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A/N: I have been thinking for a long time on how to go about it, because Scandal in Belgravia is a study in time skips. I decided to do this story chronologically, or we will all just get lost (well... at least I will) in numerous flashbacks. So, the following chapters will take place between Sherlock & Irene's first meeting and the Christmas party. It will also give me time to make Irene cooperate, because this lady is a tough cookie.
Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.
Warning: Language; Expect a ghastly murder along the way.
# #
October had been rather cold that year. Joan, who had spent way too much time in the desert the previous decade, was still wearing a double layer of woollen jumpers during the night outings. Sometimes a hoodie too. It had also been really slow on challenging cases, especially after Irene's performance, and Sherlock began to show signs of advanced boredom, despite very distinctive text alerts that echoed through the flat twice a week at least. The gun had been swiftly hidden in a smallish safe under the ex-soldier's bed. She set the code to the birthday date of Bill Murray, so her flatmate could spend just a bit more time cracking it.
On one very uneventful Wednesday, she emerged from the kitchen with a mug of steaming coffee, intent on having a peaceful morning. The lump of a consulting detective sprawled on the sofa wasn't making any noises. She hoped he was asleep and not planning some smelly experiment. The last one ruined one of her oldest and cosiest jumpers.
Mrs Hudson had brought up the mail earlier, and Joan picked the stack before settling in her armchair. There was nothing interesting, bills, adds… and a nondescript envelope addressed to 'Captain Joan Watson'. No sender contacts. No one from the regiment would actually write a letter. There are emails nowadays. Not Sev or Liam, or their lot either, they would text or call.
She put her mug on the low table, and carefully opened the envelope, mindful not to rip it. Her slow motions attracted the attention of a bored detective, who peered at her silently from his vintage place at the other side of the room. There was a sticky note inside the letter and an actual lock of hair, bound by a rough thread.
Joan blinked slowly at the items in her hands. The sound of stirring and bare feet on the floor alerted her that it got Sherlock's interest too. "What's that?" he asked. His voice held impatient notes. It was his best shot at intellectual stimulation in hours.
"Don't know. Fan mail?" she answered softly. Sherlock just scoffed.
"You're not a rock star, John."
"Then why did someone mail me a lock of hair?" The detective hummed and unceremoniously took the envelope and its contents away from her. "Hey, it's not yours!" He gazed upon her with pleading eyes. Damn, I'm soft. And he's getting better at puppy-eyes. "Let me see it too."
The man-child grinned cheerfully and strode into the kitchen. The clinking sound indicated that the lab equipment was being set up. Joan sighed, and followed. It was her letter, after all. And it was a rare occasion to get Sherlock un-bored.
He was already absorbed in the envelope, looking at it from different angles and sniffing it. "Any luck?" Joan asked, sliding on the chair, at a safe distance from chemical vials.
"Nothing specific." He sounded almost disappointed. "The envelope is one of many bought at a post office, it was sent from Whitechapel yesterday, going by the stamp. The absence of sender's contact isn't alarming in itself, people forget sometimes. The writing however had been carefully altered as to not give any clues as to the person who sent it. All I can say is that it's a male, by the pressure put in capitals, and that he is brimming with self-entitlement."
"And isn't that alarming?" she questioned lightly, sipping her coffee.
"As I was going to say" - he glared at her between two glances through the magnifying glass – "taken apart, all these elements wouldn't suggest anything sinister, but put together… I'm inclined to believe this is not some mundane 'fan mail'."
"Gee, thanks for reassuring me." She wasn't really worried, but it was part of her new routine to get Sherlock acquainted with normal human reactions. He blissfully ignored her comment.
"Now, it is addressed to you. 'Captain Joan Watson'. This man knows about your service, it could be the only title of yours he pays attention to. He wasn't your patient either, or he would have added 'Doctor' to the address, with 97% likelihood. He was rather observant or knew you closely enough to know the real spelling of your given name. He doesn't follow your blog but knows where you live. Hmmm."
"Why do you think he doesn't follow my blog?" She was making progress in her deduction-training but wasn't at that level yet.
"It's a 79% probability, but I'm inclined to bet on it. He would have known you live with me. And that I'd be able to piece this much together, so he wouldn't have bothered disguising his writing. Anyone comes to mind?" He looked up at her with an inquisitive quirk of an eyebrow. She shrugged at herself internally for being able to see nuances in his eyebrow's tilt now.
