Chapter Thirteen: The Search Continues
Honestly, Sherlock was lucky he was so great looking—and also surprisingly sweet, if you squinted and looked askance. Otherwise, John would have never followed him all the way here. Case in point, the man was still trying to solve a murder, and help him in the process, even if with the gentleness of a steamroller. Without them, the police would have picked any other random bloke to pin Livia's untimely death on, and a terrible judiciary error would have been committed.
"That's it. Lunch break," Gemma announced, in a tone that brooked no argument, as soon as they reached the street.
"Food? Again? Are you obsessed with it? There are still so many data we need to acquire!" Sherlock huffed, because of course he did.
"Do we really need to have a replay of yesterday? I'm not sure which weird diet you are trying to follow, but as a health professional, I'd like to avoid having to treat you for ulcers," John said.
"I agreed to eat last time, and you have both done nothing but complain about me during this investigation," Sherlock answered, crossing the street…as if that really would persuade them to be on their way and let him starve.
Gemma shook her head in despair. "No, you don't get it."
That was enough to make Sherlock turn sharply towards her, eyes narrowed.
"Our complaints have nothing at all to do with your eating, or lack of it. I figured out what you're so obsessed about, and I promise you're wrong. Even with Italian food, we can hit the sweet spot where you're sated and don't immediately fall prey to total abbiocco," she insisted.
"Ab- what?" John asked.
"Abbiocco. You know when after a meal you just need to sleep? And if it's a huge meal, preferably sleep till the next one? That's it. It's not exactly a nap. I mean, nap to me sounds like you have a choice. Even after coffee, you won't be able to think straight with some serious abbiocco. But I can order for you, Sherlock, if you're nervous about it," Gemma explained, shrugging.
The detective's eyes truly looked like steel at the moment. John feared he would have yet another murder to deal with soon, so instead he said, "What about a snack instead of a full lunch? Come on—for me. Can't have the person keeping me out of jail fainting on us."
"I suppose I could go for a coffee," the consulting detective conceded.
Off to the nearest bar they went. Once again, Sherlock caved in—to the delicious scent, if the subtle way he inhaled was any clue—and had something to nibble on, like his companions. He made a point to pick something different from Gemma, though. He ordered a coffee and an energy drink, which John had no qualms with. Unless he tried to swap the drink for their next meal, that was. Sherlock drank half his cup in a gulp.
His next move attracted John's (and the bar owner's, and judging from the looks, a few other patrons' as well) strongest objections, instead. Topping up his coffee with the energy drink, the journalist stirred vigorously before he drank again. The man ignored his and Gemma's exclamations. Was she carrying handcuffs at the moment? They might be needed to tame his adorable, clever, complete nutjob of a companion.
"You're not happy when I don't eat. You're not happy when I do," Sherlock complained.
"I'm not happy when I'm afraid you'll pass out on me. I'm not happy when you try to give yourself tachycardia," the doctor corrected.
"I'm not as weak as you think," the detective growled, and damn, his voice shouldn't be sensual when he was speaking nonsense. "Now, can we go on with the investigation? Or do you all want to make me beg?"
'Do not tempt me' was on the tip of John's tongue, because damn if the idea wasn't appealing, but they needed to be focused right now.
He sighed in relief when Gemma nodded, mumbling, "As long as you don't keep causing public scandal."
They were quiet, hurrying through a maze of cross streets. John was grateful for her presence, because he'd be lost within three minutes. Finally, she was ringing another bell. "Valentino Sabelli?"
Their suspect was home, and let them in. The young man, almost as tall as Sherlock, wore a cartoon t-shirt and shorts. "Everyone's asleep," he mumbled (bless his friend for translating again), "can't study right now. Too hot. We don't have drugs, don't have cars, of course we don't in this forsaken place, and whatever you think I've done, you're wrong. There. Can I go back to bed now? I have art to actually work on once it's possible to breathe."
"You're not being accused," the agent said, extending a hand as if to placate a nervous greyhound.
"Yet" Sherlock piped in, because of course he did…despite the fact that he'd promised minutes ago not to ruin the introductions.
John kicked his shin, not hard, but the urge was too difficult to suppress. It had always worked on his boisterous brother, when a teenager John's 'wingman' role meant stopping the idiot from behaving in the most inopportune way for the circumstance and the girl involved. Who knew it was precious training for the future?
