A/N::: Sorry for the delayed Chapter again, guys, I was the Maid of Honor at a wedding this last weekend, so I was running around far too much to get this posted. Next chapter will be here on Friday on schedule! Enjoy!
John
Sebastian Wilkes led us across the trading floor toward another door across from his office. There were office workers scattered about the cubicles, some talking on phones, others merely typing away at their computers. I couldn't help but glance warily toward my sister as we went. The last time I saw her get this angry was at Harry two Christmases ago. Our older sister had had too much to drink and decided to openly address how strange and off Maxine truly was.
There had only been two times prior to that when I'd witnessed Maxine's composure break: once just outside of my high school when I was being harassed by classmates that were bigger and stronger than me, and the second time was when we were at a pub and she stopped two men from pestering a waitress in the parking lot.
I was certain there had to be other times when Maxine grew angry, but there seemed to be a common theme each time from my personal experience. My little sister couldn't handle people being picked on—people being pushed around or bullied when they did nothing wrong. Even when it was her first year in grade school, she'd come sprinting over and drilled into an older boy and sent him off crying with words alone. She was six years old and I was seventeen; I still wasn't sure if my pride in her outweighed how embarrassing it was to be saved by a six-year-old.
Admittedly, Sebastian didn't seem to be all that great of an individual. There was something in how openly he addressed Sherlock that didn't sit right with me. The moment after I corrected my flatmate with using the word "colleagues" instead of friends, I regretted it. Sebastian had cast Sherlock a look of sheer and undisguised surprise; but it was far from the pleasant sort of shock one had when hearing about an announced engagement or something. No, there was nothing pleasant in Sebastian Wilkes.
Yet, all the same, Maxine and I had both seen how untactful Sherlock Holmes could be in social settings. Perhaps back then he didn't notice it was rude, but I knew for a fact that now he was far too smart to not understand how words could affect someone. I suppose I was just surprised with how quickly my sister rose to the detective's defense. We'd only been with him a month, but I guess they both did have a close run-in with death together with that cab driver, Jeff Hope. Perhaps they'd formed a bond.
Though, if Sherlock Holmes could actually bond with anyone, I'd be a bit surprised. Granted, I think I would be more pleasant about it than Sebastian.
"Sir William's office," Sebastian explained when we reached the door. "The bank's former Chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."
"What did they steal?" I asked, wanting to get to the point so we could leave as soon as possible.
"Nothing," Sebastian answered. "Just left a little message."
He held his security card to the small reader by the door and it unlocked with a beep and a click. When Sebastian swung the door wide and we stepped inside, the first thing that caught my attention was the paint. There was a large white wall that was blank other than a large framed portrait of a man in a suit; I guessed it was the late Sir William Shad himself. Directly to the left of the frame was an odd symbol sprayed on the wall with yellow paint. It vaguely reminded me of a figure 8, but the top loop was left open and just above it was a horizontal straight line. There was an identical horizontal line dashed across the eyes of the man in the painting. Perhaps the culprit used a bit too much paint because some of the yellow substance dripped down from it.
Sebastian led the way toward the desk and stepped to the side to allow Sherlock a clear view of the wall. I decided to go and stand next to Sebastian as the detective stared with fixation at the graffiti. Maxine went to Sherlock's side and gazed up at the painting with a small frown.
"The material on the canvas caused the paint to run," she noted softly, gesturing up at the line across the man's eyes.
"D'you know what kind of paint would do that?" Sherlock asked her.
"Mm, not off the top of my head, I'm afraid," Maxine confessed, still staring up at the paint. "Cheap, most likely. I don't work with sprays often."
"C'mon," Sebastian prompted. "Let me show you the security footage."
When we returned to Sebastian's office, the three of us peered over his shoulders at the monitor of his screen. Unfortunately, they didn't have video, just stills that were taken every minute. Sebastian showed us two stills: one with Sir William's office immaculate, and the very next one with the paint in place but not a single person in sight.
"Sixty seconds apart," Sebastian clarified. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute."
"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, that's where this gets really interesting," Sebastian said.
He led us back to the reception area where we went to yet another computer. He brought up a layout of the trading floor and its surrounding offices. Each indicated door has a light against it showing its security status.
"Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet," Sebastian explained.
"That door didn't open last night," Sherlock noted.
"There's a hole in our security," Sebastian said. "Find it, and we'll pay you—five figures."
That was a nice sum that we could certainly use. As of right now, with Sherlock between cases and me without a job, Maxine was the bread-winner of the three of us and that didn't sit well with me. Sebastian took a check from his jacket and offered it to Sherlock.
