Author's Note: I know it's been a while, but if you've been reading Periodic Tales, you will know why. But I will be returning to this story line occasionally over the next two months, including at least one new Sam story. Until then, this is something that must have happened at some point in the six months after the SiB Christmas Party at Baker Street.
Chapter Sixty - Painful Truths
Greg took a deep breath and unlocked the door of his flat. A casual glance around the room said it all. Not to someone who didn't know them well- a stranger looking into the living room would see a well decorated, tidy and modern place. Touches of colour, a flash of good taste. Neither of them made a lot of money, but together he and Louise had managed over the years to make themselves a nice home.
Trouble was, Louise left him yesterday. "For good. Over, done, our marriage is out with the rubbish" is the way she had put it. "Hey, Greg, don't look so upset. Another murder will come along to keep you busy. You won't even notice I'm gone. You just keep doing your bit to save the world, and I will go do what I like doing." She smiled sadly. "I've been doing that for the past three years anyway, behind your back. I'm not prepared to do it that way anymore. I've met someone and I think it's serious, so I want to give it a go. A proper try this time."
He'd been replaying her words on continuous loop for the past day. Couldn't shake them out of his head, even though each and every one hurt. He finally understood the word 'self-flagellation'. It was the last statement that hurt the worst, the bit about not trying properly. For the past three years, he thought he had been trying. He'd forgiven her the infidelity. She'd sworn that the guy she slept with wasn't important; it was just a fling. He was younger and made her feel sexy, but she knew it was wrong, so she'd told him to bugger off and then told Greg. She didn't want him to think her dishonest. She'd just been stupid. So, he forgave her and tried harder. But, clearly, it wasn't enough.
Then she asked for a couple of months' separation. She needed "some space to figure out what's going on in my head". He tried to talk her out of it, but in the end agreed to it, if she would go with him to a marriage counsellor. He thought the sessions were working. He loved Louise. She was his oasis- the part of his life that kept him sane because it didn't involve bodies, criminals, crime scenes, and investigations. She was beautiful, bright, sparky and a northern lass. Straight talking and he had judged himself the luckiest man alive when she had accepted his proposal.
So, he did agree to a trial separation. That lasted three months, and then she came back. "Like a bad penny" she said. "I guess you won't get rid of me that easily" She'd laughed when he said he never wanted to get rid of her, ever. That Christmas, they went to bed for three days and made love like newlyweds. Less than a month later, he learned to his horror that Sherlock had been right- she was still sleeping with the PE teacher- and had been all along while she was also with him.
"I wasn't sure, Greg, so I came home to spend time with you to see if Robert was really the one. And being apart from him made me realise it. We got together again. I know that it isn't fair, and I'm a bloody cow. Go ahead and shout at me. I deserve it; I've treated you badly, and I'm sorry. That's why I'm not prepared to lie anymore. Think of it as a car accident- no one wants it to happen, but when it does, you just recover the pieces and get on with things. You keep the flat; I will move my things out tomorrow while you are out at work; Robert's coming to give me a hand with the heavy stuff."
For the past three nights, he'd been awake all night, rehearsing what went wrong, what he'd done or not done that had led to this. Now, as he sat at the table in the kitchen, and everywhere he looked around the flat, he was reminded of her, of them, and of his failure to keep her. He'd never known pain like this.
oOo
"Sherlock, your phone is going manic. Why don't you just answer it?"
John was typing on his laptop. Sherlock was doing something with an experiment in the kitchen.
"You're closer." That much was true. The phone was on the coffee table, and John was probably physically closer to it than Sherlock.
"But, it's YOUR phone."
"Then it can wait until I am finished." John glanced over at the kitchen Sherlock was using a pipette to put something into a petri dish one drop at a time.
"And just how long as that likely to be?"
"It gets longer, each time you interrupt."
John sighed. He didn't know how the man could concentrate. For John, a ringing phone was like an itch that had to be scratched. "Could be a case, you know."
"Yes, that thought had occurred to me, John; quite logical, given that a high proportion of my calls are about cases. If you'd like to be certain about it, why not just look?"
The doctor didn't move; he went back to his typing, then he stopped to look at the sentence he'd just written which was utter rubbish. He sighed and stabbed repeatedly at the backspace key. Then he got up and picked up Sherlock's phone…
…which immediately started vibrating again, as if it knew he was there. He opened the text screen. "You have nine texts from Lestrade. Want me to read them to you?"
Now it was Sherlock's turn to sigh. "What part of me not wanting to be interrupted needs to be repeated, John? If you give me two more minutes I will be done with this and can do it myself. Fix yourself a cup of tea, drink it and by then I can come out to play."
