-smoothing on all sides. Maybe he could add "fowl-wrangling" to his curriculum vitae, should general medicine prove a disappointing change from field surgery. He raised his eyes, finding, instead of divine sympathy, a ribbed vault. This town was full of surprises.
At Sherlock's look of betrayal, he hurried to add, "Well, he has a point, you know. I'm sure you're a great agent, but even you couldn't solve a murder without so much as looking at the scene...especially if you weren't given any documents on your colleagues' findings."
"There's no need to flatter her," the journalist grumbled.
"Vinegar and honey, dear," John quipped back.
"We're not making a salad," Sherlock replied, steps sounding loud on the pavement.
"Don't bother, John, we tried that, and only managed to give him an inordinate fondness for orange blossom honey," Mycroft said.
Sherlock glared at him, and declared the discussion closed the way John was starting to recognise as his usual. A quick scowl (at his brother this time), and he turned away to stride through the last of the portico.
Finally, they came to a square John recognised, and ever-eager, Sherlock continued to march—in the opposite direction to the victim's flat. John stifled a laugh, sped ahead of him and brushed his arm. The journalist sucked in a breath, at the unexpected, wordless touch, but then allowed himself to be turned around. Thankfully, this time his martial arts reflexes didn't kick in; that would have been a difficult thing to explain to Gemma.
"I hope that you won't mind if I take my leave now...crime scenes are not my idea of an entertaining afternoon," Mycroft said.
"Well, don't blame me when you complain once again that your art lacks 'punch,' brother," Sherlock replied.
"Have I ever? I could explain to you, again, the difference between what I'm aiming for and mere shock value, but that would only take up so much of my time that I'd end up seeing this crime scene of yours anyway. You need a much cleverer trick to fool me, you know. I wish you all a good day, and prompt success," his brother snarked. John thought he sounded ridiculously pompous, but maybe his brain just found everything ridiculous today. Still better than finding everything maddening, which happened a lot when he was recuperating from being shot.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure we will." Sherlock actually shooed his sibling away, like a particularly annoying fly.
Gemma decided to take the lead after that, one eye on her charges, but refusing to have the blind (blindest, in fact) leading them. It made sense, but still she rushed to apologise, almost tripping over her own words.
"You were wrong, you know" Sherlock told him, glancing at the victim's door. It had been shut in the meantime, and bore the tape warning to keep out.
"About what?" Not that he was surprised, but…fine, John was surprised that the man could arrive at any sort of conclusion so soon.
"About the stairs, or any other place really, being a more fitting location for a murder. I'm still unsure whether you accidentally involved me in some sort of game, because really, John? The person who was killed lived in Death's Turn? Well, I assume it's turn and not time or vault, not that either would make it much better." The journalist pointed at the street sign claiming Volta della Morte.
Their companion was the one to answer. "Yes, well, a charitable fellowship taking care of poor people's burials was set here. The name stood. Speaking of names, just to clarify—yours are really John Watson and Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yeah," John said. Not again.
"You wouldn't need to ask if you could recognise a British passport when one is smacking you in the face. Or at least your commissioner wouldn't, and I hope you'd take her word for it," Sherlock snapped, fidgeting as if he was tempted to physically remove her and get to his crime scene.
"And this is your first crime scene?" she asked, not moving to open the door. She sounded slightly breathy, which puzzled John a bit.
"Yes, because usually the police are able to do their job," the journalist growled.
"Besides, we didn't meet that long ago, did we?" John added, hoping he'd somehow manage to stop this amazing, maddening man from being jailed in turn for sheer slander.
The cop turned around, her usual cheerfulness cranked up to eleven, a new, almost manic light in her clear, blue eyes. "Oh my God oh my God oh my God, I can't believe it! I'm sad to say that this is not going to be a lurid tale of revenge and forced marriage—we'd know if she was married, for one—and there aren't any Western elements unless you go to a Sergio Leone retrospective, I'm afraid. But that this should happen in real life, to me, am I dreaming?" She pinched her wrist, and grinned. "Oh, I so have to buy something for the commissioner." She took a few deep breaths, and for a moment John worried that she was going to hyperventilate right then and there.
Sherlock recoiled from her flailing form, looking at the madwoman in front of them with something like horror. John squeezed his arm in reassurance. They could take her down, if she became crazier. He wished that she had stayed in denial a bit longer, or gone crazy as soon as she met them. At least she would have got over her fit by now. If this was a technique to persuade them to admit that their names were in fact a forgery, though, it was brilliant.