"My name wasn't a big secret, you know. Half of the regiment was teasing me about it." Sherlock scowled at the piece of paper. "It could be a prank, honestly." He shook his head slightly, dismissing her idea.
After some additional fumbling the Great Prat didn't deign to comment, the envelope was dismissed, and the lock of hair was carefully put on a petri dish. Using small tweezers, Sherlock slowly extracted one hair to a slide. He leaned forward and inhaled gingerly. Joan looked on passively, already used to various ministrations the detective subjected his experiments to. Since he became engrossed in the analysis of the hair under the microscope, she used the pause to wash her already empty mug and start an actual shopping list on a piece of paper. Meanwhile, Sherlock went back to the petri dish, unravelling the thread binding the hair and sliding it under the microscope.
"Would you like some fresh vegetables for a change tonight?" she finally asked after several minutes.
"No peas" he muttered absently. Joan smirked and added the note to her growing list. "That's interesting."
"What, vegetables?"
"No, your package. The hair belongs to a female." Sherlock was delighted, even at that small of a challenge. For the sake of the less enthusiastic blogger, he elaborated on his findings: "The hair smell of strawberry shampoo, indicating most likely a female. The hair color isn't natural, that much is clear when examining the strand with a strong lens, raising even more the probability of the owner being a woman. The altered color was dark red but started to come off to the natural chestnut. Now why a man, who had been in close contact with army personnel, would want to send you a woman's hair? The lock was cut quite roughly, probably with a large hunting knife, which may indicate that the woman was unwilling to donate it…" At this, he frowned, processing his own deductions through what Joan named 'socially-acceptable-behavior' filter. "Oh." He looked at his friend, who was now scowling at the offending package.
"Are you telling me some creep cut some girl's hair and send it to me?" Sherlock just shrugged, having so far come to the same conclusion. That did more than simply disturb her. If he cut her hair, who knows what else he did. Someone was harming innocent bystanders to get her attention. "Keep going." Now she was pissed off. However, when the resident genius continued, blood ran cold in her veins.
"The thread is rough. Not something used in sewing. More like a rope or a cord. It is cotton, but had been reinforced with thin harder wires…"
"Like an amateur whip" she picked up bluntly. He stared at her in surprise. She felt her face going blank. "Show me the note." Her voice commanded immediate obedience. Shocked into silence, he simply held out the yellow sticky square, marked with the same impersonal script as on the envelope.
'Retribution shall fall.'
Unbidden goosebumps coursed down her back, screaming at her to run, to hide, to get out, out, just go, Jay!
"John?" Of course, Sherlock noticed something was wrong. When did he came so close? She raised distant eyes to his sharp silver ones. I don't want him to know.
"I'm fine" she lied. "It just… looks like a sick prank." It sounded exactly like a lame excuse it was.
"Does it mean anything to you?" Hell yes, it does! Of course, he would pry. Joan resisted the urge to snap at her friend. He wasn't at fault here.
"No, nothing at all." The lie burnt her throat, but there was no other way around it. He caught the lie, why wouldn't he, she was an open book these days. And said nothing. Something cold and steely settled between them, and he just turned away. Oh god, he's going to leave. "Doesn't mean there is nothing more to learn from this." It took a great effort to stop her voice from shaking. Her eyes fell upon the unfinished shopping list. "You have nothing going on anyway. I should go pick up some groceries while we're at it."
Joan didn't look back while she picked her keys and her shoes and practically tumbled down the stairs, leaving a thoughtful Sherlock behind. Oh god, he will find out, it was over, done, dealt with, I lied to him, he will hate me, oh god, I'm so sorry, please don't be mad… The inner voice was clearly having a hard time dealing with the whole situation.
The walk to Tesco's was calming. She even managed to get the milk and beans without much trouble. She forcefully pushed memories away, no need for a flashback in a middle of London. It wasn't even on her official record. To all the world, those days hadn't happened. And those four men were killed in an IED ambush. Her hands itched to pull out her phone and dial a number only a few knew, but there was no time for panic. It could be a prank. It could be unrelated to any of this. Really.
She came back to find Sherlock completely absorbed by his examination of the thread. He was currently trying to slice a part of it, with a suspiciously hissing vial waiting in the vicinity. The doctor winced at the unsanitary use of acid and started to put away their renewed stash of food. She was about to store some sugar on a high shelve when her leg decided to act up.
