Chapter Sixteen: Consequences
"…And that is how I found the traces of blood under his bed. There were also a few conspicuously empty hangers in his closet, and a mismatched pair of trousers. The only mismatched pair—seriously, the man seemed to care about fashion more than most of my friends." Gemma giggled.
A red-eyed Di Giovanni, who'd been summoned when the senior officer on duty didn't feel adequate to dealing with the current turn of events, glared at her.
Undaunted, the agent continued, "I didn't have a dark light at hand, but I'll be very surprised if we won't find some trace of blood on them. Before you ask, no, the rest of the suit is not simply in his dirty clothes' basket or at a dry cleaner's. He tried to say that, but couldn't produce the receipt…which wouldn't be a problem, if we didn't find all the others. The professor has kept receipts of everything he bought for at least the past year. Not so much a hoarder as obsessed with files, as far as I can say. It's almost sad that such an usually commendable trait will ruin him. The heavily bloodied among his clothes are nowhere to be seen, already in a landfill no doubt."
"How would no one notice him? We need to have an airtight case. Cecchini is going to get the best lawyer there is." The Chief massaged her temples.
"The fibre you found on the kitchen's chair—anyone who knows how to dress will tell you the sample comes from a cotton suit jacket. You might not find where it was ripped from, but it will match the trousers…the ones on which he failed to notice his victim's blood. The man always dresses formally. He hadn't changed before going to see his niece, since neither of them expected it to end in a bloodbath. To the contrary, he got comfortable, putting his jacket on the back of the chair and enjoying a cup of coffee. I'd bet that he expected her to eventually follow in his path. Once proved wrong, he acted quickly. Despite her attempt at defending herself, he managed to trip her, and concentrated on her upper body, hence almost all of the blood spray hit his shirt. So after killing her, he only had to put his jacket back on and do it up. No visible bloodstains, at least no major ones. The walk home was so short, it was plausible that he would meet very few people, and looking almost as dapper as usual, he wouldn't attract attention," Sherlock interjected.
"Amazing," John breathed. Did Sherlock know how hard it was for him to stay professional now?
"We knew there would be bloodstains…we just assumed they would be on the outside of the clothing," the agent pointed out. "Cecchini covered them easily, but the specks of blood, both from the trousers and the ones that will have spattered when he undressed, will correspond to Livia's DNA. That will place him unquestionably on the crime scene, before we saw him arrive. No wonder he was back a short time later. He had to see if the murder had already been discovered, or if he could alter the scene enough to point to someone else," the agent continued her report.
"Not that he needed any effort for that," Sherlock chimed in, earning glares from both policewomen.
"The motive?" De Giovanni crossed her arms, ignoring his insinuation.
"Well, about that…we'll have another trial underway. And—we'll have to involve the Carabinieri,"Gemma said, rubbing at the nape of her neck.
"Why would we?" the commissioner snapped.
Sherlock smiled to himself. He could sympathise. Bored googling taught him that the rivalry between the two police corps was old and deeply entrenched, just like the one between Mycroft and him. His brother had profusely apologised, claiming inspiration had overcome him and made him lose all sense of time…until John told him that his silence prompted them to solve the case. Then, his smug grin had been intolerable.
"Because the Nucleo Tutela Patrimonio Culturale specialises in art theft, and we have so many of them on our hands. Livia must have realised what was going on—the observations of Mr. Holmes here about the number of missing artworks made her suspicious—and she invited her uncle to confront him. The telephone company finally gave us their report about her phone, and she texted him shortly before her murder. If she threatened to denounce him, that would be motive enough," Gemma replied.
"The what?" John asked in a whisper. He was grateful she had kept the conversation in English for his sake. The accidental Italian surprised him, as she'd been quite good at translating technical jargon. They needed to know what was going on, especially if the man were to try counter-suing them at some point.
At the museum, Gemma had rolled her eyes and put everything they moved back in its proper place. She promised to testify that she'd been present during their search, and then let them go ahead because of a vague 'mishap'. John hoped that she would think of a better excuse for the trial; it wouldn't do to have their evidence tossed away. She did demand they pay her dinner once, as compensation for perjuring herself.
"Team for the protection of the cultural patrimony" Sherlock translated for him.
"Silence back there," De Giovanni ordered. "This is all your fault."
"Odd. That's what Cecchini said, too. And here I thought that finding an actual murderer and discovering a traffic in art masterpieces would be good news. My bad," Sherlock sneered.
John couldn't help himself. He burst into chuckles. Gemma's pleading look made him bite his lips, even if Sherlock's answering grin made it almost impossible. He just got himself cleared from an accusation. Pissing an officer off wasn't the best idea.
"Don't boast as if that was all your doing," the commissioner said, dismissing his claims with a handwave.
"Technically speaking, it is. I would have been slower by myself, since I'd missed many connections, which he explained. I certainly wouldn't have suspected Cecchini of the dealings we discovered. You can't find what you don't search for, can you?" Gemma retorted.
