Chapter Twelve: An Old Acquaintance
"I need to apologise, Mr. Holmes. Frankly, I underestimated you. As interesting—unique really —as collaborating with you has been, I thought you would need much more guidance," Gemma said, when they were back in the street.
"To be fair, he kind of does," John added, smiling.
Sherlock huffed. "Ridiculous." He'd just found them a number of suspects. What more did the man want? Yes, he was supposed to solve the case, but no one else seemed to be doing anything at all. It was odd. He thought that John's praise endeared the doctor to him, despite the man's frustrating stubbornness. Now that Gemma was the one complimenting him, though, he was certainly smug, but not nearly as thrilled as he had been. Had he just enjoyed the novelty of the experience, so that he lost much of his glee now that had worn off? He'd hoped that pleasure wouldn't turn stale quite so quickly, but he should have known; he processed things much quicker than other people, after all.
He realised that he'd slowed down so much that he didn't just fall in step with the others—they were actually ahead of him. It shouldn't matter, but then why was he immediately irritated? This holiday was a complete mess. He just needed to solve the case to earn his blessed solitude again.
He rushed ahead again, only for the doctor to say, "Believe me, you don't want to run."
He turned around, hissing, "She's not objecting, and I don't remember anyone putting you in charge, Captain."
"Hey, don't bite. It was an honest suggestion. If she doesn't mind you sweating like a race horse by the time we're at the Academy, it's her business. Maybe she's hoping that you'll be more subdued if you can't breathe?" Dammit. John had no business smiling at him so brightly, or looking so soft—adorable, really—when he was teasing. It made holding into his rightful annoyance impossible.
And why was Gemma flinching? She could just as well have screamed "Guilty as charged." She'd just praised him, but wanted him out of commission now? Did no one in the world, beside him, have an inkling of logic?
"I just thought that simply getting the names is a boring job, and you don't need to be involved. In fact, if you'd prefer sitting this one out—you're not going to murder anyone in half an hour or so, are you?" she replied, grinning.
"We are coming along. The last thing we need is to give your superior any excuse to deny that we did help solve the case, or have her make up any other insane accusations," the consulting detective declared. Curious how John knew where the Academy was, in the first place. Not that the man was a viable suspect—there was no way that an ordinary girl could escape from the kitchen to the hall, if he wanted to kill her—but he was disappointed in Gemma for not remarking on it.
The rest of the trip was quiet. Other people might have been uncomfortable with that, but Sherlock was grateful for it. He didn't need to pay attention to his companions any longer, and could use the time to revise the data he had acquired until then. Having everyone focused on a common goal made the situation almost pleasant. He'd always thought that, unlike other people, he wasn't born to be a social creature. But it seemed that he just wasn't fit to entertain the boring ones—a quality, not flaw, of his, if you asked him.
Damn. Having a quick brain also meant his thoughts meandering more than he'd like. The case! He was supposed to be analysing the case! Despite obtaining less than he'd hoped for, some details were obvious already. He squashed down a wave of shame for forming his own expectations out of fictional mysteries. With his name, he really should have known that they were a bunch of nonsense. He would not let himself be distracted again.
By the time they arrived at the Academy, he had a dozen hypotheses, none of them any more probable than the others: he really needed more information on the victim. Part of him still insisted that if he hadn't been so focused on John, he might have deduced enough during their visit to have solved it already. Then again, without John he wouldn't have been part of the group or involved in the murder at all. Mycroft certainly wouldn't have volunteered their help, lest his participation be requested, too. As mildly amusing as breaking in a lab had been, he had no doubt that eventually boredom would have driven him crazy.
Why would both his companions chide him for his behaviour, when the only deductions he'd offered were positive ones? People were never satisfied. They walked through a corridor, its white walls adorned with paintings at both extremes of the gaudy scale by, Sherlock assumed, its students. Gemma went to enquire about their suspects, and they remained in front of the president's office, on the faux-leather seats available. Sherlock tried to behave, and concentrate on a small rip in the upholstery. He really did. But the president couldn't seem to just answer her question and get at the damn point. Instead, the door, which remained ajar, revealed a great deal of hand-wringing and dramatic regret. Possibly the names would have been given then, but it looked as if the cop thought that manners required her to join in the jeremiad, if not with the same level of flourish. This couldn't go on. For all they knew, her colleagues—under the old idiot's direction—hadn't asked anyone else to stick around, and every minute made more probable that the murderer had the common sense to leave town and, preferably, the nation.
He'd have thought that John would have suggested they get on with it. Even if he didn't understand the language, the man was clever enough to have become a doctor; he'd figure out that they were talking way too much to just share a handful of names. But John was apparently too polite for that. Yet another layer of complexity to him, as soldiers weren't exactly famous for their tolerance of people faffing about.
