WOW Thank-you all you fabulous people! I got home and bam, all these wonderful emails filling my inbox. It made my day so thank-you very much! Another chapter up and ready. I am making Lestrade a bit of a dashing fellow since I didn't like the actor so much so I am making him my own creative on looks...Sorry for any grammatical mistakes/chemistry + Chemical information (as I am not really knowledgeable in that area.)
-Awhoha
The carriage swayed, the clatter of hooves clicking on the wet cobbled stones; the startled neigh of the horses mixing in with the rowdy crowds—the voices of the paper boys screaming in the streets. The four men sat, two on each side, as the driver outside whipped the flanks urging the beasts on. Sherlock sat, back as straight as can be, fingers fumbling with his buttons while John rested beside him, the warmth of the detective's thigh grazing his own. John observed the detective struggle, finally giving a frustrated sigh. Resting his cane against the cab's side, the doctor reached out with gloved hands, the buttons easily sliding into place as the dark jacket closed over the man's white shirt. Sherlock's vision fluttered towards the window the outside world rapidly paramount as John's hands finished the last button.
"Presentable," John spoke, taking it upon himself to straighten the white collar hugging the strong neck.
"Yes, yes, Watson. Thank-you." Sherlock's fingers itched at his throat, his fingers tugging open his white collar further, the carriage suddenly to warm for his liking. John's cerulean stare dropping to his exposed skin—slight stubble on soft tan skin, a few pale scars dipped towards his collarbone.
"Do you have my pipe?" Sherlock asked, breath fogging the window. Paul inclined his bowler clad head, his green eyes focused on the consulting detective. "No- left behind in the commotion, no doubt. Be on your toes next time, old goat."
John watched the exchange with unsettling perturbation. Next time?
"You solve cases with him." John stated, his voice expressing no emotion as he focused hard on the man sitting across from his own person. Sherlock eyed his friend, dark brown orbs tinged with flecks of gold.
"Is that so hard to believe, mother hen?"
"Mother hen?" Paul raised a brow, a quirk forming. "You have a way with nicknames, Holmes: mother hen, old goat. Dare we find one for yourself?"
Sherlock ignored the lieutenant, rotating so that he was sitting facing the good doctor, and spoke in a most refined tone.
"After you abnegated yourself from my side—"
"This, again?"
" I—having no one for months, find it considerably conductive to have someone to which I can rely on while cultivating my cases. Mr. Jefferson is most accommodating."
"Is he?" John bristled.
"Your complaining."
"No I'm not. How am I possibly complaining?"
"You complain about everything I do and for your information, my dear Watson, I do believe we have had this conversation before, most vividly I recall, being locked up in a prison cell surrounded with horribly humdrum companions." Sherlock tapped his nose, tone obnoxiously irritating. John was about to retort but the carriage halted suddenly; Sherlock reaching out—one hand smearing across the window while the other blindly griped John's front coat, that the doctor, finding heat press against his breast, felt the words die in his throat. The fairer haired man felt a blush rise through his neck, ears most possibly scarlet.
"We're here, gentlemen." The officer announced, clearly relieved that they had arrived at the appointed destination. Sherlock mutely removed himself from the horse drawn method of transport, a hand sweeping though his hair. John hastened to follow, standing tall beside his friend.
"I apologize, Holmes. Everything has changed—I was rather taken by surprise."
"Apology accepted." John saw the smile curve, eyes twinkling like stars. "Just hope your cleverness has not dulled, Watson—we wouldn't want London's finest doctor losing his touch now would we."
"Never."
As the rest of the passengers exited the carriage, the officer lead them across the street, the rain dampening their heels, splattering the hems of their pants. Sherlock nictated, the entire street under his scrutiny as they passed the police enforces, their shiny black hats standing out against the pale stone.
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
"Strange."
"Indeed, Watson. Most extraordinary."
"There appears to be no physical marks upon the body; no bullet holes, no knife wounds, no strangulation."
"Obvious."
"They're all-?"
"Yes, Jefferson. Bereft of life; deceased; departed; pushing up daises."
