Maxine
Much to my annoyance, Sherlock didn't care to elaborate until the three of us were in a taxi heading back to 221B Baker Street. As the cab pulled down the street, I looked over at the detective expectantly. When he continued to just stare out he window, I elbowed him in the gut.
"Gah! Max, that hurt," he complained.
"What did you mean 'where I began?'" I demanded. "You can't just say something like that then dart out of the room."
"I'm with Maddie on this one, actually," John admitted.
Sherlock loosed a breath through his nostrils. "Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid—champion swimmer—came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident."
The detective pulled out his mobile and showed the image of the front page newspaper. He'd been messing with his phone on the way out of the hospital—this must be what he was looking for.
"You two wouldn't remember it. Why should you?"
"But you remember," John said.
"Yes," Sherlock replied simply.
"Something fishy about it?" John asked.
"Nobody thought so—nobody except me," Sherlock said. "I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers."
"Started young, didn't you?" John noted.
"The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late," Sherlock explained, ignoring John's comment. "But there was something wrong; something I couldn't get out of my head."
"What?" I said.
"His shoes." Sherlock looked out the window again, his brows furrowed.
"What about them?" John pressed.
"They weren't there," Sherlock said. "I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes..." He leaned down and picked up the bag containing the trainers. "...until now."
When we got back to the flat, Sherlock shut himself in the kitchen with the trainers nearby and looking over photographs and printouts of the newspaper reports regarding Carl Powers' death. I had only glimpsed this before he closed the sliding doors, leaving John and me out in the living room.
My brother paced across the carpet as I sat upside-down in Sherlock's usual chair by the fireplace. With my toes stretching toward the ceiling, I worried the yellow fabric of my scarf in my fingers. I had initially taken it off when we got home, but I found that it helped me think to have it on. It reminded me of Miyako—of when I finally awoke back in Japan and realized who I was.
"Why are you sitting like that?" John asked me.
"Reverses the blood flow," I said. "A yoga thing, I think. It's supposed to help people relax."
"How can you think about relaxing right now?" John demanded.
"Because being all wound up isn't going to help anyone," I said. "Least of all that crying woman."
John let out a long breath. "This is insane... when has there ever been a case of someone coming for Sherlock? Especially in this manner?"
Indeed. For the bomber to send the shoes that were directly linked to the first case Sherlock ever took an interest in... it suggested that he knew far more about Sherlock than even John or I did. Did this mean that it was someone Sherlock knew? Or was it just someone who was very, very good at research?
I found myself wanting to talk to Miyako. Perhaps she could help us figure out this case; perhaps she could think like a criminal and help us understand what to expect next or how to catch this guy. I missed having my mentor with me. I missed her explaining how people's minds worked and what selfish people would do. John had taught me about society well enough, but he focused on making me blend in and be presentable. Miyako taught me how to look for the crooks; the wicked and the vile.
"We're missing something," I breathed. "Something big. Something obvious."
"If it's obvious, wouldn't we notice it?" John asked.
I closed my eyes tightly, trying to think. I heard John slide open the kitchen door and talk to Sherlock inside. "Can I help?"
The detective didn't respond.
"I want to help," John pressed. "There's only five hours left."
There was the trill of two text alerts—one from John's phone and the other from mine. I opened my eyes and reached over to the coffee table awkwardly to grab my mobile as John fished his from his pocket.
Just as I opened my text, John called to me, "Maddie—who texted you?"
I read the message: Any developments? Mycroft Holmes.
"Mycroft," I said in surprise.
"Yeah, me too," John said. "Sherlock, how does your brother know our numbers?"
I heard Sherlock's thoughtful voice drift out from the kitchen. "Must be a root canal."
"Look, he did say 'national importance,'" John said.
Sherlock snorted. "How quaint."
"What is?" John asked.
"You are. Queen and country," Sherlock replied.
"You can't just ignore it," John pressed.
"I'm not ignoring it. Putting my best man onto it right now," Sherlock said.
"Right. Good." John folded his arms and nodded in satisfaction before looking at Sherlock in confusion. "Who's that?"
I gave out a small grunt of amusement. "Go off to the toilet, look into the reflective surface above the sink, and you will see a striking image of the man he's talking about."
"Did Max just make a joke?" Sherlock said in disbelief.
"She's sitting upside-down in your chair; I think too much blood has gone to her head," John muttered. "You want me to go to Mycroft?"
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Tell him I'm investigating now."
John appeared bewildered. "Why not go yourself?"
There was a silence, and I guessed that John read a sour expression off Sherlock's face.
"Right," my brother said. "Right, yeah. I'll go."