As John headed for the kitchen, Sherlock added, "and fix me one while you are at it; you might also want to have a piece of toast, as this case is quite likely to be interesting."
While John was in the kitchen, he kept smiling. Trust Sherlock to come up with a conversion table, nine Lestrade texts equals a seven on the Sherlockian scale of interesting cases.
oOo
Now looking at a dead body dragged out of Hampstead Heath Ponds, the brunet detective was still. Sometimes, Sherlock wasn't all swirling motion and rapid movement around a body. He didn't swoop like some raptor, to examine more closely a hand, a torn fingernail, a piece of jewellery. He was just looking at her naked body, with his hands together, as if he was praying.
John watched him from where he was standing. He could hear Sally Donovan and Don Anderson talking in the background, but tuned out their words. Lestrade was on the other side of the body, his arms crossed, watching Sherlock, too. He looked tired, as if he'd not have much sleep for several nights.
"Anything? Anything at all?" He sounded impatient.
There was no reply, and no movement from Sherlock.
Lestrade's patience snapped. "For God's sake, Sherlock. I've held up the Forensic team for more than a half hour because you couldn't get off your arse to answer your phone. You can at least do the decent thing and not keep us hanging about while you…I don't know…contemplate your navel or whatever the hell it is you are doing now."
John tilted his head at that explosion. It wasn't like Lestrade to be so impatient. He knew the way Sherlock worked, and was willing to go along with it in every case that the doctor had seen to date. That reaction was something more like what Sally or Anderson would say. John glanced over to where the Sergeant and the CS Examiner were deep in conversation. Ever since Sherlock had 'outed' their relationship on the very first night John worked with him, the doctor could now see their flirtation in their body language alone. He didn't need the tell-tale deodorant clues. Actually, the pair didn't bother to hide it anymore, becoming more blatant as time went on.
Sherlock looked around to see what John was observing. When he realised who it was, he frowned. and turned back to Lestrade. "Tell me exactly how the police constable found her in the water."
Lestrade's face screwed up in disappointment. "Ask him yourself." He turned and shouted "Jeffries, get over here." A burly copper in uniform jogged over from the police tape, which was now holding back a collection of civilians on the path, who were ogling the crime scene. "Tell him what you told me, and be quick about it."
"Right, sir. She was in the water, about 18 inches under the surface. As you can see, her wrists and ankles were tied down to concrete blocks in the water, and then she also had a wide strap across her waist, also tied to two blocks."
"Facing up or down, Constable?"
"Up, sir." The PC looked a little uncomfortable. "It was her breasts that caught the jogger's attention. I mean, they're very white, sir, and when I got here I could see them just under the water. The guy thought at first it was a dead swan."
Sherlock turned to John. "Can you estimate the length of time she's been in the water, John?"
The doctor knew that Sherlock would know the answer to this question even better than he would; after all, Sherlock had been working for months on a protocol to determine point of entry for bodies thrown into the Thames- so he'd seen dozens of drowned bodies at Barts over the summer. So, if he was asking John's opinion now, it was to make some sort of point to Lestrade and the constable.
"You know as well as I do, Sherlock. Given the low temperature last night, the water would have been close to freezing. She was put there sometime in the night. That's why rigor is still present."
"Put there? You said she drowned."
The doctor grimaced. "Yes, she did, but she was either drugged or barely conscious when put into the water. Even tied down to the blocks, she would have struggled if she was able to- and there are almost no ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, so clearly, she didn't struggle much."
Lestrade was pacing, and fidgeting, too. John watched him with some concern. Too much caffeine? Something was off, not quite right with the DI.
"I don't suppose you've been able to deduce who she is, Sherlock? Or anything useful to get us started?"
"Just wait, Lestrade. A few more minutes won't make any difference to her." The consulting detective now walked over to the water. "Constable, go get me one of those blocks." Jeffries was already wet from when he had pulled the body out, so he did not hesitate again to wade into the pond and reach down into the freezing water. He emerged with a concrete builder's block and laid it down at the side of the body.
Lestrade just looked at it and groaned. "A fat lot of good that will do us; it looks like the sort you'd find at almost every construction site in London."
"As usual, Lestrade, you're wrong. I don't know her name, but I know where we will be able to find it. Come over here." Lestrade walked over to where Sherlock was standing. The brunet took his shoulders and spun him around, then pointed over the DI's shoulder. "Look across the water. What do you see?"
"A pond? Ducks? Stop playing games, Sherlock and just spit it out." Lestrade was clearly in a foul mood.