"Sherlock."
"What, old chap?"
"Show some respect." John pursed his lips, eyes intent on observing the bodies, lying motionless in the fine leather armchairs. Sherlock, giving an offended shake of his hand, bent low to sniff at one of the corpses. Paul meanwhile, was observing the study. A beaker of water rested on an old oak table, along with some assorted documents and quills. The study was furnished with a mantle, large fireplace, books and binders filled with handwritten notes. A large grandfather clock chimed in the corner, the fine carvings finishing the room with a flare of elegance.
The officers stood by the doorway, one in particular watching the consulting detective with a guarded was tall, well toned with slight graying hair. His handsome face was disturbed, blue eyes hooded as he leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his untidy uniform. The man was of medium height, high cheekbones, skin bordered on tan as he spent much time outdoors, and dark of hair to which he wore in a tangled mess of locks.
"They were found early this afternoon. The maid was to bring tea into the study and found them stone dead at precisely twelve o'clock. " The man stated, earning a glance from Sherlock.
"Do we know the identity of victims, Lestrade? Judging by their fine clothes, expensive brandy, rounded gut, sweet yet pungent aroma: Colorado Claro—medium brown, English Market. 120 – 140 milligrams of carbon dioxide, 60 milligrams carbon monoxide, three milligrams isoprene and other various organic compounds. Cigars, English made. Business men of high stature."
"Secretaries of one of the most flourishing banks in London. " Inspector Lestrade supplied, a touch of awe in his voice as Sherlock stepped back from the body. "Do you know how they died?"
"It seems they died of severe liver poisoning." John peered into the hollow eyes, regarding the faint yellowing of the skin. "To how they died so quickly- that I have no idea."
"Cigars."
"Holmes?"
"It was the cigars."
Everyone turned to the detective, now leaning out the wide open window, in danger of plunging below. Lestrade glanced at the doctor who blinked, unsure as to how the man had reached the conclusion.
"Come away from the window, Holmes, and pray, tell what is on your mind." The doctor ordered, heart thudding in his chest as Holmes faced them, body still leaning back, fingers clutching the white window panes.
"Must I repeat myself, it is so very dispiriting. The cigars. As I inhaled the smoke lingering around the study I noted the familiar odors; carbon diooxide and monoxide, the isoprene and other organic compounds. However I did notice the faint scent of N-Nitrosodimethylamine: a highly toxic organic chemical. It acts as a poison to the liver; is colorless, weak tasting, and faint of smell. It is used in tobacco smoke, though in measured amounts. Cigars made with nitrosamines; it is what the toxin is branched from, are relatively harmless and when smoked, odorless. Having detected the N-Nitrosodimethlamine, I was immediately suspicious of the cigars being poisoned and present for one purpose."
"Murder." The Inspector finished, looking down at the poor victims.
"Now the question: Why want these men dead?" Sherlock muttered, lost in thought. He pushed himself off the window sill, striding past the Inspector, yelling up towards the stairs.
"Anything, old goat?"
John, realizing that the man had been vacant from the study, followed the footsteps of the detective up a flight of stairs,the shadow of Lestrade close by. The three men burst forth from a door located to the side of the building, leading up to the roof. The group was greeted by sunshine, a thin mist of rain beginning to fall. Paul stood by the edge, looking down into the overcrowded streets.
"Our killer was in the room when the men died." Jefferson said, hands shoved in his pockets. His green eyes shone like green peridots, rain drops clinging to his lashes.
"How do you know?" Lestrade barked, both he and the doctor staying far enough away from the ledge. Sherlock took a spot by the lieutenants side, one foot lifting over the edge.
"He jumped the roof."
"He did."
"The ladder?"
"Most certainly."
"Excuse me, but could you include us in your private conversation?" John all but shouted.
"There was an extra set of footsteps in the study, slightly made out by the water on the floor. There were four gentlemen murdered, yet five set of prints. Specks of muddied water ran up the stairs—I followed and they led me to the roof."
"The ladder?" John managed to keep his voice steady. The other man was smart. This irritated John to no end.