I heard a chair move and footsteps, then Sherlock stuck his head out the kitchen sliding door to look at me.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Well, you obviously needed alone time," I muttered.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are you sulking?"
"No," I said, grabbing my phone and examining Mycroft's text again in order to avoid looking at the detective.
"You're cross with me because I don't want your help?" Sherlock said, clearly surprised.
"Sorry, I just need to check my settings," I murmured, switching through my mobile's screens.
Sherlock strode over and snatched the phone out of my hand. I blinked at my empty palm for a moment before looking up—or down, depending on how one would like to view perspective when upside-down—at him.
"Give it back," I said faintly.
"Come to the kitchen," Sherlock said.
"So now you want my assistance?" I grumbled. "I'll just go with John."
"No." Sherlock said the word so fast that John and I exchanged a surprised look.
"Why not?" John asked.
Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, as if searching for inspiration. "I... I lost that bet, remember? Max needs to finish her sketch. I'd rather her do it when you're not here."
John let out a scoff of something between disbelief and amusement. "You're shy, are you? I thought that someone as self-centered as you would adore someone doodling your portrait."
"Why does everyone... never mind." Sherlock looked over at John. "Just go get the details from Mycroft about his silly memory stick."
"Don't you have more work with this current case?" John said. "Yet you're going to pose for a drawing?"
"I can do that while I think," Sherlock said. "You both know I do better when I think out loud and I can do that while Max does her bloody sketch."
The detective was tensed up, his shoulders stiffened and raised like the hackles of an angry cat. I couldn't help but wonder if me getting that sketch over with was his true reason for not wanting me to go see Mycroft. After all there were going to be more opportunities for me to finish his sketch when John went to work.
"All right," John conceded, still with a furrowed brow. "I'll go."
My brother went to gather his coat as Sherlock smacked my leg to signify for my to sit properly. I merely held out my hand expectantly and stared at him. The detective sighed and plopped my mobile back into my palm and then I twisted around to sit up, my curly ginger locks now sticking out every which way.
"Want anything while I'm out?" John asked from the living room door.
"No thanks," I said.
Sherlock didn't bother answering. He merely gestured for me to get out of his chair. I rolled my eyes and left it, going over to John's instead.
"Actually, bring me a chair," I joked. "Since you two always hog these ones."
John gave a small chuckle and went down the stairs.
After we heard the front door closed, I locked my eyes on Sherlock as he sat down.
"So why don't you want me going to see Mycroft, really?" I pressed.
Sherlock avoided my gaze. "Go get your drawing pad. I meant what I said, this gives me a chance to think aloud."
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously before going to get my paper and pencil from the dining room table. I couldn't help but feel Sherlock was hiding something for me, but I knew he wasn't going to cave any time soon. Might as well take advantage of this and finish my sketch.
John
I'd grabbed a tie on my way over to Mycroft's, feeling like dressing a bit nice might be beneficial. It felt a bit tight around my neck as I sat in the chair opposite an expensive looking desk in the large, rather intimidating office. I glanced at my watch anxiously just as the door behind me opened.
Mycroft Holmes strode in, careful to close the door behind him. There was a report in his hand that his eyes seemed glued to as he said, "John. How nice. I was hoping you wouldn't be long."
I stood politely as Mycroft walked toward his desk, still looking at the report.
"How can I help you?" Mycroft asked once he was past John. He placed the report on the desk and waved imperiously in my direction to signify that I could sit.
"Thank you," I said before sitting down. "Um, well, I was wanting to... um, your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans, the missile plans."
Mycroft smiled at me. "Did he?"
"Yes," I replied, smiling back a bit nervously, "He's investigating now."
Mycroft suddenly put a hand to the right side of his mouth as if in pain. I wondered if Sherlock was right about the dentist thing.
"He's er, investigating away," I went on awkwardly.
Lowering his hand again, Mycroft smiled at me as if he didn't believe a word of it.
"He sent you?" he said.
"Yes." I had thought we already established that.
"And only you," Mycroft said. "Not Maxine?"
I blinked. "Well, Mad- er, Maxine wanted to come, but..."
Mycroft's smile grew wider. "But Sherlock wanted her to stay with him."
"Uh, yes," I said slowly. "How did you...?"
"Just a theory I had," Mycroft said, leaning back in his chair. "One that I was quite curious to find out if I was right or not."
I tilted my head. "What d'you mean?"
Mycroft simply smiled at me again. I exhaled, knowing that I wasn't going to be getting any more information on the matter, so I switched back to why I initially came.
"Um, I just wondered what else you can tell me about the dead man," I said.
"Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross—er, M16. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Program in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies." Mycroft listed all the information with an air of practiced ease; he was clearly a well-spoken man. "Last seen by his fiancee at ten thirty yesterday evening."
"Right," I said. "He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train."
"No," Mycroft said.
"What?" I blinked.
"He had an Oyster card..." Mycroft grimaced and raised his hand to his mouth again, furthering my suspicions of Sherlock being correct about the root canal. "...but it hadn't been used."
"Must have bought a ticket," I said.
"There was no ticket on the body," Mycroft replied.
"Then..." I frowned.
"Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?" Mycroft grinned bitterly. "That is the question—the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on?"
"He-he's fine, yes," I assured weakly. "Oh, and-and it is going... very well. It's, um, you know—he's completely focussed on it." I smiled.
Mycroft didn't appear to be buying a word of it. He nodded and smiled back. "Give him my best. And Maxine as well—do mention I said hello to her, and make sure to do it in front of Sherlock."
"Why?" I asked slowly.
"Just testing that theory of mine," Mycroft said. "Good luck, Doctor Watson."
Maxine
I was rather pleased with the sketch I had of Sherlock. I'd finished nearly an hour ago, and now that I had the "bones" of the picture, so to speak, I let the detective off the hook for posing. While I shaded in his hair from memory, Sherlock peered into a microscope at the kitchen table across from me.
Mrs. Hudson came through the kitchen door at that point, holding a tray with a couple of mugs. I glanced over when the warm scent of tea met my nose.
"Cheers," I told her when she set the tray on the table.
"Oh, look at that!" Mrs. Hudson said, noticing my drawing. "It looks just like him! Sherlock, have you seen this?"
"Poison," Sherlock said as he looked up from his microscope.
"What are you going on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a perked brow.
"Clostridium botulinum!" Sherlock slammed his hands down on the side of the table.
Mrs. Hudson cringed and fled the kitchen. Clearly, she didn't want to be around for one of Sherlock's excited episodes. Just as she was leaving, John came in from the living room. He was wearing a tie he hand't been when he left; I guessed he grabbed one on the way to see Mycroft.
"It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!" Sherlock went on, ignoring the fact that our landlady left and that John was back.
My brother stared at Sherlock blankly, clearly at a loss.
"Carl Powers!" Sherlock pressed.
"Oh, wait, are you saying he was murdered?" John asked.
Sherlock stood up and walked over to where he'd hung up the laces from the trainers.
"Remember the shoelaces?" he prompted.
"Mmm," John replied while I nodded.
"The boy suffered from eczema. It's be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles, and he drowns."
I blinked, raising my brows. "The autopsy didn't pick that up?"
"It's virtually undetectable," Sherlock said. "Nobody would have been looking for it."
The detective made his way round the table to where his computer notebook was lying. The page was open at the Forum of his own website: The Science of Deduction. He clicked over to the message box and began to type. I frowned and peered over his shoulder now that he was right beside me to see what he put in.
FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989).
Sherlock straightened up and pointed at the laces. "But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet," he said before bending down to type more.
Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.
With that written out, Sherlock sent the message and leaned away from the computer.
"That's why they had to go," he finished, looking both exhilarated and a bit proud of himself.
"So how do we let the bomber know..." John began.
"Get his attention..." Sherlock said, looking at his watch. "...stop the clock."
"The message on your site," I murmured. "You think he'll be watching it?"
"I know he will," Sherlock replied.
"The killer kept those shoes all these years," John said.
"Yes." Sherlock looked over at my brother. "Meaning..."
"He's our bomber." John grimaced.
The pink phone on the side table began to ring. Sherlock hurried over to it and switched it on speaker. The woman's voice came once again, still full of tears.
"Well done, you," she said. "Come and get me."
"Where are you?" Sherlock asked, loud and clear. "Tell us where you are."
The next morning, the three of were in Lestrade's office at the New Scotland Yard. Sherlock was standing over at the main window which overlooked the main office. The detective's hands were raised in front of his mouth and his fingers were tapping together. John was sitting opposite Lestrade at his desk, looking a bit drained, but relieved as well. I paced slowly back and forth behind him, running my hand along the back of his chair each time I passed it.
"Maddie, can you stop?" my brother finally asked.
"Sorry," I said, moving my hands to my yellow scarf instead.
"She lives in Cornwall," Lestrade said, speaking about the woman the bomber took hostage. "Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house." He looked up at Sherlock as the detective walked toward the desk. "Told her to phone you. She had to read out from this pager."
Lestrade placed a pager on the desk in front of John, who picked it up and examined it.
"And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off," Sherlock said.