With an undignified yelp, Joan pitched sideways, her head in direct line with the counter. A strong hand grabbed her good shoulder and yanked her back, sending them both sprawling on the floor in a heap of limbs. She didn't remember closing her eyes, but now she was staring directly at her flatmate's pyjamas-covered chest. "Sorry!" She scrambled back, momentarily forgetting they were in a rather narrow space of their kitchen. Before Sherlock could stop her, she sat up, her head hitting the table from below. The soldier hissed in pain. Holmes had straightened up too, caught in the middle of a halting motion. He cringed at his friend's plight and tried to move closer to assess the damage.
Joan, still disoriented from the fall and the unexpected head bump, not to mention overall edgy, reacted instinctively to someone moving into her personal space. She lurched to the side, evading the perceived menace, giving a rather violent push to the table to get a momentum. One of her pant legs caught under the metallic chair and the movement made it tear up with a loud screech. She didn't go far either, having hit the counter and knocking her head again, but it made some equipment bounce and fall. They both watched in slow motion as tweezers, empty slides and a scalpel made their way to the floor, miraculously not breaking themselves or anything else. And not spilling any acid around.
Sherlock gasped and scurried to her side on all fours, not bothering to get up. "John! Are you alright?" His eyes searched her face, openly worried. Joan rubbed her long-suffering head, forcing out a small smile.
"I'm an idiot" she informed him in a self-depreciating voice.
"Obviously" he smiled back in relief. They looked back at her leg, which was pretending to be just fine now, thank you very much. The sportswear was definitely ruined. "Perhaps the old saying is true. Idiots are lucky." Joan picked at the tear in her clothes, making it worse. I really should relax a little more.
The sudden stillness from the dark-haired man at her side set off alarm bells in her head. She looked up from her half-sprawl and saw him staring at her leg. What now? "John." There was a strange mix of emotions in his voice. A fragile askance for permission, a hint of anger and a more-than-healthy dose of curiosity. Joan followed his gaze, and… Oh. Oh well.
"Okay" she sighed. "Look it up. These pants are dead anyway"
The detective perked up, and with surprising gentleness pushed the tear wider. It revealed a rather ugly jagged scar in the fleshy part of her right thigh. It was well-faded, but still visible to the naked eye. Joan forced herself to sag against the counter. "Go on then" she prompted, while nimble fingers ran over her skin, sending sparks into her nerve endings.
"It's an old wound" he whispered reverently. It was oddly endearing. "Fifteen years old at least, possibly more. Something went through your leg. Not a clean scar, the object was rough-edged. Not a sword or any other cutting weapon. It looks like it went through, however, so a sharp object. A broken metal rod?" He was frowning now. "Who did this?"
"No one, really" she replied meekly. "It was my own damn fault. We were about sixteen-eighteen, Harry and I, and we went exploring some old factory with her friends. A test of courage, you know. Some shelves weren't stable and a bunch of teenagers running around didn't help any. We were lucky to get out of there with just my leg being skewered." The broken shelves were about to make Harry into a pancake. She never ran as fast in her life. Seeing this armature hovering and starting to fall over her sister's head was the worst nightmare she had ever had before enlisting.
Her flatmate tilted his head in a very cat-like manner, his eyes certainly catching all the unsaid truths in her story. A gentle smile on his lips, he didn't question her more. "Can you get up?" He looked innocent and child-like, and genuinely concerned, nothing like a cold machine persona he usually showed to the world.
She grinned sheepishly before getting up, picking a couple of slides on her way. "I'm going to change. Sorry about this." Upstairs, she collapsed on the bed face first. Just stay here until all blows over. Denial had never been more attractive as right now.
# #
Luckily for the weary doctor, Holmes didn't get time to spend on her morbid letter-puzzle. He got a text from Lestrade in the afternoon and dragged her out in the cloudy autumn day. They rode the cab silently to Whitechapel, Sherlock fumbling with his phone and Joan staring sullenly through the car window.
The apartment building was already cordoned with yellow tape, two forensic vans waiting patiently by the main entrance. It was a recent construction, straight grey lines and no flourish. The constable on crowd duty recognized Sherlock with a startled yelp, and almost tripped over himself to let them pass. Apparently, he also forgot to inform the rest of the team who he just let through, because Sally nearly jumped out of her skin when the duo appeared in the hallway just behind her. The janitor she had been interviewing eyed them both with hostility, which didn't help Joan's simmering temper. I won't be scared by a sticky note. I won't let a prank get to me. Damn them. I was supposed to have dealt with this, done and gone. Damn them all.
