Chapter Thirty Four- 2010 A Third Party (Part Eight)


Lestrade was in a quandary. He had no idea why Sherlock had left. There was nothing normal at all about it. He could be in the midst of a melt-down, or about to be spectacularly disobedient and be on the hunt for the killer. And Greg had no idea which of the two might be the case. He couldn't help but voice his concern out loud. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?"

The other police officers were packing up their kit, so it was the flatmate who responded to his rhetorical question. The doctor shrugged and pointed out, "You know him better than I do."

Greg thought about the times he'd worked crime scenes with Sherlock. "I've known him for five years. And, no, I don't."

The doctor just looked at him calmly, if a bit puzzled. "Then why do you put up with him?"

Greg just looked pained. It was something Donovan and everyone else on the team asked him every time. "Because I'm desperate, that's why."

On his way out the door, he realised that his comment might be misunderstood by Sherlock's new flatmate, and he didn't want to put the man off the idea of sharing the flat with the consulting detective. So, he turned back to look at Watson again.

"And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

Sally Donovan was going down the stairs in front of him and overheard that comment. She then spent the entire trip back to the Yard complaining about the Sherlock, and why Greg felt the need to get him involved. He tried to stop her.

"Thanks to him, we have recovered the case."

"No, thanks to him, we won't be able to use it in evidence, because he moved it from the point of discovery and contaminated it for forensic purposes." She was as cross as Lestrade had been when he first discovered the pink case.

She carried on. "Thanks to him, Anderson will be half the night trying to find something from the case that we can actually use to dig up another lead. And, then he spins us this story about the victim's phone but it actually shows up on the GPS as being at his flat. I think you need to think that he might be a suspect, Guv."

"WHAT?!" Lestrade was shocked.

"I've always said it- if he got bored enough, then he'd start killing people. He's a psychopath. That's what psychopaths do. And being kept off cases officially for the past three months could have driven him to it."

He snorted. "Just leave off, Donovan. He's got every conceivable alibi for the times of the suicides, and I know there will be CCTV footage that can prove it, too. You really need to get a handle on that animosity of yours. I know he can be a wanker, but his deduction skills have made our team, your team's reputation the best in the Division. So, just watch it with the ridiculous accusations."

She'd gone off home to sulk. Greg had gone home to see if Louise had cooked an evening meal.

Greg was just finishing off his dried out pasta bake supper when his phone rang. He'd left the Yard in a thoroughly pissed off mood, and the meal wasn't improving things. Louise had just left it in the oven with a note under the fridge magnet that said "check your phone messages sometime!" When he did key up voice mail, he found one from her: "I'm out with the girls tonight; could be late, don't wait up- that is, assuming you ever bother to show up. Really, Greg- you are such a bloody workaholic, sometimes I wonder whether I should bother fixing you a supper." There was a sigh and then she hung up.

So, when the fork was nearly to his mouth and his phone rang, he hoped it was Louise, having a good time, so he could explain. When he checked caller ID, however, it was the Yard, so he grimaced. Not another bloody case. Why do these things always happen at night?

According to the Night Desk Sergeant, it was an emergency, so he did ring the number back, even though he didn't recognise it.

"Oh, thank God, Detective Inspector, this is John Watson."

For a split second, Greg knew he recognised the voice, but couldn't place it.

"Sherlock's flatmate, remember?"

That got Greg's attention in a hurry. "Is he ok? Has something happened?" He could hear traffic noises in the background. Then he heard the flatmate say something, "…er, left here. Turn left here."

The guy came back on. "I got Sherlock's laptop search thingy to try again, and this time it tracked the phone moving away from Baker Street. I'm in the back of a cab now, trying to chase it down. We're somewhere south of the river, just seen a sign for Denmark Hill."

"OK, but why are you trying to recover the phone? Where's Sherlock?"

"I don't know, do I? But there was something definitely odd about Sherlock leaving like that, and I think that his getting in that cab at Baker Street and this phone in motion are in some way connected."

Greg considered that. "Maybe, but on the other hand, Sherlock could have just headed back to his old flat for a bit of peace and quiet. He was kind of put out about the drugs bust thing." He decided not to tell the flatmate about possible meltdowns, sensory processing disorders and ASD. He'd leave Sherlock to explain, if the guy hung around long enough.