The betrayed look the consulting detective turned on him almost made him burst into giggles.
Valentino ignored their antics. "Seriously, what? Are you crazy?" he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Nope," Sherlock assured, popping the p.
"We just need to ask you some questions about a classmate of yours." Bless Gemma for taking up the reins of the conversation again.
"Well, get to the point," the boy grumbled.
Sherlock grinned. He would undoubtedly boast later that not everyone needed to be 'coddled'. "When was the last time you saw Livia Cecchini?" he asked.
"Livia…in class. Which was, I don't know, when was the last lesson? Sometime in June?" the young man said, his eyes wandering towards the ceiling.
"I find that difficult to believe," the detective retorted.
"Jesus, why? Are you seriously bothering me with whatever she's up to now, when my masterpiece needs to be ready in 3 days? I came here because I need quiet! I didn't want my family to bother me or," Valentino shuddered, "offer suggestions. I don't have anything to do with whatever she's done, and I don't want anything to do with her in the future. So if you could kindly get out."
"I'm afraid we can't," Gemma said, "not if we can't trust you to be honest with us."
Valentino let himself drop into a chair. "Oh, take a seat if you're going to keep torturing me. If you dry up my inspiration though, I expect you to come bear witness in front of my professor. Gosh, I need a coffee."
"We'll be as quick as we can…and it'll go much faster if you don't try to hide anything. We're not trying to harass you," she said.
John managed to keep in the snort that came to him. No, she didn't. They reserved that for hapless foreigners, apparently.
"Okay, but you could have taken my word for it. Yes, I've seen Livia around lately, 'by chance' last week," Valentino admitted, drawing air quotes with his fingers. "Once at the wine bar, once at the pharmacy—needed something for my headache. But literally nothing happened. We greeted each other, she asked about my plans for the day, which are always the same—prepare for the exam—and I was so tired of her that I didn't even reciprocate the question."
"Was she stalking you?" Gemma let slip, before biting her lips, probably because the sentence came out louder than she'd intended.
"Stalking? I wouldn't say that. Annoying? Yeah. Some people are actual artists. The craft requires all my dedication, andtime. I can't waste it on anyone else. What did she get involved in, by the way?" the young man replied.
"Sorry, could I use the restroom?" Sherlock interjected, before anyone could answer.
"Second door on the left in the corridor." Their host shrugged, pointing to the door behind him.
John watched him walk away. Odd. No, not that Sherlock had bodily functions...but given the man's attitude, John would have expected him to postpone it. After all, there was a subject to interrogate in depth.
John had no idea how tactfully their guardian agent had answered that question, though he'd bet it was a sight more so than Sherlock would have. He felt a stab of regret for coming to a different country, yet ignoring its language completely. Not that he'd had time to plan this holiday, much less take a course.
Luckily, the suspect's expressive face cued him in on the gist of the conversation, despite the man's babbling. Or perhaps it just sounded like that to John because he wasn't able to parse any words. Still, some of them undoubtedly were, "She wasn't actually annoying," "Her art was inspired; inspired, truly!" and, "We were the best of friends!" And—John assumed—plenty more.
The man spoke so fast the doctor almost expected to see his teeth chatter, but shouldn't Sherlock be back any second now? No, time just felt eternal when all one could do was sit there and stare—he hoped.
When Sherlock came back and interrupted Gemma's questioning with a sharp, "You have his alibi, don't you? Then we can visit the next witness," John knew.
The agent seemed too taken aback by such behaviour to even consider ordering the man to sit down and let her finish. They both followed him, Gemma with a little shrug and a frown, John fighting the urge to facepalm.
"So your little clandestine search didn't turn up anything interesting?" he asked instead. The delight, which chased the first flash of surprise in smokey eyes, should never be elicited by discussing illegal activities. Especially not in the presence of a cop. But John was too proud of the result to warn his madman.
"Good deduction, John." Sherlock grinned.
"Wait—what search? Nobody searched," Gemma exclaimed, earning an eye-roll.