John came over, too, to see what Sherlock was pointing at. Across the pond, on the far shore, there was a row of four storey terraced houses. Their back gardens came down to the water.
Sherlock now said quietly in Lestrade's ear, "We will find answers in the third house along- possibly in the top flat or on the third floor."
oOo
John was finding it hard to stomach all the blood. The top floor flat in Number Three, Heath Villas, was awash in it. Anderson was complaining. "Yet another crime scene where I'm going to have to put up with civilians crawling all over the place before I can get to do what I'm paid to do. Sometimes, no, make it just once, I'd like to be able to process a scene properly before the Freak shows up. It's gotten to the point where I routinely screen out his DNA from all my work, without even thinking about it, even when he isn't there because he thinks it's too boring. Utterly ridiculous."
Lestrade just snarled at him. "Shut it, Anderson. I am not in the mood for you being a prima donna."
The man's body lying on the living room carpet had been dead for about nine hours in the doctor's estimation. "Death by exsanguination. There must be thirty or more stab wounds- all in the groin area. His genitals have been…well, you can see the results." The knife was on the floor by the body. Unlike the body in the pond, this one was clothed. Stapled to his bloodied shirt was a note- "Now you will never lead her into temptation again." It was unsigned.
Sherlock was standing at the large dormer window, looking out over the pond. "The location was key. She'd be seen from here."
Lestrade was trying to piece it together. "So, you think that the murderer killed her, put her in the water and then arrived here, to kill Mr Szamuely?" He turned back to the flat doorway. "Donovan!" His voice carried down the stairwell to where the Sergeant was questioning the neighbours from the floor below. When she appeared in the living room, he asked "What do they say?"
"Mr Szamuely lived here on his own; wife died twelve years ago. According to Mrs Samuels from the flat below, he's got a lady friend- been having an affair for about ten months."
Now Sherlock started his deductions. "The woman involved was married. Adultery- am I right, Sergeant?"
The black woman looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, the neighbour didn't know her, did she?" It came out a little defensively.
"No, but you recognised the signs, didn't you? The neighbour told you about the woman's coming and going at odd times of the day or night, but never staying over. The sound of a phone going up here would be heard downstairs, then she'd arrive a set time later, or maybe a rapid departure by My Szamuely after the call here to make a quick rendezvous. All the hallmarks of an adulterous affair."
He walked over to the desk and rifled through some papers. Then he flipped open the laptop, and opened the e mails. "Her name is Diana Crossland."
"How do you know that?" Lestrade came over to look over Sherlock's shoulder, peering at the screen.
"Airline tickets to Rio- here's a confirmation e mail. Advanced passenger information makes it hard to lie; the names have to match what's on the passport. Seems that Mrs Crossland was about to do a runner with her lover. If you track down her address, I think you will find your murderer. However, I expect he will be dead when you get there. A man motivated by this level of revenge will not have wanted to live without the wife he loved so much that he would kill for her."
He looked over at the dead body. "The clue is in the fact that he weighted her down, but drugged her first so she wouldn't struggle. That's mercy. He didn't blame her for their failed relationship, but blamed Szamuely. That's a man who loved his wife, pushed over the edge of reason. He won't want to live without her."
Sally didn't buy it. "Where do you get off, Freak? I mean, figuring out their relationship –okay, I get the evidence that there may be some connection between the body in the pond and this one. But, trying to explain motivations- from a man who is a self-confessed sociopath, what on earth makes you think that you could understand married love?"
It wasn't Sherlock that snapped first. John was stunned when Lestrade just lit into Sally. "Given your history, Donovan, I don't think that makes you qualified to pass judgement on someone else. Maybe if Mr Szamuely had thought twice about the pain he was inflicting on others, he might have kept it in his trousers where it belonged."
Sally looked outraged. "Guv, that was just…out of order." She stomped off and back down the stairs. Down beside the body where he was carefully bagging the corpse's hands, Anderson had observed the DI's exchange with Sally. He stood up and took a breath. "You have no right…"
Lestrade turned to the CS Examiner. "Not another word, Anderson. Just keep that mouth shut. You of all people should know what effect an adulterer has on the innocent party in the marriage. How's the wife these days?"
Eyes blazing, Anderson took a step toward the DI. But before he could do anything more, Sherlock was in motion. He stepped between the two men, grabbed Anderson by the blue forensic suit and literally dragged him out of the room, bundling him out the door and slamming it shut.
"John, would you mind giving us a few minutes?" It was quietly asked. John hesitated. Greg was clearly tired, stressed and uncharacteristically volatile. Leaving him with Sherlock could be a recipe for disaster, and John wasn't sure he wanted to trust Greg's mood with someone as ham-fisted as Sherlock could be. But, he looked into those grey green eyes and saw something that made him trust, so he nodded and left the room.