Watson disagreed with Lestrade's assessment of Sherlock's departure. "I really think you need to be paying attention to this. If the phone is in motion, and Sherlock left the flat, don't you think he'd be after it?"

"Maybe." It was the best Greg could do. He didn't understand what was going on in Sherlock's head. His behaviour tonight was just so abnormal. "Look, when the phone stops moving, give Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan a call at the Yard and pass on the address. Then get the cab to take you home. She'll send a squad car to investigate. Don't you do anything daft, Doctor…" He reached in his memory for the guy's last name "…uh, Watson, isn't it?"

"Yeah, thanks a lot," and rang off. If there was a trace of sarcasm in the man's tone, Lestrade chose to ignore it. He was still trying to puzzle the flatmate out. He seemed fairly innocuous. An ex-Army doctor back from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. How that could possibly fit with Sherlock Holmes in all his extraordinariness, Greg struggled to understand. Yet, on the evidence of what he'd seen in Baker Street during the evening, Lestrade had to admit that there was clearly a connection forming, almost a kind of chemistry going on. It worried him. Who is this guy? What are his intentions? As soon as he thought that, he grimaced. I'm thinking like some over-protective big brother I know. But, for all Greg knew, Sherlock might have met the doctor in some gay bar somewhere, and they were already on intimate terms. Over the years, Greg had been puzzled by Sherlock's sexual orientation, or rather a lack of a clear indication- or indeed of any interest at all in such matters. Sherlock would always be a mystery wrapped up in an enigma, and that was putting it politely. Lestrade had no idea what he did with his spare time, and as long as it didn't involve drugs or drug dealers, he was okay with it.

That said, tonight had been different. Greg had already sent Sherlock half a dozen texts since he left Baker Street, none of which had been answered, but he tried again now.

10.59 Where the hell are you? Phone on the move again. If you want to know where, call me. GL

Ninety minutes later, his phone rang. This time he recognised the ID as he nearly choked on the piece of pasta he'd just started to swallow. Sherlock, you wanker! You'd better have a good excuse….

He thumbed on the call, and said, with his mouth full. "Just where the hell are you? The next time you show up at a crime scene, I swear I will just handcuff you to a railing. You have no right to go bolting off and not telling anyone where you are going."

"Detective Inspector." The baritone voice was a little higher pitched than normal, and that brought a pang of worry to Greg. Had Sherlock escaped the drugs bust to go somewhere private for a melt-down? Lestrade was torn.

"What's happened?" His concern was evident.

There was a sigh. "You need to send a team to Roland Kerr College; that's on Warner Road, in Camberwell, SE11. I've just… located… the serial suicide murderer. He's a cab driver by the name of Jeff Hope..."

Lestrade broke in, "Don't do anything, Sherlock. Just sit tight and wait for back-up."

But the consulting detective just carried on talking, "… unfortunately, he's dead. Killed by a single gun-shot to the heart. A remarkable piece of marksmanship. Not my doing, I should emphasise, even though he was attempting to convince me to take one of those poison pills at the time."

Oh, shit. Greg took a deep breath. "Are you alright?!"

Sherlock just calmly replied, "Of course. He's the one who just bled out on the floor. The second floor of …." There was a brief gap, as Greg guessed he was looking around. He heard the sound of footsteps and then a door opening. "…Room 231, Block E. Oh, and do be careful, there is a virtually identical building right next door; this one is on the left when you view it from the street."

"Shut up, Sherlock, sit down and stay exactly where you are. Do not move, do you hear me?" He was already trying to put on his jacket while keeping the hand with his phone to his ear.

"Oh, don't worry, Lestrade, I have no intention of going anywhere. This is far too interesting a crime scene for me to be leaving anytime soon."

oOo

It took the Yard team 17 minutes to get there. Because he was at home in North London Lestrade took almost twice as long. When he charged up the stairs and into the room, he saw Sherlock was sitting quietly in what appeared to be a classroom chair, tucked into one side of a lab table. He was looking at something on his phone as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in the room. But, Greg could clearly see that this wasn't the case, because on the floor to his left was the body of a grey-haired man, lying in a pool of blood. A Crime Scene Examiner was measuring the corpse's liver temperature.

The rest of the team was already spread out in the room, processing the scene. Sherlock finished what he was doing on the phone, and stood up to face the Detective Inspector.

"Took your time, Lestrade, again."

