Chapter Ten: The Date That Shouldn't Be
Sherlock did his best to ignore their guardian, since she was useless as far as investigating went anyway. He'd already noticed three details that should have told the police that no, John wasn't involved at all. Technically, there were seven, but he'd seen these people. He couldn't assume that they'd notice the subtler signs, the same way you didn't expect a first year student to pull off Paganini.
Sadly, his bet didn't require proving that they were uninvolved, but catching the actual person responsible. That called for more research. Not in here, though. The house had spoken.
He walked out, carefully tiptoeing around blood splatters and other clues.
"Okay, now that we're done here, where's your morgue?" he asked.
"What?" Gemma looked as if she had no idea what he was talking about. Good God, first day on the job?
"I will need the pathologist's report too. I assume just sending them an email won't do, so let's go there and you can explain to them why I need access to the information."
"That I understand, but why would you go now?" She kept just standing there. Why was everyone so slow?
"John!" It was the journalist's turn to plead. If he had to face any more denseness he was going to explode.
The doctor chuckled...at him? "She does have a point. Look, I've seen the body—to get that properly examined won't be a matter of a couple of hours. And even the simplest of tests take at least a day. If you go in now, you will get some indications on how she died. Tomorrow, you'll get some more. But a report? A full one will take a few weeks. Way longer than you'd planned to stay, if your brother texted me the right details."
Oh. He hadn't considered that. Stupid him. Sherlock flushed brightly; he should have known better. That was what he got for concentrating on inorganic chemistry in his studies, and then writing about research that took months anyway. He thought that the pressing needs of catching a murderer would make people develop quicker methods of analysis. But when jail was on the line, accurate trumped speedy. As frustrating as that was, he couldn't fault their mindset.
"So, do you suggest going tomorrow? What are we supposed to do in the meantime?"
"Well, I missed lunch, what with being arrested, so my personal plans included an early dinner," John said, shrugging.
"You can't be serious! How can you eat in this situation?"
"Soldier, remember. I can eat—and sleep—in any situation. You should, too, it won't do you any good to pass out tomorrow. If only because if you do, you might lose the bet...and the commissioner sounded crazy enough to go through with her threat and send you to jail. And me, too, not that you need to worry about it," John replied.
Sherlock bit his lower lip. It was good to have it acknowledged—he didn't care about John, not any more than he would for any fellow British man that got involved in trouble abroad without any fault of his own. But to insinuate that his attitude could endanger either of them? That was low. He knew his limits, and the way his brain worked: missing a meal, or even two, wouldn't make him swoon like a Regency maiden! But it was harder than it had ever been to put the other in his place. Damn. It was all because he'd thrown his past career into the conversation so nonchalantly.
"So? Anyone joining me for dinner?" the doctor asked.
For some reason, the agent looked at Sherlock, instead of replying. Her duty of surveillance should have determined her decision, shouldn't it?
"I've already made my point," he said.
"And I'm supposed to keep an eye on both of you," Gemma replied, crossing her arms, "which you, Mister, are not making easy for me."
"So what? Are we supposed to be joined at the hip now?" The journalist's look would have made lesser people cower.
"Hey, it's okay," John interjected, smiling, "you don't have to do a single thing you don't want. As long as you promise neither to leave town nor to investigate on your own, it's fine, isn't it?"
The agent looked to the side—whether afraid of witnesses or looking for support, Sherlock couldn't say. Her mouth opened in protest, but before she could quote her orders, he huffed, "What's the advantage if I'm supposed to just sit in my room and do nothing? Might as well come along and annoy you, at least."
"Challenge accepted," John said. The two sealed the pact with a vigorous handshake.
Sherlock allowed himself a smirk. His new partner underestimated his ability to make a nuisance of himself.
"Any suggestions?" the doctor asked, turning to Gemma. It was an obvious move, but, the journalist would rather ignore the presence of Ball And Chain (his personal nickname for their guardian).