"The. Crime. Scene," the journalist ground out, glaring.
"Ooh yes yes yes. Sorry. Of course. We're going in. Hold on, shouldn't we wait to have someone send in the proper coveralls so we don't contaminate it?"
"And sit on this landing for another four or five hours until your colleagues deign to turn up? No. You're obviously not a reliable organization. I'll just go in now, and any evidence you already collected will have to be enough, if you're concerned about it. I do hope that you have taken samples of everything on the scene already."
"Sherlock," John pleaded. "Maybe try not to piss everyone off for five minutes?"
The journalist turned to him, crossing his arms. "Am I wrong?"
"Honestly? This is all insane. I'm not sure there's been anything right since I walked out of the door this morning. And yeah, they've proven that they're petty enough to ask you to investigate and hinder you at the same time. But if we get accused of fucking up their scene, I'm not sure that's much better." John shrugged.
"That's the reason you'll stay here," Sherlock replied.
"What?" The doctor's eyebrows almost reached his hairline.
"They've accused you once already. I'm not about to let anyone stop me solving this, since apparently the people who are supposed to seem incapable of it. I'm not going to have you accidentally contaminate the crime scene so they can come back and find something to use against you," Sherlock rapped out, grey eyes turning almost dark blue.
Gemma sighed deeply. "The power of love!"
John considered disabusing her, but it was too funny to see Sherlock take another step back, as if scared. In fact, if the man wasn't careful he would end falling down the stairs!
"You two. Are. Adorable!" she said, clapping once. Okay, this was awkward.
"I'm not surprised anymore that your chief would ask the help of random strangers, if this is the kind of agents she has," the journalist huffed. "Now, could you kindly allow me into the crime scene?"
"Okay. You have a point. If we're breaking the rules, we're breaking the rules. Besides, I'm here to make sure that you won't actually damage our investigation. And I have to prove you wrong about the talent of our police force...though it'd be embarrassing if my friends locked up the right person before we can." She giggled.
John put a hand on his friend's back—people who solved murders for you were definitely friends—in an attempt to soothe him. That was why he felt him shudder. The poor man looked as if he'd have nightmares about today...and they hadn't even seen the crime scene yet.
She allowed them in. Well, Sherlock anyway. John would have loved to participate, but they were right, the less people who traipsed around in there the better. Even though it wasn't exactly procedure, they let the door open a sliver, to allow him to watch.
Sherlock was dancing. Not literally dancing, it'd be quite concerning if his reaction to blood splatters was bursting into a pirouette, and the ultimate proof that John had been run over on the way to Misha and in a coma ever since. But the way he moved between the stains, the way he'd lean to examine a detail making sure not to brush against anything. A partner in a tutu wouldn't have been out of place any more than a surprisingly quiet Gemma. You'd think that she would have words—lots of them—"Careful," and, "Don't", and, "What are you even looking at?" The answer to which would be interesting. Instead, she was just looking at him like an oddly fascinated falcon, her head tilting to follow his movements.
Since he'd never been to a crime scene before, one would think it might take Sherlock hours; surely he'd want to be thorough. Instead he just roamed around the room twice, with no apparent order, before leaping further into the house.
"Hey!" Gemma yelled. John couldn't help but sympathise.
"You have investigated that girl's life, right? Or just stuck with John because he happened to pass by? I don't know her well enough, so I'll just have a quick look, to understand which kind of person she was, and who would want her dead." It was yelled back, Sherlock apparently not wanting to lose one more second of investigation to justify himself. Some noises pointed that he wasn't being too gentle with the furniture, either.
The agent looked conflicted, her eyes turning from John to the corridor her other charge disappeared down.
John sighed, and waved. "I'm not going to run, I swear. Go get him...or at least make sure he's rooting through the life of the right flatmate."
Gemma nodded, and rushed after the madman. John started tapping against his thigh. It was maddening how every single decision they made was the wisest possible in this situation...but it still led to him being excluded. He wanted to know what was going on, damn it! And strictly speaking, he was the one who had the most experience with death. Why was the journalist asked to solve the case? Just because his name was Sherlock Holmes? ...Or maybe because he was a legit genius. Okay, there was that.