Greg just looked at Sherlock in weary surprise. "What the hell happened, Sherlock? Who is this guy?"

Sherlock looked down at the body. "Meet Jefferson Hope, Licensed Hackney taxi driver, aged 58, divorced or at least estranged from his wife, two kids, lives alone, suffering from an inoperable aneurism that could have blown at any point since it was diagnosed three years ago. He's been paid by someone he calls a 'sponsor' a sum of money for every person he could kill this way. Four successes so far, I was to be his fifth, if he could convince me to take one of the pills out of one of those two bottles." He stopped the verbal onslaught long enough to gesture at the table, where a blue suited Crime Scene Examiner was putting a gun into a plastic bag.

Sherlock continued, "No, the gun isn't real. His other victims thought it was; it was how he got them to listen to them when he offered them the choice of being shot or taking their chance that one of the two pill bottles contained something harmless. And, no, I don't know who the sponsor is or why he would do such a thing."

"But, what's the connection between the taxi driver and the victims?" Greg was trying to get his head around the link between the victims. "How did he choose them?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's the whole point, isn't it! There is no connection. They were just fares, randomly selected. A taxi cab is the perfect murder weapon. It passes unnoticed anywhere, could pull up at any building, at Lauriston Gardens or a city office block. He could hunt in the middle of a crowd- a train station taxi queue, on the street in the pouring rain. Who did every victim trust, even if they didn't know them? A cab driver is invisible, and his victims willingly got into the cab. It was…brilliant."

Greg listened to the explanation delivered at blistering speed, and realised that Sherlock was seriously wound up. Tighter than a drum. It was different from his usual post case persona. That tended to be smug and satisfied, enjoying the opportunity to show off how much he had deduced and how stupid the police had been. There was none of that smugness now. And there were unfinished issues.

"So, who killed him?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't a clue." He turned and pointed to the bullet hole in the glass, and to the room beyond. "I was talking to the cabbie, he was trying to provoke me into taking a pill. And then there was a single shot. By the time I got to the window, there was no one there."

Greg could see through the window that there were a couple of officers in the room, processing for fingerprints, and gun-shot residue. He followed the line of sight from the bullet hole and saw another officer digging a bullet out of the wooden door on the other side of the room. "Well, forensics might give us some ideas."

Sherlock turned back to the table and picked up his phone, then started to turn towards the door.

"No, we've not done here, Sherlock." Greg wasn't about to let this one go. Despite every advice to the contrary, the tall brunet had disregarded every rule of engagement that had been set by Mycroft and Lestrade. Yet, he seemed totally oblivious to the fact, concentrating instead on something on his phone.

"Sherlock!" That brought the young man's attention back to Greg. "That little exercise at Baker Street was supposed to impress upon you the need to follow the rules. I'm not joking- this time you've gone too far. How did you track this guy down, and why the hell didn't you tell me, or call for back-up?"

"I didn't 'track him down', Lestrade, he came for me. He was outside Baker Street when I went downstairs. He had a gun. In the dark, I couldn't see what I saw once he tried to use it in here- it's a fake."

Greg was watching Sherlock. There was something not quite right with the explanation. A little too glib? He could not shake the feeling that Sherlock wasn't telling him the whole truth.

"You didn't take a pill, did you?"

Sherlock frowned. "No, of course not; I know how the other victims died. Why would I willingly take something I knew might kill me?"

One of the forensic team called out, "Found one of the pills on the floor, here sir."

Sherlock nodded. "That's the one I had in my hand when the shot came through the window."

That made Greg look back at him. "You handled the poison?"

"Problem?"

Greg just put his hand to his forehead. "Right, Downstairs now. There is an ambulance at the front of the building. Get checked out, NOW."

Sherlock looked surprised. "Why?"

Greg lost it. He walked up to Sherlock, looked him straight in the eye and said "Because you've just handled a poison, and there could be traces on your hands, that could be transferred to your mouth, by accident. Not to mention the fact that you were targeted by a serial killer, who was shot and died not two feet away from you tonight. Any one of those is a reason to get looked over by a paramedic, so move it."

Sherlock glared back at him. "I chose the right bottle; mine wasn't the poison."

"You can't be sure of that until we test the bottles, by which time it will be too late. So, downstairs- now."