"This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, there's a bigger one on its way," he said.
"I don't need an incentive, Sebastian," Sherlock replied with a clipped tone and walked away.
Maxine glanced at Sebastian one more time, not even bothering to hide her contempt for the man, and then followed after the detective.
"He's, uh, he's kidding you, obviously," I told Sebastian and held out my hand. "Sh-shall I look after that for him?"
Sebastian handed me the check with a small smile.
"Thanks," I said and glanced at the figure before pocketing it. Dear Lord, it was a lot. This was an advance?
"Your sister doesn't seem to like me," Sebastian noted as the two of us began to head after Sherlock and Maxine.
"Maxine is... she's just..." I shook my head, unable to really come up with an excuse for her.
"She and Sherlock spend a lot of time together?" Sebastian asked.
"I mean... the three of us share a flat," I said. "She's an artist and works from her studio in her room, and I guess when Sherlock isn't on a case, he's home... so yes?"
Sebastian chuckled.
"What?" I frowned at him.
"I just never expected for a woman to be so defensive over Sherlock Holmes of all people," Sebastian said. "Especially one so attractive."
My fists clenched and I shot a sharp look at the suited man, but he was clearly oblivious to my distaste.
"D'you think that maybe if I apologize to her that I could stand a chance?" Sebastian queried. "Perhaps take her to get a drink?"
"Maxine doesn't drink," I invented swiftly. It wasn't entirely untrue—the only drinking Maxine partook in was wine and sake, and only on social occasion.
"Ah, then perhaps just dinner..." Sebastian seemed to contemplate.
"Y'know? Actually, I uh... I lied, earlier, sorry, see—I'm Sherlock's colleague, but he and Mad—er—Maxine, they get on real well," I said and cleared my throat awkwardly. "Real, real well."
"Really?" Sebastian shook his head in disbelief. "That he could actually land in with a girl like her..."
I nodded and quickened my pace to catch either Sherlock or my sister before Sebastian could.
Maxine
Back in Sir William's office, Sherlock had his mobile out and was taking photographs. I stared up at the paint with a small frown.
"A message... these symbols aren't random, they have to mean something," I said.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed softly, "and why leave a message for someone who can't understand it?"
The detective turned toward the expansive bay windows on the wall to our left. He stared out at the impressive view the Swiss Re Tower before frowning and looking away in thought. Then, he abruptly began to head toward the windows. I followed after him and observed as he pulled the blinds to reveal a door onto a small balcony. He opened the door and stepped out onto the landing and stared around.
I came to his side, the wind biting at me the moment I left the sheltered office.
"There's no keycard security to get in from this door," I said.
"Exactly," Sherlock replied. He observed the spectacular view of the city before looking down at the very, very long drop to the ground. "Though he certainly didn't climb up here."
"Not up, no," I said. "What about down or across?"
Sherlock looked along the railing before biting his lips and darting back inside. I followed after him, closing the door behind us. The detective was already striding across the trading floor with purpose. I frowned and remained by the painting to watch as Sherlock ducked down behind a desk before slowly rising up from behind it, all the while keeping his green eyes fixated on the painting.
"Maddie."
I blinked and turned to see John walking toward me. He was on his own and I wondered where Sebastian had gone and if I was going to have to deal with him again.
"Listen, this is going to be a little awkward," John began, but then he spotted Sherlock across the trading floor where the detective was ducking sideways and hurrying across the room much to the amusement of some of the workers. "What is he doing?"
"Y'know, I had an idea earlier, but now, I haven't the foggiest," I said.
John shook his head and turned away from Sherlock's frantic scampering and looked at me again. "Look, uh, I can tell you don't like that Sebastian guy, so I did you... let's call it a favor?"
Though Sherlock's dance across the trade floor was still certainly amusing, I turned my attention to my brother. "What did you do?"
"No need to sound so accusing," John muttered. "Look, he fancies you. Wanted to know his chances with you on a date. I might have hinted that you... are involved with someone. To save you from his pestering, of course."
"Me? Involved with someone?" I echoed with a shake of my head. "So if he asks for names or something should I just come up with them on the fly? Pull them from my manga? I can tell him how Kazros Frost and I go out for tea once a week with him mum, that won't sound weird."
"Um, no, I gave him a name already," John said with a small grimace and glanced toward the trade room.
I followed his gaze to see Sherlock was still at it. He was twirling around a column before backing toward an office on the other side of the room.