Since his brain didn't want to quieten—and its deplorable tendency to ponder anything but the case at hand—Sherlock's only choice was to intervene himself. He walked up to them, interjecting, "The register of Miss Livia Cecchini's class, please. Some of her friends might be involved in some way or another, and we need their last names to locate them. If you're so stricken by her death, you might consider helping to catch her killer. If your plan is to slow down the investigation, instead, I'd be forced to let your wife know exactly why you're always late, and that's not from grading your students' works. " In Italian, of course.
He grinned at the man spluttering and protesting, while at the same time rushing around to look for the documents. It was easy to actually get the job done, if you only knew how to deal with people.
Judging from Gemma's shocked look, she didn't agree with him. Oh well. She would, once she wisened up. Her age, so close to his own and possibly even a bit older, didn't matter. Good for her if she had never needed to develop the skills to most effectively manipulate people. And good for him that, unlike John, he didn't need to rely on anyone's translation; otherwise the value of his approach would undoubtedly have been watered down.
As it was, despite obtaining what they'd come for in barely a minute since he took the reins, the agent thought necessary to both thank the man and extend her apologies—again, with many more words and emphatic gestures than necessary.
He ignored her antics and took a few steps away, John following him. "So? Where do we start from?" the detective asked. "Sex, money, or old sheer hatred?"
"Are you that sure that one of these people will be our killer?" John replied, raising one eyebrow.
"I'm sure the motive is one of these. People are ultimately boring. How everyone else doesn't realise that much is the true mystery." Sherlock shrugged.
"Bored already? I thought at least this would keep you entertained," John quipped.
"John Watson! You didn't get involved in a murder in order to keep my interest in you keen, did you?" Sherlock would have loved to say he was horrified at the prospect, but he was afraid that his voice came out more along the lines of impressed. The other laughed. And even if he didn't mean to, he found himself smiling, too.
"No. I'm not clever enough to come up with such a plan, even if I might be reckless enough to put it into execution. Then again, who wouldn't be, to be allowed to witness your brilliance?" John replied.
"Flatterer," the newly minted sleuth retorted, flushing at the overblown lie.
"Am not," John insisted. How was the man not red-faced himself while buttering him up so shamelessly?
Sherlock frowned. Forget the blushing, he couldn't find any signs of deceit in the other's attitude. The man couldn't be serious...but if he wasn't, then everyone, himself included, was overestimating his own vaunted sagacity.
"Stop deflecting. Who're we going to question first? If you slow down the investigation, I'll be forced to suspect you myself, and neither of us wants that, do we?" Sherlock said. Sure, John seemed to have no motive—the police certainly hadn't produced one—but if he had developed a blind spot, he needed to account for it.
John chuckled. "I should be offended that you think I'd commit such a wreck of a murder. My major would be appalled at me if I did; he taught me better than that."
Sherlock never had to reply to that, since Gemma had finished her chat. She came over, glaring at them. "Could you avoid giggling all through a murder investigation? I had to spend much longer than I wanted assuring the professor that yes, you were legitimate international consultants and not a couple of lunatics. It didn't help that I'm not so sure of that myself," she hissed.
John looked chastened—or maybe pretended to?—but Sherlock refused to indulge her. "If you're done, we can proceed with our enquiry. I was about to leave on my own. We can't cater to people's feelings until our trail goes cold."
"I have half a mind to throw you both into a cell for the crime of being annoying, but I doubt that would help. The president volunteered our suspects' addresses as well as their last names, so if you're so anxious we can visit the nearest one now. Viola Paoletti lives almost in front of Raffaello's birthplace, so it's about halfway the street we just took, and this time it's downhill!" Gemma replied, for once leading them.
Whatever he'd expected from this interview, it wasn't for the girl to open the door, ignore the—uniformed—policewoman and screech, "Jooooohn! You came after all! And brought friends!"
Sherlock barely kept from flinching at her volume. And John—former soldier John—actually took half a step back, and looked as if he'd have retreated more if the stairs didn't hinder him.
"I've passed with flying colours, and all thanks to you! Come in! We have cocktails!" their host said, gesturing at them to come in.
For once, Gemma started eyeing John with suspicion. "Are you friends?" she asked, crossing her arms and physically getting in between the excited girl and her charge.
"Best friends! I was terrified, but then he helped me practice English conversation, and my panic went away, because after all, an actual British man understood what I was saying. And top marks!" Viola looked confused for a minute, trying to thrust a full glass in the hands of the cop, but the other's attitude was making it impossible.