The consulting detective wore an expression very close to a pout, but he decided to obey.

oOo

Once the ferocity of his glare propelled Sherlock out the door, Lestrade turned to the crime scene crew and started asking questions. Ten minutes later, he realised that he had learned far more from Sherlock's explanation than he was going to get out of his people. Apart from the bullet, there was nothing new. The CSE who had dug it out of the wooden door frame bagged it and handed it over to Lestrade. It was a 9 millimetre slug, with nothing out of the ordinary visible to the naked eye. He did stand where the officer thought the cabbie was when the bullet hit, and look through the bullet hole in the glass window, then across the gap between the two buildings- quite a distance for a pistol.

He checked with the team processing the room where the shooter had been, but they'd come up with nothing conclusive. There were literally hundreds of fingerprints and partials on the door and window. "Sorry, Guv, but this is a school, after all. Doubt any of these are going to be on file anywhere. We can try, but it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

Greg tried to think it through. It was possible that if Sherlock was in immediate danger, one of the SO6 crew nominally assigned to keep him safe could have been responsible, but normal protocol would have required the officer to stay on site. Or, it could have been one of Mycroft's men, doing the same thing, but a whole lot less likely to stay until the police arrived. Both of these ideas depended, however, on the surveillance teams being aware of Sherlock's movements and being right behind him. They'd singularly failed to do so in the past, but might have got lucky this time. But, if so, why go to a room across from where he and the murderer actually were? It made no sense.

He went back down to the street level, where he could see Sherlock sitting on the back of an ambulance. One of the paramedics took off a finger clip from him and placed an orange blanket across his shoulders, provoking an annoyed look from the young man. As Greg came up, he complained, "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock." From the fact that he was still here and not being fussed over, Greg surmised that they had cleared him from having ingested any poison by accident.

Sherlock glared. "I'm not in shock."

Lestrade decided to lighten the mood with a smile. "Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes in disgust. Then he returned to the unfinished business of the crime scene, and that alone told Greg that the young man was totally unbothered by the incident. "So, the shooter. No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but…we've got nothing to go on." Greg shrugged, as if he was still trying to put it together himself. No need to freak Sherlock out even more about the surveillance he was under by drawing attention to it.

Sherlock just looked at him. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Now it was Greg's turn to look askance. "Okay, gimme." If Sherlock knew it was one of Mycroft's people, he should have said earlier.

Sherlock stood up and started speaking quickly. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon- that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service…."

While he was delivering his deductions, Sherlock's eyes were wandering over the area. Greg saw his eyes come to rest, as his stream of words stuttered for a moment. Then he resumed for a moment "…nerves of steel…" before his verbal momentum came grinding to a halt. Greg looked to see what Sherlock was looking at, and saw the flatmate standing some distance behind the police tape, calmly watching the scene. The doctor was looking at Sherlock, but as Lestrade spotted him, he turned his head away.

Before Greg's brain could catch up with what his eyes had just seen, Sherlock turned back to look at him and take his attention away from the flatmate. "Actually, you know what? Ignore me."

Greg was thrown. Whatever he expected from Sherlock, he'd never, ever admitted to being wrong before. He blurted out, "Sorry?" to check if he'd actually heard the young man correctly.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er…the shock talking." He started to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Greg couldn't believe Sherlock; something was clearly going on. Was he worried about what the flatmate must be making of all this? He'd seen the man behind the tape, and suddenly lost interest in the deductions he was making. Was he concerned that the doctor would pull out of sharing a flat with someone who ended up routinely at crime scenes like these? Greg was trying to make sense of it when Sherlock replied, "I just need to talk about…the rent."

So Greg was right, the flatmate was somehow responsible for Sherlock's changed behaviour. "But, I've still got questions for you."

Sherlock stopped and looked back at him in irritation. "Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" He flapped the edges of the orange fabric, as if to emphasise the diagnosis.

Greg wasn't buying any of it. "Sherlock!"

"And I just caught you a serial killer…more or less."

Lestrade just looked at him. From the point of view of the Yard and the team, Sherlock's assessment was quite right, and they should be grateful that it had ended as well as it did. The press would be delighted, and another successful clear up would be chalked up. But, Lestrade was well aware that Sherlock was keeping something important from him. He was mulling over what he should do, when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a black government car pulling onto the road leading to the crime scene. He decided Sherlock was about to have more than enough on his plate. With a smile, he said, "Okay, we'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go." He watched the young man walk off towards the flatmate. Sherlock pulled the blanket off his shoulders and bundled it up, tossing it into the open window of one the police cars, before ducking under the tape. So much for shock, Sherlock. Just what are you playing at?