"No," I said, looking back at John with disbelief.
"Sorry, I didn't think!" John said. "It just kind of spilled out of my mouth."
"Bloody hell, Johnny," I sighed. "I've no idea if he'll even go on with this."
"Oh, he's smart—he'll catch on," John insisted.
"So let me get this straight," I said as I began to head out onto the trade floor toward Sherlock. "Some guy finally fancies me and you want him to think I'm taken?"
"You don't like him," John said.
"I'm surprised I don't taste copper when I'm around you," I muttered.
"Sorry?" John blinked with confusion.
"Because you're a paradox— ...you know what? Never mind." I waved my brother off as we finally reached Sherlock.
The detective was in another office, looking around with a small frown. He'd stopped his strange dance and finally took his eyes off the damaged painting.
"Interesting exercise routine," I said.
Sherlock looked at me and then grabbed me by the shoulders. I gave a small yelp of surprise as he quickly moved me around to stand behind the chair of the desk in the office. He then released me and pointed out the door.
"See that?" he asked.
I followed his finger and saw that right where I was standing was a perfect view of the graffitied portrait.
"Ah." I nodded, finally understanding his odd movements. "You wanted to see who'd be able to notice the message."
"Yes, and this is the only spot on the whole trade floor with a direct view of the painting," Sherlock said. He was back to looking around the office.
"Um, Sherlock..." John stood in the doorway and he appeared sheepish.
"Ah, here." The detective paid no notice to him. He'd found something just outside the door and slid it free. It was a nameplate for whoever resided in this office.
I approached him and saw the name was Edward Van Coon. According to the other sign next to the now empty nameplate, he was the Hong Kong Desk Head.
"We're done here," Sherlock announced and began to head across the trading floor again. Several of the workers stared as he went by, some of which were giggling.
"Sherlock," John called after him and lengthened his stride to catch up.
"Yes, what?" Sherlock asked. He was clearly in full detective mode; he was off in his own world, eager and ready to tackle this new problem.
"I, uh, might have given Sebastian the impression that you're seeing Maddie," John said, his words swift as if he partially hoped the detective wouldn't follow.
Sherlock paused and looked at my brother with raised brows. "Okay, why?"
"Apparently Sebastian fancies me," I replied with a shrug. "This is John defending my honor."
"Oh." Sherlock seemed to calm considerably. "Well, if that's the case, I'm all for it."
He reached over and gripped my hand before pulling me along toward the escalators. I stumbled with his abrupt stride.
"Seriously?" I said, half laughing.
"Anything to irritate Sebastian Wilkes," Sherlock said with a small smirk.
"Two trips around the world this month," John said as he came to Sherlock's other side. "You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him."
Sherlock merely smiled.
"How did you know?" John asked.
"Yes, I'm quite curious too," I admitted.
"Did you see his watch?" Sherlock said.
"His watch?" John repeated while I frowned.
"The time was right, but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it," Sherlock said.
"Within a month? How'd you get that part?" John pressed.
"New Breitling," Sherlock answered. "Only came out this February."
"Okay." John seemed satisfied with the answer. We were both getting used to Sherlock being able to deduce things the way he did. "So you're sure you're done here? Don't want to sniff around a bit longer?"
"Got everything I need to know, thanks," Sherlock replied. "That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We were just in his office- Edward Van Coon. We find him, the intended recipient..."
"They'll lead us to the person who sent it," John finished for him.
"Obvious," Sherlock said.
We reached the escalators and Sherlock glanced over his shoulder before descending them. He gave a disappointed tut and shook his head. "Of course Sebastian is nowhere to be seen now..." He released my hand and stepped onto the escalator.
I grinned as I stepped on behind him. "You dislike him so much that you'd pretend to date me?" I asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "If he fancies you, it's the perfect thing to make him mental."
"Hold on, how did you narrow it down to that guy's office?" John suddenly asked.
"His dance, remember?" I said.
"Pillars," Sherlock added.
"What?" John frowned at us.
"Pillars and screens," Sherlock clarified. "Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot."
"Does it?" John asked.
We reached the bottom floor now and headed back out the rotating glass doors.
"Traders come to work at all hours," Sherlock explained as we stepped into the winter air of London. "Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight." He showed John the nameplate he'd taken earlier. "Not many Van Coons in the phonebook." With that, he held out a hand into the street and called, "Taxi!"
As the cab pulled up, Sherlock opened the door and stepped back to allow me in first.
"You never do this," I accused.
"Sebastian might be looking out the window," Sherlock said. "Go on." He grinned widely.