"Or if you hadn't solved the case," John added.
"Oh. Elegant." Sherlock started walking back to the window again.
I pressed my lips in a tight line. This bomber certainly enjoyed making things high-stakes. It certainly couldn't be the last we'd hear of him.
"Elegant?" John echoed, looking back at him with a small sigh of exasperation.
"But what was the point?" Lestrade asked before Sherlock could reply. "Why would anyone do this?"
"Oh—I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored," Sherlock said.
I remembered him shooting the wall just two days ago and grimaced. I had just suggested the previous day that our bomber was a high-functioning psychopath, especially if it was Moriarty—the same person who put Jeff Hope up to becoming a serial killer for money.
Just then, the pink phone beeps a message alert. All of us turned to look at Sherlock as he pulled the mobile from his pocket and activated it.
"You have one new message," the automated voice said.
As Sherlock walked back to the desk, the phone sounded the Greenwich pips again, but this time there are three short pips and one long one.
"Four pips," John noted.
"First test passed, it would seem," Sherlock said. "Here's the second."
He showed a new photograph to us; it was a close-up of a car with its driver's door open and the number plate clearly visible. John and Lestrade both stood to get a closer look while I merely strode over to Sherlock and wrapped my hand around his to peer at the mobile's screen. The detective seemed slightly taken aback by my actions, judging by his expression I caught when I looked up at him.
"It's abandoned—at least it looks that way," I said.
Sherlock held my gaze for a moment before nodding and glancing at Lestrade.
"I'll see if it's reported," the Detective Inspector said, going over to pick up his desk phone.
I released Sherlock's hand and he gave me one more slightly awkward look before placing the mobile on the desk for Lestrade to read the plate. I wondered why he was thrown off by that—we'd made physical contact before plenty times during our months living together. We'd even pretended to be a couple in front of Sebastian. So why was the detective acting like it was a strange thing?
Sergeant Donovan came in from the main office at that point, holding a phone. Her glare was fixated on Sherlock.
"Freak, it's for you," she said.
I found myself biting my tongue at her calling Sherlock freak yet again, but there were more pressing matters at hand. If someone was calling for Sherlock just after we got the next message from the bomber, it had to be the culprit himself.
Sherlock walked over to the door and took the phone from Donovan as John sat down again. When the detective had the phone to his ear, he walked out into the main office. Too intrigued, I went after him, eager to hear the next task the bomber had for us.
"Hello?" Sherlock said as I reached his side.
There was a pause as whoever was on the other line replied. Because it wasn't on speaker, I couldn't make out the words, but I could tell whoever was on the other line was a male. Sherlock's expression instantly intensified and it was like the world around him melted away. He wasn't looking at anything in particular, wasn't paying any attention to anything but the voice on the other line.
"Who is this?" he asked. "Is this you again?"
The voice replied, but I still couldn't make out the words. I glanced back in Lestrade's office to see that John had noticed the look on Sherlock's face. My brother was sitting taller in his seat, appearing like he was about to get up.
I felt something tug my sleeve and I looked over to see Sherlock stooping somewhat to be on my level. He held the phone a bit away from my ear and gestured for me to lean in. I instantly obeyed, scooting closer to the detective so we could both hear the voice on the other line.
"Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers," a man's voice said. He sounded on edge—frightened and a bit shaken. "I never liked him."
Sherlock and I exchanged a sharp look. The detective had been right—whoever killed Powers was our bomber.
"Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing," the man said.
John came out of the office now, staring at us in concern.
"And you've stolen another voice, I presume," Sherlock said into the phone.
"This is about you and me," the man said shakily. In the background, I could hear something roar by.
"Who are you?" Sherlock asked.
More sounds came—strange whooshing sounds.
"What's that noise?" Sherlock said.
"The sounds of life, Sherlock," the man replied, still with a voice tight in fear. "But don't worry... I can soon fix that."
There was a small pause in which the man cried softly. I realized then that he had to be near a road—a busy one at that. If he was rigged with explosives like the woman had been, it would be more than just his life that was on the line this time.
"You solved my last puzzle in nine hours," the man went on once he contained himself. "This time you have eight."
The line went dead.
Sherlock and I locked eyes as he lowered his hand.
"What—are you two gonna kiss?" Donovan sneered as she came over, holding out her hand for the phone.
Sherlock straightened up and we both took a step away from one another. He slammed the phone back in Donovan's hand with an irritated glare. John was looking between the two of us worriedly.
"What? Was it him?" he asked.
However before either of us can respond, Lestrade came out of his office with a satisfied stride.
"We've found it," he declared.