"You might be interested in conversation, figuring out people's character and such. I prefer to examine the evidence, which is more likely to be destroyed with every passing hour. I trusted that the flatmates' presence would hinder his attempts to get rid of every clue, so I conducted a quick search for anything of importance."
"And what makes you think that you would even recognise important evidence?" the agent snapped, pointing at him.
"That doesn't even require an answer. Or do I need to deduce you again?" Sherlock replied. "Next one, if you please. Or you can follow the case on your own and go back inside, if you prefer. If you have a spare pair of handcuffs, though, it'd be appreciated. Just in case we discover and have to arrest the true murderer before you even finish your interview."
Dammit. John shouldn't like that smartarse attitude, but he had always appreciated someone confident in their own competence. That was kind of sexy. The way Sherlock's eyes kept changing shade, now cold with indignation, didn't help.
"Either things go your way or I lose my cool and throw you both in a cell, is that how you want to play?" Gemma said, then—much to John's shock—she downright guffawed. "You're lucky that commissioner De Giovanni is even more aggravating than you are. Or maybe I've just had to deal with her for far longer," she explained, once she had her breath under control. "I'm going to trust you again."
Once again, they started walking through town. If nothing else, this place would make sure that John didn't lose the fitness of his soldier days. Back in London, it had been all too easy to let the dark cloud of too many worries and not nearly enough solutions weigh him down, chaining him in his room. Even if it turned out to be only a reprieve from facing his problems, all the eager steps he'd taken after that first one—on the way to meet Misha—felt like a blessing.
Nobody was home at the next suspect's flat, and for a moment John hoped to every God out there that Sherlock's resolution to make his name fit didn't extend to becoming an expert at picking locks. Or if he had, that he wouldn't deem this the perfect occasion to show off his prowess in that art, in order to snoop unimpeded. Thankfully, the sleuth decided to demand that Gemma fetch the house owner to have them open the door.
"I could, but I would have to investigate who the owner is first. Or we could go to our other suspect's place and check if this one is back later. What do you prefer?" she replied.
"Lead on," Sherlock huffed. John breathed easier when Sherlock's disappointed look was the only sign that, in his opinion, she had not done her homework.
Sergio lived almost at the opposite end of town. He opened the door for them immediately at least; it would have been too awkward to miss two suspects in a row. "Sherlock?" he asked, still on threshold, after a moment of hesitation. The boy frowned, eyes moving from one to another of his unexpected visitors.
"Can we come in?" Gemma asked, smiling at him.
Sergio shrugged, and moved from the door. "Is there any trouble?"
"We just need to ask you a few questions," the agent said, "if it's okay."
Sherlock's eye-roll, while translating the last words for John, was so heavy the doctor worried that he'd twist his superior oblique eye tendon into a knot.
Sergio walked them to a kitchenette, and sat down before replying, "Shoot."
"It's about Livia," John said, "Have you seen her since our trip to the museum?"
"No. Why would you assume I had? Did she say we did?" the boy retorted, fingers tapping a discordant rhythm on the table.
"She didn't. There's no reason to be defensive, we are just gathering information at the moment," Gemma soothed.
John could see Sherlock's eyes wandering, looking for another excuse to launch into a search. He could either stay and become useless without a translator, or give his friend the excuse he craved and join in the active part of the investigation. With the Italians having switched back to their own language, which he blamed on sheer forgetfulness rather that any attempt to exclude him, it didn't feel like much of a choice.
The doctor rose suddenly from his seat, mumbled something about needing air, and went to the French window, which made the small room liveable. Maybe his distraction would be more fitting to a Victorian maiden, but 'illness' was the only excuse his brain could come up with on the spot. Captain John Watson never faked his way out of commitments, but there was always a first time. The fear that his act was far too transparent, mixed with embarrassment, made him blush. Luckily, his flush wasn't the dead giveaway he feared. Gemma looked at him with legitimate concern, and Sherlock urged her to continue the investigation while he accompanied John, to make sure he didn't fall off the balcony.
His whispered, "Thank you, brilliantly played," made John's blush last even longer. John felt a thrill go down his spine, when they tiptoed down to another French window, entering a bedroom. No wonder everything was wide open, given the climate and lack of air conditioning. He felt almost as if he was once again about to patrol hostile territory. Not that the notebook spread open on the desk, with the sketch of the view from the fortress and an ornamental S in the corner, or the rest of the knickknacks in the room, presented any danger. Sherlock snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and looked expectantly at him. John hunched and put his hands in his pockets, offering an apologetic smile. He might not have come prepared to search without leaving traces, but in his defence, he had thought the police would take care of that part of the investigation.