After a short taxi ride, Sherlock, John, and I were outside a block of flats and Sherlock was pressing a door buzzer marked "Van Coon" and peering up into the security camera above. He waited for a few seconds, then tried the buzzer again, but there was still no response.
"So, what do we do now?" John asked. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?"
Sherlock examined the number of buzzers on the wall and stepped back to look up at the front face of the building. His brow was furrowed and I could tell he was calculating something in his mind. He then returned to the buzzers and grinned at John and me triumphantly.
"Just moved in," he said.
"What?" John and I replied in unison.
"The floor above. New label." Sherlock pointed to another buzzer that bore a handwritten label that read: "Wintle."
"Could have just replaced it," John suggested.
Sherlock pressed the buzzer and muttered to John over his shoulder. "No-one ever does that."
There was a small pause, and then a woman's voice sounded on the intercom.
"Hello?"
Sherlock faced the camera and smiled. He appeared surprisingly genuine in that moment. "Hi! Um, I live in the flat just below you. I- I don't think we've met."
A stammer and everything. He really did sound like a completely normal and harmless man.
"No, well, uh, I've just moved in," the woman replied.
Sherlock threw a brief glance at John that was nothing but smug before he returned his attention back to the camera. "Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat," he said before grimacing and biting his lip.
"D'you want me to buzz you in?" the woman offered.
"Yeah. And can I use your balcony?" Sherlock's voice betrayed just a touch of his actual self with his last sentence; it was hinted with a demand rather than a request.
The woman, clearly taken aback, could only respond with, "What?"
"Truth be told, wasn't expecting you to find a body," I admitted not but thirty minutes later.
Sherlock gave a small gesture with his head that confessed he hadn't either.
A photographer was busy snapping photos of Edward Van Coon's deceased shell that laid on his bed. There was a bullet wound in his right temple and a pistol rested a few millimeters from his limp hand. Apparent suicide, but I was willing to bet all of my drawing pencils it wasn't. Some forensics officers were dusting random surfaces for fingerprints throughout the flat. Sherlock began to pull on some latex gloves, clearly intent on diving in the crime scene he'd discovered after climbing down from Ms. Wintle's balcony and onto Van Coon's.
"D'you think he lost a lot of money?" John suggested. "I mean, suicide is pretty common among city boys."
"Not likely," I said before I could stop myself.
John shot me surprised look.
"Max is right, we don't know that it was a suicide," Sherlock said.
"Come on," John said. "The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony."
Sherlock crouched down by a suitcase on the floor near the bed and opened the lid. He peered at the contents. "Been away three days, judging by the laundry."
I began to stride carefully around the room, careful not to disturb any of the officers; I didn't want Lestrade getting angry with me. I examined the random bits and bobbles on the tables. There was a notepad with the pen sitting on the left side of it. I wondered vaguely about trying the pencil sketching trick I'd seen on crime shows to see if I could pull up the last thing that was written on it, but the I noticed the notepad seemed brand new. The first sheet still had a small barcode near the bottom.
In the extravagantly decorated living room, there was a coffee mug sitting on the table by the couch. Its handle was turned to the left and sat on the left side of the table's surface. I began to frown.
"Look at the case," Sherlock was saying back in the bedroom. "There was something rightly packed inside."
"Thanks—I'll take your word for it," John said.
"Problem?" Sherlock straightened and frowned at him.
"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear," John snapped.
Sherlock turned and began to head toward the foot of the bed. "Those symbols at the bank- the graffiti. Why were they put there?"
"What, some sort of code?" John suggested.
"Obviously," Sherlock said.
The detective was examining Van Coon's legs and shoes when I returned fully into the bedroom.
"He's left-handed," I supplied.
Sherlock blinked and looked up at me. "What?"
"Left-handed," I repeated and gestured to the dead man on the bed. "Pen is to the left of his notepad, coffee mug's handle is tot he left on on the left side of the table- oh." I pointed at the outlets in the room. "And he uses the left outlets primarily."
Sherlock followed my finger and then slowly nodded. He seemed pleasantly surprised; impressed even.
"Very good, Max," he murmured. "How could someone who's left-handed shoot themselves with their right hand?"
"Could be ambidextrous like Maddie," John said.
"No, I tend to mix," I said. "There's nothing in the flat I've seen so far that suggests he used his right hand. Pulling the trigger of a gun... that takes a little bit of doing with a non-dominant hand. But back to the messages- what were you saying, Sherlock?"