Sherlock now crossed to look at Greg closely, really scrutinising him to the point where the older man started to look uncomfortable.
"So, she's finally left you."
Greg turned away. "Just leave off, will you, Sherlock? You've had your fun. You've been poking at my marriage for years, positively enjoying the spectacle of me making a fool of myself. So, don't rub salt in the wound by crowing how right you were." The DI just didn't have time for any gloating by the brunet.
"That's not what I was doing before, and that's not what I'm doing now."
"You could have fooled me. Like at Christmas when me and Louise were really trying, you couldn't resist that little barb about the PE teacher, could you? In front of everyone, too. Just the perfect little gift from you to me." He looked away and took a step to put more distance between him and his tormentor.
"That's not what I was doing…or, at least, not what I was trying to do."
Greg just sighed. "You know what? You're done here. You've done your party trick now and sorted this crime out, so just collect the doctor on your way out of here. Leave this mess to me."
"No."
"Sherlock, get out of here. I'm tired and fed up and I don't need the hassle. Leave."
"No."
The second refusal made Greg turn around and glower at the brunet. "Why the hell not?"
"Because you haven't said a word to anyone about your wife and it's eating you up." Sherlock walked up to Greg, invading his personal space in a pointed way. "You haven't slept properly for the past three nights, so she told you on Sunday. She's moved out and you're rattling around in the flat surrounded by memories of her. You haven't called your sister to tell her, because to do so would somehow make it final."
"Shut up, Sherlock. You just don't know when to stop, do you? Just leave me alone!" He put his two hands up on the younger man's shoulders and shoved him away.
Sherlock staggered back a couple of steps, but then said quietly "No."
Greg grabbed him, balling his left fist into Sherlock's shirt and shoved him back against the wall of the living room. His right fist pulled back, to let fly. Sherlock did not resist, he could see what was going to happen, but did nothing to stop the blow. The force of it when it came was enough to smack the back of his head against the wall, and to split his lip open. When Greg released his hold, the brunet half collapsed, half slid into a heap on the floor.
A look of horror crossed Lestrade's face, as he stepped back, looking down at his right fist. "Oh, shit; now look what you've made me do. God, Sherlock, I'm sorry."
"That's pointless, being sorry. You've been wanting to do that to someone, anyone, for the past three days, Lestrade. You're smart enough not to go anywhere near your wife or her new man, because you've seen too many scenes like this one. But not being able to do something has been driving you crazy. Better to hit me than one of your colleagues, wouldn't you say? If you decked Anderson or, heaven forbid, Sally Donovan, it would've cost you your career."
Greg just stared at the man sitting on the floor, with blood streaming down from his cut lip. "You're saying you did that on purpose? Poked me until I hit you, just so…what, I didn't clobber someone else?" His incredulity showed.
Sherlock got unsteadily to his feet, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to stem the flow. He looked back on the wall and frowned. "You'll have to tell Anderson about that." He pointed to a fine line of blood spatter. "He fusses enough about me contaminating his crime scene. " His voice was utterly matter-of-fact, as if he was totally unconcerned about Greg punching him.
"Why would you do that?" Lestrade couldn't understand the motivation. Obviously, Sherlock had deduced his distress and somehow thought that getting him to punch him would help. As the adrenaline raced through the DI's bloodstream, he realised that throwing the punch had actually felt good. The continuous replay of Louise's last words about making a proper try stopped.
Sherlock wiped the blood from his lip, slurring slightly through the wad of white cotton he kept pressed to his face. "My brother would say I deserved it- being hit. I think he wanted to do the same thing to me when I was nine years old and I told my mother about my father's infidelities over a Sunday roast lunch. I tell people what they don't want to see for themselves. I don't do it to be popular, just honest. It's up to you to make of the information what you want. For my mother, it was enough to banish my father to the London townhouse for a month- which was stupid in hindsight because it let him get on with the affair without interruption. In your case, I've kept my eye on you because your marriage means so much to you. I was trying to let you know the truth so that when this day finally came, you'd know you'd done everything you could to keep her with you. You did the best you could. Some marriages just end, Lestrade, because people change. It doesn't make them right or wrong, just normal people, like everyone else."
Greg looked at the younger man, understanding for the first time what Sherlock had done. A moment of silence passed between the two men.
"Right then, I'd better get Anderson back up here and let him do his job. Thanks for taking the case Sherlock." And that was the last time the two men ever spoke about Lestrade's marriage.