"Fr... Holmes. Doctor Watson." Donovan greeted them coldly. To her credit, she was doing an effort to stay civil, which would have been appreciated by Joan any other day. This time, the doctor just glowered darkly at the police officer, while Sherlock absently nodded in acknowledgement. She looked at them, probably misunderstanding the mood, but wisely not commenting on it. "It's downstairs" she offered eventually.
"Thank you, Sally" Sherlock droned in response, earning an uncertain cringe that could have been a smile under better circumstances. He didn't notice, too busy striding dramatically to the basement doorway. Joan forced a cordial smile on her face, an expression Yarders were used to, before following, blissfully oblivious to the concerned frown that settled on the sergeant's brow.
They descended sickeningly regular stairs to the narrow and dimly lit corridor that led to private storage units that came with apartments. It was literally flooded with police personnel just mutually hindering each other, making them stop at the bottom of the stairs, unable to move forward. A tuft of salt-and-pepper hair navigated through the buzzing activity towards them. "Sherlock, John. Thanks for coming." DI Lestrade had dark circles under his eyes, but seemed rather alert, probably thanks to the strong scent of coffee wafting from his coat.
"You said it was interesting" Sherlock replied evenly, an excited glint finally finding its way to his eyes. They made their way back to the actual crime scene, with a great deal of grunts, pushes, 'sorry' and 'move upstairs, why don't you' from Greg. Holmes' looming presence at his shoulder helped imposing the due authority over the most reluctant ones. Joan just trailed behind, easily dodging inadvertent elbows and knees that came her way. Being of small height and spending time in crowds gave you some special reflexes tall people just didn't have. Why are they here? All these people… Too many, too close, run, runrunrun. She made a wilful effort to ignore her claustrophobic tendencies. Their objective was one of the units, set towards the middle of the corridor. The door had been removed from its hinges and carefully leant on the nearby wall. A powerful projector had been set up in front of the doorway.
Lestrade barked some orders at the nearby staff. They grumbled under their breath but moved further down the aisle anyway. Ignoring the resulting commotion, Sherlock stood still just a step away from entering the tiny unit, his gaze cataloguing everything in sight. After a couple of long silent minutes, he clicked his tongue and moved in, going for the detail. There was no space for two in there, so Joan patiently waited outside, shortly joined by the DI. "So, what's bothering you with this one?" she asked to keep herself away from the panic-stricken inner voice's ramblings.
Greg's world-weary sigh spoke of sleepless nights and aggravating superiors. "The victim, Jane Howling… She's been reported missing for three days now. Lives in this same building, and it's her storage" he nodded at the currently doorless cubicle. "A neighbor found it wide open this morning, and well… the girl was inside. It's not pretty." He ran a hand through his already ruffled hair. John gave a compassionate mumble to keep him going. "No one had seen her leave the building or even go downstairs. No witness, no apparent motive, nothing." He was now looking at Sherlock's shadow flickering in the bright light with a kind of desperate hope that made Joan feel ashamed of her weakness. This was someone who recognized her friend's ability to solve the matter quicker than trained professionals, trusted the younger man with actual human lives. And she was freaking out over a stupid sticky note.
The consulting detective emerged from the unit, taking off disposable gloves. "John, take a look." She glanced at the DI, waiting for his customary nod of consent, which came right away. With the lanky figure of her flatmate looming behind, the doctor stepped into the concrete box. And froze instantly at the sight.
It could have been a standard storage unit, with plastic and carton boxes stacked up to the ceiling, overflowing with winter clothes, various knick-knacks and unused furniture still in good enough shape to be kept around. A pair of custom-made ski and ski boots were positioned on the top of the nearest pile. And over all this private backyard of an urban dweller was spread a woman's body, face down, angles brutally accented by the harsh light. She was dressed in a tattered cotton rag that could have been a long dress at some point. Her dark red hair was left wild and free, hiding her face and shoulders from onlookers. And her bare back was covered in dozens of bloody lines, biting deep into her previously unblemished skin.
Clammy fingers running down the neck, a moment of respite. Then a flash of pain, again, again and again, until she gave up and cried. Then the cold darkness of a feverish night before it started again. It certainly was a slow way of skinning someone alive.