"Oh, plenty," she said. "I'm not that great a cook. Shocking, I know." She winked. Why was it necessary for her to wink? Improper. Disgraceful, even. "But it means I do have all the best restaurants mapped. And we can be at the nearest one in five minutes. If you'll follow me, gentlemen."
Sherlock was almost tempted to back out. But they had an agreement—they'd shaken on it—and he would look ridiculous changing his mind now. If no one else was, he was supposed to be the professional and focused one in this endeavour. Perhaps, they'd learn something from him.
"Prepare for heaven," Gemma said, with an exaggerated flourish, in front of the door to her recommended place. "Oh, and one last question—if you prefer, I can sit by myself at a neighbouring table. I can't exactly give you complete privacy, but, you know."
"No, we don't know," Sherlock replied. Why would she think that they needed even the illusion of not being involved in a murder investigation at the moment? He never dealt in make believe. He'd be writing fiction instead of scientific articles, if he were so inclined.
"He means yes, thank you," John interjected, rubbing the nape of his neck, then turned to him, "Unless you'd prefer her company?"
"I have no preference whatsoever. I will not be catering to her wishes, anyway, and I don't expect her to cater to mine," the journalist replied, looking at the sign rather than either of his companions.
"Well, I have a preference, so yes, thank you," John said, "you're very kind."
Sherlock looked back at the cop to see her rub her temple, as if she felt a headache forming.
Once inside, a loud stomach rumble came from their group. No, it wasn't John, who had complained about being hungry in the first place, but Sherlock. The smell of food had gone directly to the enteric part of his nervous system to remind the one in his skull that they'd missed lunch, too. The day couldn't have been worse.
Okay, he might be in jail for complicity in a crime neither of them had committed, but that might actually be less embarrassing. There was no fault of his own in that, at least.
To his relief, everyone pretended nothing happened. He'd always reacted to mockery by revealing his tormentors' dirty secrets, but his deductions had already proven dull weapons against John.
Still, embarrassment made him trail quietly after his partner. Gemma was already chatting up the waitress, talking a mile a minute (obviously a friend, also obvious she hoped for more), so they just went and picked a table in a mostly empty section, to ensure that their guardian wouldn't complain or ask them to move.
A minute later the waitress, a short girl with a warm smile and a neon blue streak in her chestnut hair, came to their table, bringing menus and a bread basket.
"Don't get the chips," she whispered conspiratorially, leaning in under the pretence of adjusting the position of a placeholder. "They're frozen."
John looked up, surprised by the admission.
She shrugged minutely. "Anyone who makes Gemma feel like she's walking through a dream gets special treatment. If you have a craving for fried food, let me suggest the olive ascolane. Minced meat filled olives, covered in breadcrumbs and fried. She wouldn't forgive me if I let you have anything subpar."
With that, she walked away, and Sherlock promptly forgot about feeling awkward. Despite the menu listing the ingredients of each plate in English, too, John was asking his advice, as if he were an Italian cuisine expert. An admirer, yes. For a true connoisseur, they'd have to ask Mycroft...and he absolutely wasn't going to text his brother.
When he admitted it, though, John just chuckled. "I'm sure that Gemma's friend will be willing to answer any further questions I have."
In the end, they opted for penne with a mozzarella and tomato concasse, decorated with basil, for Sherlock, and cacio e pepe (pepper and sheep milk's cheese) spaghetti for John.
"I like things spicy," the doctor said. His self-deprecating grin forestalled the sneer that Sherlock would have given anyone else.
"Even when it's this hot?" The words had just left his mouth, when he realised how ambiguous his sentence sounded.
"Especially then." John didn't wink. There was no need to.
Damn it. Why was his brain currently playing catch up to the world? It never used to. John was a threat to his mental acuity. He needed to solve this case quickly—and preferably, alone, if the agent would allow it—so that he could leave John behind. He'd leave Mycroft to enjoy the art (and share pomposities, which would amuse him no end) and go back home. Knowing his brother, he'd already warned their parents that their "baby" (even at 25, with a degree and a sort-of career) had managed to get himself involved in a murder. In fact, let's hope that his brother didn't explain the terms of his involvement, or mum might fly to watch her own Sherlock solve his first case, and he would really have to throw himself off a cliff then. She'd be pissed off that she didn't have a front row seat for this, no doubt. But there had to be a limit to the insanity he could be asked to endure.