"As we made way to the building, I noticed the rooftops were almost parallel to one another: a man could easily jump to and from the buildings. The ladder- see there? is leading up or down on that building. The killer could have easily climbed up without being noticed by the passing crowds. " Sherlock gestured across, brown eyes gleaming.
"Can we take the documents from the scene and examine them, Inspector?" Paul inquired, turning away from the ledge. Lestrade nodded, pulling his coat tighter around his body—trying hide his disarray of dress so it seemed.
"Find out, Inspector where these cigars are manufactured, who sells them. I want every shop in London written up on a list if need be. A killer who strikes with poisoned cigars. Most entertaining. Most entertaining indeed."
"Entertaining? Holmes! These men are dead."
"One must fine the excitement in every form of life, or life would be utterly devoid of any adventure."
"These men have families!"
"No time for sentiments, my dear doctor. Will weeping for the dead bring them back to life? No. Well, then, carry on!" Sherlock promptly sauntered off, disappearing down the stairwell.
"God I hate him," John breathed, cracking his neck, his hat tipping to the side.
"He certainly is one of a kind, but not one to hate." Paul chuckled, falling in step with the fairer man as they followed the consulting detective.
"His behavior doesn't drive you to madness?"
"No, I would go so far as to say I rather fancy it."
John faltered in his step ( he blamed his cane for snagging in a unseen crack in the stone) his heart thrashing wildly as the statement caught him entirely by surprise. Fancy:to take a liking to; exceptional appeal in someone or something.The leather gloves squeaked as they tightened around the handle, the doctors blue eyes like clear beads of ice. They made their way down, cane clattering, to the hall finding the detective sitting on the floor.
"You alright, old friend?" John asked, a hint of worry in his voice.
"Yes. Yes, everything is amicable. I find the outlook of the world far different when sitting further down; a whole new perspective on our every day activities. Now, quickly we must gather the documents and with all haste, transport to the flat."
"Do you think there might be something important hidden in all of those notes?" John asked, cane pointing to the bundles of papers in the officers arms as they carried them out to an awaiting carriage.
"Fancy reading?" Sherlock grinned, a playful gleam in his gaze. John narrowed his eyes, knowing that smile to be most devious.
"On occasion."
"Super bonne."
"English, Holmes, if you would be so kind."
"Excellent in to which you most graciously volunteered to be our most avid reader."
"What? To reading all of those? You must be joking...no...you're not joking are you."
"Does this face ever joke, Watson?"
"I cannot Holmes, reading that will take all night."
"We have all night."
"I have to meet Mary."
"Tell her something came up; you sprained an ankle or such nonsense."
"Don't be utterly ridiculous. I cannot lie to my wife, Holmes."
"Of course you can, Watson. Most men lie to their wives multiple times a day, maybe even more."
"'I'm not like most men." John straightened, as Holmes observed, a quirk of his lips. The detective let out a disgruntled noise, itching at his jaw line. "I'll come by the flat later on." The doctor tried to reassure the detective, his thoughts now elsewhere.
"Tea with Mary, I understand is far more important."
"Shopping." John sighed, tone tired. Did Sherlock ever listen? "It is important, as she is my wife and I cannot spend every waking hour with you. "
"Pity."
"Holmes."
"Hmmm?"
"I said I will be back, I promise."
"Then by all means, good fellow. Let me not keep you- I wish you luck with your tea escapade."
"Shopping." John shot out jerkily, but seeing the playfulness, the doctor let out a chuckle. He smacked the detectives knee with the end of the cane as he made his way to the door, nodding goodbye as he hurried down the cobbled stones, the sun warming his tall figure. Sherlock pouted, ignoring the slight sting to the tibial tuberosity. He felt a sadness prod at his heart, its chilled fingers brushing gently against his chest. He sniffed, turning his attention to the cab. He ducked inside, Paul already leafing through some loose sheets.
"221B Baker Street, my good man. Double time if you will." Sherlock shouted out to the driver. The carriage lurched forward, the hooves rhythmically in time to the grate of the wheels against the pebbled road.