"Why were they painted?" Sherlock asked. "If you want to communicate, why not use email?"
"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," John suggested.
"Oh good. You follow," Sherlock murmured. I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not.
"No," John replied.
"What kind of message would everyone try to avoid?" Sherlock said.
John frowned in confusion as I contemplated sitting on the bed.
"What about this morning- those letters you were looking at?" Sherlock pressed.
John shot me a wary glance and swallowed. "Bills."
All this time, Sherlock had been carefully running his gloves hands around Van Coon; checking his pockets, examining his hands, his jacket. Now, he'd reached the man's face and very gently pried open Van Coon's mouth. He reached in and pulled out a small black origami flower from inside. I could hear the air hiss out of the corpse's lungs.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "He was being threatened."
"Bag this up, will you?" a man's voice floated in from outside the room.
Incidentally, Sherlock was lifting an evidence bag of his own and placing the black flower inside. John and I peered at it.
"Not by the gas board," John replied to Sherlock's earlier statement.
"...and see if you can get prints off this glass." The same man's voice grew louder and in stepped a plainly-clothed officer. He was young and bore shortly-cropped brown hair and a clean-shaven face.
"Ah, Sergeant," Sherlock said. "We haven't met."
However, when the detective stretched out his hand to shake, the officer placed his hands on his hips.
"Yeah, I know who you are, and I prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence," he snapped.
Sherlock lowered his hand and instead offered the evidence bag with the flower. The Sergeant took it and eyed each of us in the room with clear distaste.
"I've phoned Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Is he on his way?"
Sherlock wasn't the only one missing the Detective Inspector. This guy made Lestrade seem like a ray of sunshine.
"He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock," the officer barked.
Sherlock's brows shot up and he exchanged a surprised look with John and me. I knew that the man was probably only a few years younger than me, but his face still held an adolescent roundness that made it seem like he could be in the schoolyard. How was someone so young carrying the same title as Lestrade?
Back in the other room a few minutes later, the officers had gathered and Dimmock addressed all of us.
"We're obviously looking at a suicide," he said.
"Wrong," Sherlock instantly interjected. "You've got the solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."
"Like?" Dimmock prompted tightly.
Sherlock took off his latex gloves. "The wound was on the right side of his head."
"And?" Dimmock said.
"Van Coon was left-handed," Sherlock said, shooting me a small smile. He began to mime trying to shoot himself on the right side of his head with his left hand. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."
"Admittedly, I wasn't the first one to notice, Max was," Sherlock said, nodding toward me. "But in all honestly, all you have to do is look around this flat. Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. D'you want me to go on?"
"No, I think you covered it," John said, his voice holding a hint of exhaustion.
"Oh, I might as well; I'm almost at the bottom of the list," Sherlock said.
John merely nodded in defeat.
"There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left." Sherlock turned to Dimmock, his expression tight with impatience. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head."
Well, Sherlock had certainly noticed more things than me that proved Van Coon's dominate hand. All the same, I was slightly proud when he shot me another approving glance.
"Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts."
"But the gun, why..." Dimmock began.
"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened," Sherlock interrupted.
"What?" Dimmock blinked with bewilderment.
"Today at the bank," I explained. "Van Coon works there. A warning was left for him."
"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," Sherlock said.
"And the bullet?" Dimmock prompted.
"Went through the open window," Sherlock replied.
"Oh, come on!" Dimmock exclaimed. "What are the chances of that?"
"Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it," Sherlock vowed.
"But his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?" Dimmock demanded.
Sherlock began pulling on his winter gloves. "Good! You're finally asking the right questions," he sneered before striding out of the flat.
"Nice to meet you," I said awkwardly before turning and following Sherlock out, John at my side.
"Max, how good at you at improvising?"
Sherlock's question honestly took me off guard. We were in a cab heading for the restaurant Sebastian Wilkes was currently eating at. He hadn't been at the bank, and it only took the detective a few quick questions to figure out where he'd gone.
In the back of the taxi, I was once again in the middle with Sherlock to my right and John to my left. Both my brother and I peered at Sherlock suspiciously.
"Why?" we asked in unison.
"You two really have to stop doing that," Sherlock said with a small shake of his head that was almost akin to a shudder. "It really is quite creepy."
"Why d'you want to know how I am at improvising?" I pressed.
Sherlock shrugged. "Thanks to your brother, we have an act to sell. I just want to know if you wanted to practice or if you were competent at making things up as you go."
"So, am I a plotter or a pantser?" I said.
Now it was time for me to be frowned at.