His wandering thoughts were interrupted by, "For someone who wanted to make a nuisance of himself, you're really quiet."
"Just thinking about the possibility that my mum will burst into the morgue tomorrow."
John's laughter made his nerve endings tingle, when it had no business doing so. "Seriously?"
"It depends on how much my brother told her about the situation, but does it really sound unlikely? She'd absolutely want to see her own Sherlock Holmes on a case."
From the next table, Gemma interjected, "Well, can you blame her?" So much for offering them the illusion of privacy. Or of cops connecting enough giant dots to put themselves in other people's shoes. How did they ever solve anything?" The involuntary consulting detective glared at her, until she lowered her eyes to her own table and started playing with her fork.
That was the moment their waitress chose to bring their food. There were no scenes—there couldn't be—but the tenseness of her shoulders said everything Sherlock needed to know. "Oh please. Instead of being grumpy on her account, why don't you offer to deepen your friendship with her?" he said, pointing at Gemma.
Both women looked startled, but then shared a smile.
"That was utterly brilliant," John said, looking at him with near awe. "I figured they were friends, of course. But how did you work that out? Was it the complete lack of regard for each other's personal space while they chatted?"
"It might have been, but sadly, that's not a good indication here. Italians will speak to you while almost stepping on your toes, no matter what the relationship," Sherlock replied.
At the other's raised eyebrow, he admitted, "Fine, I might have exaggerated...but not by much. I'm surprised you didn't notice, honestly. Dilated pupils are a result of either darkness or desire, and given that the place is bright, the cause was self-evident." And with that, he lowered his own eyes to his plate.
"Amazing," John said, again.
Sherlock was deeply grateful that the truly heavenly taste of food would explain away the little moan he couldn't suppress. Otherwise, he'd be forced to flee in shame. He was supposed to be a thinking machine on a case, damn it, not a teen overreacting at receiving his first compliment. Why did John never have any consideration for that?
For a while, only the sound of cutlery was heard—the greatest praise any cook can hope for. The conscripted detective wished he could concentrate on revising the data he acquired, but too many things remained to be ascertained.
"Can I be naughty?" John leant towards him.
Sherlock threw him a faintly alarmed look. "You do remember that we are supposed to be investigating a murder, don't you?"
"Not right now, or even tonight. I promise it's not what you think." John backed away, obviously trying to appear non-threatening. As if anyone could forget what this man was capable of, if only he allowed himself. Sherlock's curiosity would be the end of him some day.
"Do your worst." He hoped that his companion wouldn't notice the little shudder which went through him, issuing such a blanket statement. Even in a public place, and with the cop less than a yard from them, it felt like a risk.
"Please, please, deduce the other patrons. For me." The former soldier grinned.
Why couldn't the man conform and hate his disregard for people's privacy? It always worked before. But with the delighted look fixed on him, there was no way that he could deny such a simple request. "The man eating alone—professor of chemistry, he has the same kind of scars from being careless in his earlier career that I do on his hands. Unlike me, he beds his students who aim for a higher mark than their intellect would allow. Only the girls, though. Not that anyone is too happy about that."
"Brilliant." It was barely an exhale, and had no right to sound so...indecent. "Again."
At this point, if aliens had landed and entered the place determined to raze it to the ground, Sherlock would have just deduced them, too. "The three girls at the corner table—the one who just got her degree, wearing the laurel, wants to become a teacher. In fact, she's generally the responsible one, and is the one who drank least despite today being her day. The one in the green dress is her elder sister, the resemblance is obvious, and has a job in retail as you can see from her hands—in fact, I'm wondering if her choice of attire was an unconscious sign of envy. The third is the new graduate's best friend, and thinks it's her duty to make sure that her friend has fun, whether she likes it or not. Oh, she's been light of hand, in fact I'll be very surprised if some of the make-up she wears wasn't pilfered, it's a bit high-end for someone who wears that dress on a festive occasion, but she slipped something from a flask she hides in her purse in her friends' drink. Vodka, I reckon."