The memory lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to make Sherlock shift impatiently in the doorway. She reflexively slipped into a doctor-mode, cold and professional in the face of horror. She kneeled near the body, putting on her own pair of disposable gloves. The dead skin was cold even through latex.
The rigor mortis had set in entirely, she noticed by feeling the wrist. It had been much abused, sporting a large reddish mark around it. Ropes burning the skin, holding her up in the dusty air, easy target for what was to come. Joan was functioning through a haze, a cotton wool bubble hiding the part of her that was screaming to run. The doctor part of her mind noticed that the death couldn't have occurred earlier than 10 hours ago, and that the livor mortis indicated that the girl died here, in this exact position. Frowning, she carefully lifted the hair, revealing a bruised face. Her eyes skirted down the broken jawline to the neck, quickly finding the little speck of a needle point. Letting the dark red curtain fall over swelled eyes, she closely examined the mutilated back. Lacerations were deep, uneven and sometimes crossing each other. A sickly-sweet odor of burgeoning infection assaulted her nostrils, and she winced. Skin had split up due to the vicious assault, but she noticed several indents going deeper in the flesh. They liked to braid nails or razors in their whips, to enhance the pain. They used it only on those who wouldn't break. It hurt like hell.
"So?" Sherlock urged on the moment she straighten up. Ignoring him, she closed her eyes for a second, sending a silent prayer for the poor girl and only then walking out. She must have looked a little green, because Lestrade immediately tossed her a small bottle of water from god-knows-where. Grateful, she gulped it down before even considering looking at both men. Meanwhile, Sherlock changed his mind about giving up his findings so soon. "Don't talk. I have to see her apartment first."
"What?! I can't let you…" Greg started, outraged.
"I need all the data" the consulting prat stressed. "If you want my conclusions to be as accurate as possible, you will let me see her flat."
# #
Somehow, when they arrived at the flat, Donovan, Anderson and a red-haired intern Joan had never seen before tagged along. Their party joined the forensics team already on hand on the floor. Sherlock's expression closed off at seeing the rather hostile audience. He stood in the middle of a small living room, glaring at everyone in sight. Usually, Joan would mediate between him and the rest of the world, but she was still perceiving the said world from a bubble which muted all stimuli. Finally, someone had the presence of mind to urgently suggest everyone took a pause, leaving only five people in the room (the still unnamed intern got swept along).
Sherlock spun into action, whirling from room to room, his magnifying glass in hand. Joan stood back in order to catch her breath while the Yarders were too busy ogling at the consultant's antics. When the curly-haired man dropped to the floor and ran a hand under the plush-covered couch, Anderson ended up scoffing: "Oh, come on! Don't tell me the killing took place under that couch?"
"Don't be absurd" Holmes droned, getting up and dusting his coat with dramatic flair. Piercing silver eyes found his blogger, hunched behind everyone's backs, still pale. Something about this case was affecting Joan more than usual, and he didn't know what. It frustrated him to the point he forgot to insult Philip. "Living arrangements of the victim can tell a lot about reasons of her demise." He looked around, taking in the feminine atmosphere of the flat, neat and clean, with predominant pastel blue and green colors. "John" he called. The doctor startled imperceptibly and tiredly looked up. "Tell me what you got. I'll fill in the rest."
The part of her that wasn't hyperventilating appreciated the way he phrased his command. It actually helped her to calm down a little. 'Tell me'. Not them. Trust me. I got your back. The soldier stood at attention, delivering a report.
"The death had occurred no more than ten hours ago; further tests will narrow down the timeframe. She had been tortured for hours preceding her death. The bruising pattern on her wrists indicates she had been hung by them for a long period of time. She had been beaten, severely. At least a broken jaw and two cracked ribs. I couldn't evaluate the full extent of the damage without moving the body, though."
She paused to take a breath. "That's not all" Sherlock prompted. His gaze didn't leave her for a second since she started talking.
"No, of course not. Her back had been whipped with extreme violence. Judging by the impacts on the flesh, the tool had been braided with razors." At that, Donovan gulped in horror. "These wounds had time to develop an infection. She was left alone for some time before being transported in the storage, drugged and left to die, from internal bleeding or septic shock most likely."