"What?" John and Sherlock said at the same time.
"See? Now it's spreading." I gave a small smile at Sherlock.
He rolled his eyes then stared at me, his green gaze demanding answers.
"A plotter plots their stories," I explained. "A pantser writes by the seat of their pants. Um, on the fly, if you will."
"Fascinating, but it does nothing to answer my question," Sherlock said, his expression irritated.
"I'm ambidextrous, remember?" I elbowed him. "I am adept at both."
"Well, good then, this should be easy." The detective looked out the window and began to grin.
"What exactly are you planning?" John pressed. "Because act or not- you touch my sister in any unorthodox manner-"
"Yes, the big brother soldier will shoot me where I stand." Sherlock emphasized the last consonant of the last word with a sharp click of his tongue.
John glared at Sherlock for a moment longer before leaning back in his seat with a heavy sigh. "I still don't know what I was thinking."
"That's all right, neither do we," I assured him with a pat on his knee.
When we reached the restaurant, Sherlock made quick work of the hostess by flashing a copy of Lestrade's badge and storming across the dining floor toward Sebastian's table. The businessman was with a number of other people at a large table eating lunch. As we approached, I could hear Sebastian laughing.
"...and he's left trying to sort out his hair with a fork, which of course can never be done!" he crowed.
Sherlock stepped to Sebastian's side and cut in without even bothering with a greeting.
"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant."
Sebastian, clearly taken aback and insulted by the intrusion, looked up at Sherlock with annoyance. "I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"
"I don't think this can wait," Sherlock pressed. "Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders- someone who worked in your office- was killed."
Sebastian's face drained of color. "What?"
"Van Coon," John said. "The police are at his flat."
"Killed?" Sebastian echoed and his fork clattered on his plate as if fell from his now limp hand.
"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," Sherlock said insincerely. "Still wanna make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?"
Sebastian nervously ran a finger on the inside of his shirt collar. That would be a no. He began to stand. "Ma apologies. As you can see, something urgent has come up."
Sherlock was already marching away. John and I hurried to follow him, Sebastian just behind us. The detective led us to the restrooms. Without hesitation, he opened the men's room and began to duck in.
"Um! Sherlock!" John protested. "What about Maddie?"
Sherlock glanced back and eyed me for a moment. Then, he leaned into the restroom and called, "Cleaning!"
There was no response.
"See?" He said and with a somewhat devilish smirk, he reached out and gripped my hand to pull me in behind him.
I heard John sigh softly and he and Sebastian followed.
Once inside the restroom, Sherlock took the liberty of gripping my waist and hoisting me up onto the counter by the sinks so I could sit. I wondered if this was how he imagined a gentleman would act; truth be told, aside from cliches in fiction, I wasn't certain if he was wrong.
Sebastian eyed the two of us as Sherlock leaned on the counter next to my legs. I was tempted to laugh at how smug he looked, though to his credit, he wasn't smirking anymore.
"So... Edward Van Coon..." Sebastian sighed and turned on one of the far sinks and began to wash his hands. He was clearly experiencing a number of emotions in that moment; shock and slight grief about Van Coon, and irritation and only mildly disguised jealousy at Sherlock's actions with me. "Harrow; Oxford. Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while, so..."
"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John guessed.
Sebastian turned off the water and began to dry his hands on a towel. "Lost five mill in a single morning; made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."
"Who'd want to kill him?" John asked.
"We all make enemies," Sebastian replied.
"You don't all end up dead with a bullet in your head," I pointed out. I glanced toward Sherlock's head of dark curls and found I had the perfect opportunity to mess with them without worry or repercussion. I gently ran my fingers into his hair; it was soft as silk. To his credit, Sherlock didn't even blink at my touch.
Sebastian narrowed his eyes at the detective and me for a few heartbeats and then shook his head. "Not usually." A beep suddenly sounded; a text alert from his mobile. Sebastian pulled it from his pocket. "'scuse me."
As Sebastian read his message, Sherlock rested a hand on my knee. I saw John give a sharp look behind Sebastian's back, but clearly the detective was more intent on irritating his former classmate than keeping John calm.
"It's my Chairman," Sebastian said. "The police have been on to him. Apparently, they're telling him it was a suicide."
Sherlock's hand fell from my knee and he took a step forward, leaving my hand to slip out of his hair. "Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian. He was murdered."
Sebastian glanced up and for a brief second his eyes darted between me and Sherlock. Then in a clipped tone, he said, "Well, I'm afraid they don'e see it like that."
"Seb," Sherlock pressed.