"Marvellous." John's voice had an edge of near reverence.
It would have been Sherlock's opportunity to show off how unpleasant he could be, just as he'd planned. Simply use his naturally rumbling voice, and watch the riot start. He'd never purposefully hidden his talents, and there was no reason to, now that he was asked to display them. But his companion's attitude overwhelmed his mind so much, that his voice turned to a whisper, too. They could have been talking dirty, for all anyone else knew. Well, Gemma could probably hear them, but she hadn't raised a fuss. Whether because she didn't trust his deductions or because this wasn't the right setting to start a side investigation, he didn't know and didn't care. Wouldn't someone please get him away from here? He would be completely useless if someone didn't keep him focused on the matter at hand—and then they'd end up in jail, because the locals were insane. Why wasn't this obvious to John?
Perhaps it was, though. When their waitress came along, suggesting dessert and coffee, the doctor glanced at him and shot her down. Bless him for understanding that lingering wasn't an option. If they couldn't investigate any longer today, at the very least Sherlock needed to get to his room and delete every interaction not strictly pertaining to the murder. If he managed to, that was.
When their bill arrived, he picked it up. The least he could do was to reciprocate John's thoughtfulness. "Let me. You offered last time. Unless you want to go Dutch, like at the Galleria. But—I'd like to."
John opened his mouth, then closed it. Whatever objection he'd had, he'd quashed it. "Thanks," he said instead. "So? What happens now?" he asked, once they were out of the restaurant. "I mean, how long do you need to follow us? If we're to be under continuous surveillance, shouldn't you get someone to relieve you? Or do you get paid for the overtime?"
Gemma tilted her head to the left. "The commissioner...didn't exactly explain. May I see your documents, again?"
Sherlock sighed deeply. If that was necessary, why hadn't she asked as soon as they met? He showed his, anyway, and so did John. There was no need to antagonise the woman without purpose.
She frowned, examining them, but said, "O-kay, I'm making a snap judgement of my own. It might get me in trouble, but you do have a point, commissioner Di Giovanni really should make sure I have someone relieving me. My shift ends in...oh, about ten minutes. At least I should have got a message asking me to report. These don't look fake to me, besides the names, but in fairness, they'd be ridiculous names to pick for an alias. If you promise me you'll go to your room and stay there, no sneaking out to investigate crimes or commit them," she grinned, "then I'll just go home and meet you tomorrow. If this is a mistake, I'm trying to make it the least bothersome I can. And if it means my colleagues are going to do all the work while I babysit a couple of tourists...well, it's not my fault."
Promise to behave? What were they, five? Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard he was sure it wasn't just noticeable, but audible. Still, he didn't want to be saddled with his current company any longer than necessary. So—just like John—he agreed to the plan. After arranging a meeting for the morrow, they were finally free to go back to their hotels. Or at least he thought they were.
"Wait, where are you going?" Gemma called after them.
"Um, back to our rooms?" John answered first, thankfully, because Sherlock wouldn't be nearly that polite.
"Rooms? In different directions? Does it mean you're not..." Gemma looked from the one to the other, as if she couldn't conceive that the two of them lived separately.
"Nope," the journalist replied, popping the p.
"Is there some sort of requirement for us to room together? I'd get it if we were to actually be supervised, but if we're not going to have a guard posted anyway...I mean, I wouldn't protest. But it's a bit soon," John added, a smile shining in his amber eyes. At least, they looked amber now. Sherlock would have sworn they were a plain hazel. If the man could settle and finally become boring, the amateur detective would be better focused.
"No, I suppose not. It's just...I didn't know that. You look—" the agent's voice trailed off, and she shuffled, looking unsure of the direction she would take herself.
"And this is why your boss asks random people to solve murders for her," Sherlock snapped. If they couldn't differentiate between the ease of an established couple and one which was definitely not, how did anyone expect the police to determine guilt or innocence?