She paused trying to stay in control. Her left hand shook but having been stuffed in a pocket earlier nobody noticed it. Daring a glance at her companions, she was met with quite different reactions. Sally looked like she was going to be sick. Anderson was a little green on the edges too, but mostly sceptical of her conclusions. He had always been too reliant on strict procedure and didn't let himself extrapolate from experience. Greg stared wide-eyed, a mix of horror and surprise in his eyes. She wasn't usually giving her full medical opinion on cases, Sherlock taking care of disclosing almost everything. And then Sherlock himself was looking proud, offering her an appreciative nod in encouragement. Having played her part, Joan let her shoulders sag a little. It was time for the genius to take over.
"It is correct, John" he started in a smug voice. "The victim had been drugged, as evidenced by the needle mark on her neck. But not once. Twice. Look at the kitchen. Everything to make tea is out. Not one, but two cups. She lives alone, that much is clear, only one toothbrush in the bathroom, only one bedside table occupied by personal items. So, there was a visitor, someone she trusted enough to let in and offer him a cuppa – a man is most likely to be the perpetrator -, but she didn't have time to make it. My educated guess is on a cloth soaked in chloroform, she has rather distinctive burning marks around her nose and mouth. Our killer is patient. He waited until wee hours of the morning here, with his victim, constantly reapplying the tranquilizer, to get her out of the building without attracting attention. He was careful enough to not touch anything, but the shape impregnated on the sofa spoils his efforts." Sherlock actually knelt in front of the furniture in question, his fingers tracing without touching the incriminated crease. "He's not tall, per se. Five feet six to eight. Heavily build, but not unattractive…"
He was interrupted by a disbelieving snort from Donovan. Glaring heatedly at her, he didn't even let the poisonous comment take form. "Yes, he must have had a bit of charm, or Ms Howling wouldn't have let him in. Most women are less cautious with men they find 'interesting'." Having successfully glared Sally into cowed silence, Holmes spared a fleeting glance at Joan. She was listening avidly, even if her body radiated nervous exhaustion, her eyes were alert.
"The lock is intact, she willingly invited him in. Chances are, she didn't know him well or at all. This kind of violence is a sure indicator of a twisted mind and can't sustain an illusion of normalcy for long." He was almost prepared for a condescending jab from Anderson, who still lacked any instinct of self-preservation, but it never came. A check from under falling curls revealed that the man had been roughly elbowed in the ribs by a glowering DI. The murderous look on Joan's face helped too. He gleefully catalogued this particular facial expression in his mind palace for future reference before carrying on as if nothing happened. "He is patient, as I said, not giving in his urges. He waited here, with his prey unconscious at his feet, and did nothing. There are fresh scratches on the sofa's leg, indicative of a friction. She had been probably bound with a rope to it, to alert him of a potential escape attempt."
The detective swept to the window, eyeing dispassionately flashing lights outside. "Then he took her out to his torture room. I'll need a sample of the dirt under her soles and nails to pinpoint the exact location, but by the coloration, it was near the docks area. After he was done, she had spent time lying on the ground unattended, not strong enough to flee."
Joan blinked at this, remembering the details of her own examination. Broken bloody nails. A long scratch on the forearm, like it had been dragged on the concrete. She had crawled, she had tried. Bile rose to her throat, cackling laughs and pleading sobs of men long dead resonating in the back of her head.
"He has a car with a wide enough trunk to transport a body. There are fibres from a standard-issue car carpet in the victim's hair, not very helpful to narrow down the suspect pool, I'm afraid. He drove back here, waited until no one was in sight, and dragged her down to the basement. Injected her with a paralytic agent and calmly walked away. She was dead an hour or two after that." He finished the explanatory part by turning back to the room, his gaze unreadable.
Greg let out a breath he didn't remember holding. His sergeant and chief forensic were gaping like fishes out of the water at the consultant, unable to formulate even an insult. It was scary, the detail this man could give about a crime. Every time he listened to it, he had a badly repressed feeling of signing a contract with a devil. And then… "Amazing." There was always Joan Watson to make him see reason. No devil, just an eccentric genius, with an infectious smile he hid under thick layers of cold sarcasm.
After a moment where he was positively glowing in praise, Sherlock locked eyes with Lestrade, suddenly serious. "We're dealing with a dangerous man. He had an objective, whatever it might be, and he thinks ahead. He is a madman, but not a lunatic." His voice was grave. "Send the samples to Bart's. I'll be there."