"You don't really mean that he's the one who solved the case," De Giovanni said, rolling her eyes.
"Well, he's Sherlock Holmes, what did you expect?" John quipped.
"Out. Everyone out. We'll formalise your testimonies tomorrow, after we've all had some sleep. Hopefully this will turn out to be just a nightmare. I knew I shouldn't have had bell peppers for dinner." Her eyes closed, perhaps involuntarily.
The last thing Sherlock wanted was to loiter here, so—despite the less than polite dismissal—he left without a word, John in tow.
"Speaking of dinner—we didn't have it yet." The doctor nodded towards him.
"Are you suggesting we find a place to eat now?" The detective glanced towards the rise in front of him. It was easier than concentrating on the man by his side. Without a case to focus on, there were too many details clamouring for attention. He didn't want to make a fool out of himself.
"Yes. Unless you tolerated my presence just because of the case. If so, thanks for clearing my name, I guess…" John mumbled, shrugging.
"Don't be stupid, John. You're better than that," he retorted. "If I barely tolerated you, I would have insisted with Gemma that you stay in your room while we investigated. No, I was just calculating how late it is and what's going to be open at this hour."
"Do you have the hours of every place in the town memorised?" his companion asked, eyebrows shooting up.
It was Sherlock's turn to shrug. At least he hadn't blushed this time. "I had a very boring day before you followed. Of course, I'm going to forget everything as soon as we get back to London. That said, do you prefer savoury or sweet?" The little white lie was necessary. Saying that he did memorise them after their first dinner, since John clearly considered food important, and not just an option to fill boring times, would have meant giving himself away a bit too much.
"Normally I wouldn't, but surprise me. Sweet. Like you." John's grin was blinding.
"Are you sure you're feeling well?" he asked, repressing the urge to smile.
"Positive. I might not have your deductive ability, but I do see things that are staring me in the face. Most times at least." Sherlock wasn't staring—if anything, John was. Hopefully deduction was indeed beyond the veteran's ability; it'd be too awkward if he'd realised that, brilliant as it was, Sherlock deplored the other's clever summoning of 'their' agent. Cecchini had proved to be violent when cornered, and the ruse deprived him of the sight of captain Watson subduing the enemy. He would have helped, obviously, but he had a feeling that he wouldn't need to.
Sherlock snorted, but there was no hint of scorn in it. "Sweet it is. There's an ice cream parlour close by. I've not been there, but Mycroft has; in fact, he seems to look for excuses to visit it." It was a relief that John hadn't picked on his train of thought being much closer to the spicy than the sweet side.
In a couple of minutes they were sitting in front of two large cups of ice cream. John, probably trying not to make a fool out of himself, stuck to chocolate and mint chip. The newly minted detective, instead, took advantage of the linguistic limits of his friend. Bacio… just another chocolate variation (with nuts), but the name meant kiss. That, and cherry—red like thoroughly kissed lips. As much as he wasn't supposed to, it didn't mean that he never thought about it. He could have everything, if he let himself... but it wouldn't last. If fleeting pleasures had to be, it was better to stick to ice cream. A few seconds of brain-freeze were a way less painful fallout.
The first spoonful made John mewl—there was simply no other word to describe it. Sherlock glanced up, wondering if he should rethink his whole strategy. He had an out earlier, but, like the overconfident idiot he sometimes was, he'd ignored it. He'd told himself that he'd gone too far before. That there was no need to run away from the man. That he could keep him around, just for his own personal amusement. That maybe he could involve him in his crusade against short-sighted parents.
He'd believed his self-control to be flawless, and these days had been surprisingly enjoyable. As much as he hated to admit this, Conan Doyle did have a point about helping to steer police correctly being a brilliant antidote to boredom.
His confidence proved to be severely misplaced. A single sound and the temptation to throw away both their treats and demand John put his mouth to a very different use was almost overwhelming.
Sherlock's eyes fell to his ice cream. The sweet flavours mocked him. How had he thought that they would be an acceptable alternative to his desires?
"Can I ask you something?" John said, stirring him from his thoughts.
He just nodded.
"Do you still think that I should request a change of name first thing as I get home? Because I'm quite fond of it." At their table outside, John's eyes were almost as luminous in the night as the glow from the parlour's window.
"Oh, I don't know. John Watson was supposed to be a terrible liar, but you're rather good at it," Sherlock said, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips.
John laughed. "You believed that only because we haven't known each other long enough for you to trust me yet. If you'll let me stick around for a while, I promise that the idea I could have you committed will sound less plausible than flying pigs."
"You still want to befriend me, despite everything that happened since you followed me here?" Did John assume Sherlock would want to avoid him from now on, because that was what the doctor wished for? He wouldn't be the first nor the last trying to burden Sherlock with making "rude" decisions they didn't want to express.