"...and neither does my boss," Sebastian added. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked."
With that, he turned and walked out of the room. As the door closed behind him, John turned toward Sherlock.
"I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards," he said.
"Seems you're on the right track there," I replied as I hopped down from the counter. I glanced at Sherlock. "What conditioner do you use?"
Sherlock was clearly too annoyed by Sebastian's actions to humor me with a response. Without another word, he strode out of the restroom.
John
"Just locum work."
Doctor Sarah Sawyer looked up at me from the papers in her hand. I was sitting opposite her within her doctor's surgery. A few days had passed since my trip to the bank with Sherlock and Maxine and now I was following up with getting the job I so desperately needed to keep up with my side of the bills. Army's pension was not cutting it in the least.
"No, that's fine," I assured Sarah. She was certainly pretty, I noted. Long brown hair, fair complexion, amber-toned eyes. I had to keep myself from staring at her lips.
"You're um... well, you're a bit over-qualified," Sarah pointed out.
I smiled. "Er, I could always do with the money."
"Well, we've got two away on holiday this week and one's just left to have a baby. Might be a bit mundane for you."
"Er, no; mundane is good sometimes. Mundane works," I assured her. Lord knew I could do with some normalcy after all my time with Sherlock Holmes.
"It says here you were a soldier," Sarah noted softly, eyeing the papers again.
"And a doctor," I said and smiled again.
Sarah glanced down and I could have sworn I saw a slight hint of pink in her cheeks. "Anything else you can do?" she asked.
"I learned clarinet at school," I offered.
"Oh!" Sarah laughed a bit. "Well, I look forward to it."
I laughed too and she smiled at me; smiled like she honestly did look forward to it. To me.
On the way back to the flat, I took out my mobile to see I'd gotten an hour ago. It was from Maxine and merely read: Creativity alert. It was a message that I'd come to understand as her way of telling me to stay away from her room and not to disturb her unless someone was dying. I'd taken to this rule rather quickly; Sherlock, on the other hand, had to learn the hard way that messing with Maxine while she was trying to draw or write was like poking a sleeping bear.
"She threw her sharpener at me," Sherlock had complained as he came trotting down the stairs back into the living room. The mentioned sharpener was in his hand and there was a bleeding scratch on his forehead. "And she's got good aim."
"I warned you," I had told him while not bothering to look up from the newspaper.
It was rather amusing how alike and yet how different Sherlock and Maxine were. Both eccentric, both intelligent, both socially awkward. Yet while Maxine went out of her way to be polite and gentle with others, it seemed Sherlock didn't have the capacity to worry about such things. She was creative, he was logical. While Maxine could observe colors and textures and different varieties of landscapes with the critical eye of an artist, Sherlock could observe several minute details of just about everything with the critical eye of a machine.
Maxine took in the world and produced art. Sherlock took in data and produced answers.
Then there was me, who was somewhere in between all of that.
I couldn't draw worth anything, but I could look at a dead body and be able to tell what was the most probable cause of death within a few minutes. I could tell how long it had been dead for. I could guess how people would typically act, sometimes even better than Maxine and Sherlock because I understood empathy.
They didn't.
A high functioning sociopath, that's what Sherlock called himself. It seems with that, I finally understood what was wrong with my sister. Of course, saying it was wrong seemed... well, wrong. Maxine, while off and distant from other people, was a good person, and I knew on some level she cared about others. But she'd never made friends easy, she'd always been bored.
Ever since we moved in with Sherlock, I'd seen her mood increase beyond what I've ever seen it at. Despite how dangerous Sherlock's lifestyle was, it seemed to be the best thing for her.
Yet even with all this in mind, I couldn't get the image of Sherlock's hand on my sister's knee out of my mind.
It seemed silly; after all, it was all just an act to get at Sebastian. Sherlock had lost all interest in Maxine when Sebastian started to refuse listening to him about the murder of Van Coon. I supposed it had to be me just being overprotective of her. After all, Maxine had never dated; she found boys and girls both to be boring and dating in general was a waste of time. She refused to conform to the song and dance of it.
Perhaps I'd been spoiled by the fact that Maxine didn't want to date; I'd grown comfortable and complacent about it. The thing was, Maxine was more fragile than most people realized. She thrived for excitement and danger, but at the same time conflict wasn't something she handled well. Most of the time, she just runs away from it. How could someone who refuses to acknowledge conflict survive a romantic relationship? Would it break her if she tried?