Sherlock sighed, his disappointment an almost physical blow for John after the excitement of seconds ago, and got to work. Closet and nightstand were opened and examined…The doctor would have said 'cursorily', given his speed, but he knew better than to assume his genius flame needed as long as anyone else would to notice relevant data. Books' titles were skimmed, and the biggest ones leafed through.
The detective even went to his knees and half-crawled under the bed. John mentally kicked himself. Standing around ogling wasn't helpful, but it was impossible to stop himself from noticing how lovely the other's arse was with the man in that position. He tried to observe the room himself instead. Just because he couldn't touch, it didn't mean that he couldn't look. He had tried to do that earlier, too, but his eyes kept straying towards his companion again and again. Sherlock was magnetic.
All he could say was that it looked messy. Then again, what college boy's room didn't, especially during exam time? Sure, there were stains in a rainbow of colours, on almost everything: old clothes (including the ones he'd been wearing at the museum), the floor and the desk, too. None jumped out at him as blood, though, and God knew that he'd seen blood, old and new, sprayed on an array of things during his service. Of course, he couldn't be completely sure without a test, as Sergio's art used plenty of red tones. As it stood, he was ready to shrug and move on...unless Sherlock saw something much more damning, while John was busy gaping.
If he had, it wasn't something that required immediate intervention, as they moved to the loo. Sherlock on cat feet, while John tried to tiptoe around, just like when he'd come home much later than his parents' curfew. Once again, the detective started rummaging around, scouring through the laundry basket, peering in the shower—for oddly placed and hence ignored bloodstains, John assumed—and opening drawers. He also checked what looked like the level of their host's nick stick… Did he think that the murderer might have left some of their own blood in the victims flat, maybe by grabbing the knife without looking? Analysing it all would take ages.
…And once again his mind wandered to observing Sherlock work rather than their suspect's surroundings. His commanding officer would have been livid, but with no immediate threat to his life, his eyes didn't seem able to budge from the most delectable person they'd ever seen. While he prized himself in noticing every sniper he'd come across, he was the first to admit that he felt undertrained for police work.
Sherlock had finished his exam of the place while he daydreamed, and took his wrist to guide him back. "Even Gemma can't talk for that long! She'll be looking for us soon," he whispered.
Rushing back to the balcony without making a sound was a challenge, but John found himself beaming. They had timed it perfectly, as the agent exited onto the terrace no more than ten seconds later.
"John? How are you feeling? Do you want to go back to your room? Or should I bring you to the hospital?" she asked the back of his head, without giving him a second to answer any of that.
John turned around once he'd managed to settle his face into a neutral expression. Or at least he hoped so.
"Not you too," Gemma groaned, dragging a hand over her face. "I trusted you! I really thought it was all an error, and wanted to help. But your habit of just sneaking around isn't going to help either of your cases, don't you realise it?"
"If you would get on with it, instead of making empty chitchat, I wouldn't mind having you around. This investigation is so maddening." Sherlock frowned, but didn't elaborate.
"Let's get out of here. Unless you want to interrogate him, too?" she said.
"I'm assuming you asked him the basics—alibi, how many times he fantasised about murdering Livia, those kind of things," the consulting detective replied, shrugging.
She burst into giggles, once again. "Not in those words, but yeah. I'm not a complete novice, unlike someone else."
"Then let's go. Why listen to people who are likely to lie, even for stupid reasons?" Sherlock huffed.
Gemma shrugged. "Off we go, then. But God knows I'm tempted to stop to buy a child leash before we go back to our last suspect."
Sergio glared at them, when they went back inside. "If you want to talk about someone, you might as well keep it low enough that said person won't hear. I would have let you search whatever you wanted as long as you asked. I just hope that you haven't messed up any room."
"Well, that'd be hard to do," was Sherlock's Parthian shot.
"Let's maybe try not to provoke people into suing us, will you? We're in enough trouble already," John teased.