"One, you should be warned that I'm quite stubborn. Two, everything that happened? As if it's all bad things? I've seen a lovely town, participated to an actual police investigation, though not always in the role that I'd have preferred, been thrilled for the first time since I left the army…I would have a hard time finding anything to complain about, and even then, these troubles were never your fault. Of course I still want to be friends with you, if that's what you feel. Or more, if you're ever in the mood." John swallowed a mouthful of ice cream, and then licked the spoon clean, keeping eye contact.
It should have looked crass, even comical, but Sherlock found himself with a mouth suddenly dry despite what he'd been eating. "Duly noted." His voice didn't crack, thank God for small mercies.
He wracked his brain for a subject—any subject—to talk about. He couldn't mention what he was actually thinking of, the concept of dating still daunting and…out of character. How could he go home and say that not only he'd thrown logic aside to trust his feelings, but the person he'd done that for was John Watson?
John seemed content to enjoy his treat in silence. The warmth in his eyes might have people wonder if said treat was the rapidly disappearing ice cream or the sight in front of him, though.
It was only when both cups were empty that Sherlock found words, if not his own, "You have a grand gift of silence."
"You forget that I've been a soldier. Quiet meant that everything was fine. After you've heard so many explosions and been shouted at and shouting for months, silence is a luxury to be indulged in." The former soldier smiled teasingly at him. "That was a good characterization, actually."
"Oh believe me, I've not forgotten a thing." Sherlock suspected that he wouldn't be able to erase that detail if he tried. Not with his hypothalamus taking such a keen interest in it. "I just didn't have enough data to make the leap."
An awkward waiter approached them, mentioning that the parlour was closing.
"We'll be on our way," John assured, rising. "So…is the night finished, or do you have plans for us?"
How was he supposed to have plans ready when his brain kept rebooting every time the man smiled? "I'm afraid it's finished for me." He'd need to rearrange his mind palace, and decide how major the renovation would have to be. He couldn't do that with John disrupting his train of thought.
"Will I see you tomorrow?" his companion asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"I'll text you."
"Thank you."
Mycroft was—predictably—waiting for him back at the hotel. "You couldn't have found another murderer, could you? Do you realise that you ruined my job?" his brother shrieked. As much as he wanted to be different from his namesake, they had one thing in common; their career was everything to them. With good reason: if he antagonised the world of museums and galleries, Mycroft—Mitch—could be sure that no matter how polished his art became, he'd never have a place in it. Not as an artist, and probably not even as a clerical worker.
"I've not committed the murder, brother dear. Nor the thefts. What do you suggest? Should I have let them jail my Watson for a crime he didn't commit just so you could borrow whatever painting you're after?" Sherlock huffed, glaring at him.
"Oh, it's your Watson now, is he? What happened to you begging me to save you from his terrifying lunacy?" Mycroft sneered, crossing his arms.
Sherlock burst into a boisterous laugh, until he was wheezing. Once he regained control of his breath, he replied, "I'm afraid that I've already been infected. If I was ever sane, that is."
"Convenient for you. How am I supposed to explain that the director is in jail and appointing another will take time? Time we don't have before the exhibition?" his brother said, walking along the room like a tiger patrolling its cage.
"I'm sure that Gemma will give you an official statement regarding the situation, in the off chance it doesn't make the news. Not even the most envious and scheming colleague could hold you responsible for Cecchini committing a murder." Sherlock sat on the bed. "And before blaming meagain, consider if you really want to uphold the point of view of the murderer."
Mycroft pouted. "That friend of yours had better write her statement in two languages, or my boss will not believe her. The point of me coming here was because he doesn't understand Italian nor completely trusted Cecchini—"
"Perceptive of him," Sherlock quipped. "One more reason you won't be blamed—and that you don't need to offend my ears with your needless drama. Try to be logical for once, will you?"
"I thought that rationality was your domain…at least before your new friend drove you insane. If we all were nothing but logical, it would make for a far too boring world. Don't you agree, baby brother?"
"What's the next platitude on your list? You are what you eat? Or careful what you wish for, maybe?" Sherlock crossed his legs.
"Now this is unnecessarily harsh," Mycroft complained, looking out of the window.
Sherlock smiled to himself. "If you'd be so kind, brother, I'd like for you to leave me alone."
"I thought you were done pondering. The case is solved, after all."
"Mic, sometimes you're amazingly blind."
Mycroft turned to him, eyes flashing with anger. "Enjoy your alone time, Lockie. Just don't be surprised if it lasts longer than you'd wish."
On any other day, such a Mic drop (Sherlock had no doubt that his brother mentally referred to this as such) would have hurt. Now, he cheerfully waved his older sibling goodbye. What used to be an unspoken truth had become a ridiculous prospect-for the moment, at least. Part of him expected the situation to return to normal in the future, but Mycroft's timing was the worst possible. He didn't have to be alone now, not any longer than he wished to. His eyes closed and he let himself daydream of John. Not that he would ever let his brother know how the insult influenced his decision. His head would swell to London Eye size otherwise.