"We literally met once. We shared one hour on the bus. Four days ago," John remarked, counting down on his fingers all the ways they were strangers. It seemed that the Italian habit of gesticulating was catching.
"Yeah, okay well, that was all I needed," Viola said, grinning and trying to circumnavigate the cop to hand the glass to John instead, while he moved away from her. Her friends eyed them curiously, but didn't dare approach them, just smiling instead. At least they were sensible enough to acknowledge that a policewoman meant serious business.
It was a ridiculous...what even was the opposite of a mating dance? Someone had to step in, though, because if they waited for the girl to pick up on body language and unspoken clues they'd be here until the end of the world. Or at the very least until she sobered up, and Sherlock wasn't sure which would come first. "How much money did you exactly owe to Miss Cecchini?" he asked. In English, since she was boosting her knowledge of it.
"What?" Their suspect blinked owlishly.
Sherlock sighed softly. He'd have loved to consider it a purposeful obstruction of the investigation, but that was unlikely.
Gemma sent a grateful look his way, before translating the question…once again, with a lengthy, unnecessary reassuring preface.
"Livia didn't badmouth me, did she? I told her that I'd pay her back!" Viola huffed. "Police, seriously! It's not as if she can't afford it! You know what she told me the first time we met? That she wouldn't use a bag unless it sported the Borbonese brand! You know, the one that every freaking stylist uses for the catwalk. So she better not be making a fuss over a few hundreds."
"How many hundreds, exactly?" John said, smiling. Why was he smiling? They didn't need her happy, they just needed accurate information.
Viola shrugged. "I'm not sure. I tried writing it all down, but—I'm an artist, you know? Not an accountant. It might actually be a thousand. It might even be a bit more. But it should be the person loaning anyway to keep track of that, shouldn't it? If she wants to be repaid, that is. How much did she say?"
"She didn't," John replied, voice completely devoid of inflection.
Oh come on, why did everyone beat around the bush? "She's dead. Murdered," Sherlock pointed out.
The collective gasp from her guests was expected. Her own reaction wasn't. Bursting into tears? A wordless, strident keen that would have been more fitting for a bird of prey, though the bird wouldn't be half as loud? Why would she behave that way? Sure, her acquaintance might have been a convenient money source, and if she wasn't guilty, she might have grieved the loss. But this? Completely unreasonable.
He was more than willing to keep interrogating her, though. Surely a sharp reprimand would have stopped her antics, and they could actually get some more data. Before he could open his mouth Gemma interjected, "Sorry for your loss. My colleague is still new at this," and herded them all out.
Sherlock wanted to stay, even if their suspect took a while to compose herself the others might have precious data. But Gemma's glare conveyed that she would drag him out by the scruff of his neck, if he tried to do any more damage, and he relented.
"Well, we do know something more," John remarked as soon as the door closed behind them, his voice aiming for cheerful—if his strained smile was any clue—and hitting nervous instead.
"Do we?" Sherlock growled, for once lingering on the landing. With some luck, he would persuade the others to go back.
"Don't tell me that you didn't get an impression of her character," John replied, raising an eyebrow.
"Her character won't put her in jail, though God knows it should. If we are to nail or exonerate her, we need hard evidence. I would have loved to go through her laundry with a black light, even if it is probably too late already. Still, she might have missed something," he snapped.
"It's silly retracting a retraction, but Mr. Holmes, you do need some serious training in how to deal with the public…and God knows, a sister or two would have done you good, too.
She might not have taught you tact, but she would have advised you on the best way to clean bloody clothes after someone punched you too hard. Sorry, but colour me surprised if that didn't happen often. If Viola is the murderer, you better start thinking of other evidence than blood you can collect. We're women; blood stains don't survive against us," Gemma said, playing with one of her locks again.
"Thank God the rest of our suspects are men, then," John quipped.
Sherlock's mouth widened in a smile before he realised it. Despite that, he wasn't going to nod along to undeserved blame. "I don't need training. You need to learn to seek the truth instead of persisting in your odd urge to indulge everyone else's whims."
The agent didn't reply. She couldn't, because once again, John interjected first. "Just let me next time, and we'll be fine. I have to tag along because someone needs to keep an eye on me, and I hope that you'll tell your chief how glad I am for the chance, Gemma. I'm a doctor. It's my damn job to give sad news when necessary, though I always hope I won't have to. And if I take three sentences instead of one, consider all the questions you'll be able to ask, and let. Me. Do. My. Job."
"Okay. Just to stop you from feeling useless." It was logical, after all. Nobody would suspect that he would do almost anything if asked in that tone. He wasn't supposed to care about him. He wasn't supposed to care about anyone.
"Gee, thanks," John said, "how sweet of you."