Lestrade watched as the taller man spoke to the shorter one. Whatever was said, it seemed to mollify the doctor, because as the pair began to walk along the side of the police tape, he could see that Sherlock was smiling and the doctor seemed to be in a good mood, too. They passed Sergeant Donovan and there was an exchange of words, but Greg could tell that this time, there was no ill will being communicated. Donovan just stared at the two men as they carried on past her.

Unfortunately, their path took them past the black car, now parked by the police tape. Uh oh. Here comes trouble. Greg watched as Mycroft Holmes emerged. It was Watson who stopped first. But, that made sense when Greg realised the doctor had already met him, when he was "vetted." Then Sherlock strode over, his gait making his annoyance clear. There was a terse exchange of words, which Greg couldn't hear because they were turned away from him, but he could see their tense body language. Lestrade had rarely seen the two brothers interact; Sherlock's relationship with his brother was fraught at the best of times, and Greg had been willing over the years to play intermediary. Sherlock's behaviour in front of his brother could be shocking. Greg hoped that for the sake of the flatmate, he'd keep his temper leashed this time.

It was a brief exchange, and then Sherlock stalked away. The shorter man stayed behind briefly, speaking to Mycroft and then hurried off after the consulting detective. Greg decided he needed answers, so he walked over to where Mycroft was staring down the road after the two men.

When Greg reached his side, he just greeted him, "Evening, Mr Holmes."

"Technically, it is good morning, Detective Inspector."

Greg smiled. Both the Holmes' could be remarkably pedantic when it suited. "I need a word with you. Have you been briefed about what happened here tonight?"

"I am aware of Sherlock's abduction, the cab driver's intentions, and the fact that they were thwarted by a skilled marksman."

"Was it one of your men who fired the gun?"

"Alas, no, Detective Inspector. I fear my people were a little too slow to realise what was going on."

Greg looked around. "And, I suppose it's safe to guess that DPG weren't involved either?"

Mycroft just sniffed. "Since when has SO6 been that competent?" His derision was plain. He continued, "Remarkably, I believe we have Doctor Watson to thank for a timely appearance."

Startled, Greg looked at the elder Holmes with astonishment. "What- the guy with a cane? The flatmate? He shot the serial killer? To protect Sherlock?" Each question was asked with increasing incredulity.

"Apparently," was the dry reply.

"Where the hell did he get a gun?"

Holmes looked at him as if he was an idiot. "I understand that army officers are issued a personal weapon, even doctors, Lestrade. His service record suggests he is a rather good shot- which is fortunate for my brother's sake, wouldn't you agree?"

The elder Holmes looked more intently at Greg. "If it had been SO6 or one of my people, the cabbie's death would be the end of the story. So, I am assuming that there will be no further investigation into the matter of who removed a serial killer."

Put that way, there was nothing that the DI could do except nod his agreement. But, the idea of Sherlock moving in with a man who had an illegal weapon, and who knew how to use it to lethal effect, and who would do so on the basis of …Greg had to count it, given how much had happened…on the basis of less than eight hours of sharing a flat. Well, that alarmed Greg.

"So, let me get this straight. You are happy for Sherlock to move into a flat with an ex-Army doctor who was willing and able to kill a villain on the off-chance that he could convince your brother to take a poison pill?"

Mycroft's eyebrows raised in surprise. "You would prefer a drug dealer or a homeless person, would you, Lestrade? I am not entirely sure I understand the good doctor's motives yet, but he has rather proved his worth tonight. If Sherlock can manage to avoid irritating him to the point where he leaves, this could be a useful development indeed. Since neither you, your team, nor I or my team were able to give Sherlock the back-up he needed tonight, let us be glad that someone was willing and able to do just that."

And with that, the elder Holmes turned on his heel, and collected his PA who was texting by the side of the car. The pair got in, and the car drove off into the early morning darkness of south London.

As he turned back to the crime scene, Lestrade was wondering whether this new flatmate would be a good thing, or turn out to be the worst possible development. One thing for sure; he'd have to keep his eye on not only Sherlock in the future, but also on Doctor John Watson.