His coat flapped dramatically as he exited the room. With no particular reason, Joan stayed behind. She wasn't supposed to be tailing the tall detective 24/7, after all. However, the habit was persistent. The Yarders started discussing the latest bout of deduction the moment the man left the room. "You can't seriously believe he didn't fabricate all this?" Philip said. "This is ridiculous!"
"He's always right about the big picture" Lestrade chimed in, more interested in typing notes on his phone than participating in the usual Sherlock-bashing his subordinates indulged in.
"Oh, come on, how he would know his height or his looks?!"
"I'm with Holmes on this one" Sally replied abruptly. Anderson choked at this, and even Greg looked up from his frantic typing. Joan wasn't exactly surprised. By making the effort of being civil to them, Sergeant Donovan discovered that, when not stressed by insidious comments, Sherlock could be very forthcoming. The man thrived on positive attention and was eager to walk an attentive audience through details.
"What?!" It didn't sit well with Anderson, though.
"There are uncertainties in his story, but overall, it does stick to evidence. As a woman, I agree that I am likely to open my door to pretty face with a plausible excuse, even if I am aware of all the psychos prowling around. Holmes might or might not be right about what happened in here, but I agree with his profile of the killer. More over after what Watson told of the victim's predicament." Sergeant glared sternly at her lover while calmly defending her point. Girl power, yay, commented Joan's inner voice, having momentarily stopped screaming bloody murder. The doctor shrugged at it, and left the flat, waving at the forensic team patiently exterminating several gallons of coffee in the hallway to go in.
Sherlock was nowhere in sight, nothing new here. She really wanted to go home and sleep, or at least take a long hot bath, in lieu of searching for the consulting detective. Luckily it didn't take as long as usual. The tall man was stranded in the entrance hall, cornered by an overexcited red-head. Joan blinked at the scene before giggling softly.
The scene was comical. The young man, who apparently had been waiting for this moment his whole life, was shooting endless questions at the detective, at a speed rivalled only by the genius himself in a full-blown deduction rant. Sherlock was honestly trying to answer, but all that came out was a wordless stutter. "… inside out? And why would it be green? Can you tell from the…" Joan caught the last couple of questions and stifled a chuckle. What were they even talking about? She cleared her throat, hoping to halt the inquisitive intern. Weirdly, it worked. The poor boy swallowed the end of his sentence and turned a bright red that clashed horribly with his hair, staring almost adoringly at the doctor. It made her smile nervously, almost dreading her own round of questioning. "Dr Watson… It's… I… it's an honor to meet you!" finally managed the boy. Behind his back, Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared under the unruly bangs.
"Eh… Thank you…" she offered carefully.
"Hopkins, Constable Hopkins, ma'am!" Hopkins was definitely too cheerful for a simple introduction. Joan glanced helplessly at her flatmate for assistance, but the man seemed none too eager to bring the attention back to himself, for a change.
"Alright, Constable, it's nice to meet you too. Will you excuse us, we have to go to…" she was about to give a plausible destination, but the bubbly young man was already bouncing on his feet.
"Oh, do you have a lead? Are you going to follow a lead? Will you chase the killer?"
"Erm, we are going to look for a lead" she tried to sound stern and commanding, but Hopkins reminded her more of a kindergartener than a policeman and she couldn't bring herself to snap him. "I'm sure Detective Inspector Lestrade will keep you all informed." The statement made the red-head positively glow.
She managed to get them out of the building after a few minutes, Sherlock momentarily forgetting his precious case in favor of looking affronted. "He likes you more" he quipped on their way to the main road.
It took Joan almost ten seconds to process that. "Are you jealous?" she smirked.
"I just don't see the appeal" the detective spat indignantly.
Oh, dammit all to hell. Joan stopped abruptly in her tracks, frowning. "Right." She turned away from the main road, where Sherlock already flagged down a cab, and started walking at a brisk pace.
"John! Where are you going?" The prat sounded sincerely surprised.
"Need a walk. See you later" she said coldly over her shoulder, not slowing in the slightest. A short-lived silence behind her was interrupted by a demonstrative slam of the cab door and the car speeding away.
# #
A/N2: Hopkins the red-head popped up in my head before I remembered that there is an actual DI Hopkins in the series. It is not such a rare name, so he stays as is (he's just too cute to be dismissed - think german-shepherd-puppies-cute).