I decided to shove the thoughts away as I entered 221B Baker Street and climbed the stairs up to our flat. Sherlock was sitting in one of the dining chairs with his back facing the table so he could stare out into the living room. With a small glance, I saw he'd put photos of the graffiti in the bank on the mirror over the fireplace. I tossed my jacket into my favored armchair and loosed a long sigh.
"I said, 'Could you pass me a pen?'" Sherlock suddenly said.
I blinked and glanced around to see if Maxine was down here, but clearly Sherlock was speaking to me. "What? When?"
"'bout an hour ago," Sherlock said.
"Didn't notice I'd gone out then," I sighed. "You could have asked Maddie."
"Creativity time," Sherlock said the words as if they tasted sour on his lips. "She's incorrigible when she's just up there doodling."
"It is her job," I reminded him.
"Job or not, I don't chuck things at people when they disturb me," Sherlock said.
"Not ever?" I raised a disbelieving brow as I snatched a pen from the table beside the chair and tossed it to him.
The detective caught it easily and tore his gaze from the mirror. "Okay, Anderson, but only twice and only one of the times was it a sharp object."
I grunted with amusement. "Well, I went to see about that job at the surgery."
"How was it?" Sherlock prompted.
"It was great," I said, fondly remembering Sarah. "She's great."
"Who?" Sherlock asked.
"The job," I answered, suddenly aware of exactly what I just said.
"'She?'" Sherlock repeated curiously.
"...It," I corrected after a moment.
Sherlock eyed me suspiciously for a second before jerking his head in a beckoning gesture. "Here, have a look."
"Hmm?" I walked over to the table and saw he had the laptop open. I peered at the webpage that was displayed with a frown. "'Ghost killer leaves a mystery for police," I read.
Beside the article was a photograph of a bald man in his forties I'd guess. The rest of the article read: An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in...
"The 'intruder who can walk through walls.'" I quoted softly.
"Happened last night," Sherlock said. "Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside- exactly the same as Van Coon."
I slowly straightened up and stared at the detective. "God. You think..."
"He's killed another one," Sherlock confirmed.
At that moment, there was some thumping coming from the floor above and then from the stairs. Sherlock and I turned to see Maxine plunking down the steps rather heavily. Her face looked drained and there were smudges of graphite on her hands, nose, and part of her left jawline.
"Tea," she mumbled as she stalked into the kitchen.
"New manga issue due?" I guessed.
"Mm..." was all Maxine replied with.
Maxine had a slight problem with procrastination. She tended to wait until the last second with her work projects before starting them. She'd been in creative mode for nearly four days in a row now, which meant she couldn't have a lot of sleep in her system.
"Max, if you need a break to regroup your thoughts, how does a trip to Scotland Yard sound?" Sherlock closed his laptop and hopped out of his seat.
"Is that Dimmock fellow still heading the case?" Maxine muttered sleepily.
"I haven't heard from Lestrade," Sherlock said.
"Ugh." Maxine was pouring water into the kettle. "Dunno if I have the patience for him."
"Maddie, you're wearing yourself thin," I told her. "You need to step back from it."
Maxine's eyes remained fixated on the kettle. "Right. After my tea, though."
I glanced as Sherlock and gestured slightly with my head indicating for him to follow me out into the living room. He picked up on the hint and the two of us went over toward the couch.
"This might not be a good idea," I whispered.
"Why not?" Sherlock asked, equally as hushed.
"Because she's barely had sleep, she's in the middle of a huge creative push, and she doesn't like Dimmock." I listed the things off on my fingers.
Sherlock raised a brow curiously. "So, you think she might- what- snap or something?"
I grimaced.
"Hold on, back at the bank, you seemed surprised by how stern she was with Sebastian," Sherlock said. "It doesn't seem like her getting angry is a normal thing."
"It isn't," I said. "Well—not verbally. You've seen how she can get physically." I touched his forehead where the scratch had already healed. "Anyway, that's not what I'm worried about."
"Then what are you worried about?"
"Maddie's barely speaking now, but once she has caffeine in her system, she'll find her voice and she—won't—stop." I said each of the last three words with heavy emphasis.
"I'm still not following."
"She'll lose her filter—y'know, the one she barely has. It'll be gone. She'll speak her mind and be oblivious as to how it affects those around her."
"So, what do you suggest, we leave her here to keep building whatever this is up?" Sherlock tilted his head at me.
"I—no, probably not—" I began.
Sherlock gave me a brief smile before raising his voice and calling into the kitchen. "Max, I'll have a cup too, if you don't mind.
I groaned and plopped down on the couch.