Exchanging one last glance, Sherlock, John, and I followed after the Detective Inspector with new haste.
There was a large open space down by the river where the police had found the abandoned car. Forensic officers in protective clothing were swarming the vehicle like busy bees as Lestrade led us toward it. He and Sherlock were in the front while John and I lagged a bit behind with Donovan.
"The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford," Lestrade was explaining. "Banker of some kind; City boy. Paid in cash."
I noticed Sherlock examine a woman we passed who was speaking to a female police officer. The woman seemed to be distraught.
"Told his wife he was going away on a business trip, but he never arrived," Lestrade said.
He and Sherlock reached the passenger door of the car and before John and I could join them, Donovan turned toward us.
"You two still hanging around him," she said.
"Yeah, well..." John said, glancing around warily.
"Opposites attract, I suppose," Donovan said with a shrug.
"No, we're not..." John denied awkwardly.
"You should get yourself a hobby—stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer," Donovan told my brother. Then her eyes went tome. "Then there's you."
"Me?" I raised a brow at her.
"You seem nearly as off as he is sometimes." The Sergeant nodded toward Sherlock.
"There's really nothing off about Sherlock Holmes," I said.
Donovan scoffed. "Isn't there? The man gets off on murder cases."
"The man solves murder cases," I corrected her.
Donovan's eyes burrowed into mine. "You're awfully defensive of him."
"He's my friend," I said. "Of course I am."
"Men like Sherlock Holmes don't have friends," Donovan sneered. "What, do you fancy him?"
The question took me a bit off guard. I didn't expect the strange jolt it shot into my gut or the sensation of floating that consumed my mind for a moment. Strange—I never experienced that kind of feeling before. It was almost akin to what I felt when on these dangerous cases with Sherlock—the rush of adrenaline and thrill... I'd deal with whatever that was later. Right now, I wasn't about to give Donovan any form of satisfaction.
"It's really quite simple, Sergeant. If you treat Sherlock with respect, he'll give it back. Keep calling him Freak, and he's bound to make every moment he spends with you a living hell." I eyed her carefully. "He's solved hundreds of cases, saved even more lives thanks to that, and you decide to constantly attack him because he bites back at you for being so horrid to him."
Donovan stared at me for a moment before angrily turning away and walking toward the car. A grin came to my lips and John shook his head at me.
"You've been wanting to do that for a while, haven't you?" he asked.
I shrugged.
"It's not usually like you to go out of your way to get into an argument," John said.
"Well, after hearing her berate Sherlock constantly, I knew I was bound to snap," I sighed. "Might as well do it when I have some semblance of control of myself."
John continued to look at me curiously for a moment longer before getting closer to the car. I followed over to stand behind Sherlock as he leaned into the car. There was a rather startling amount of blood smeared over the island between the two front seats.
"Before you ask, yes, it's Monkford's blood," Lestrade said as Sherlock opened the glove box. "The DNA checks out."
Sherlock rummaged in the glove box for a moment before taking what looked like a business card out. He closed the compartment and straightened up, eyeing it.
"No body," he stated rather than asked.
"Not yet," Donovan clarified tightly.
Sherlock ignored her. "Get a sample sent to the lab," he said.
Lestrade nodded and Sherlock turned and walked away. As he left, Lestrade fixed Donovan in a sharp glare. For a moment, she stared back indignantly, but when she noticed I too was looking her way, she grunted in exasperation and stomped away. Slightly pleased with myself, I followed after Sherlock and John.
The detective had gone over to the woman who had been speaking with the police officer.
"Mrs. Monkford?" Sherlock said.
The woman turned toward us, her eyes full of tears and her expression pained.
"Sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen," she said.
"No, we're not from the police; we're..." John began to explain, but Sherlock stuck his hand out to her.
"Sherlock Holmes," he said, his face falling into one of anguish and his voice trembling with grief. "Very old friend of your husband's. We, um..." He blinked rapidly, as if trying to fight back tears. "...we grew up together."
Mrs. Monkford shook his hand, but she appeared confused. "I'm sorry, who?" she said. "I don't think he ever mentioned you."
Sherlock sniffled. "Oh, he must have done. This is... this is horrible, isn't it?"
John looked away, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to keep his face neutral. I bit my tongue and tried not to stare at Sherlock during his performance. I wasn't certain I'd ever cried in my life except when I was very, very young. The fact that he could do it on command like this was astounding. He sounded so believable—like he truly was about to have an emotional breakdown.
It just went to show the difference between the two of us. Earlier this week, we were talking about how similar we were, but I didn't think I'd ever be able to put forth this amount of emotion into anything—real or not.
"I mean, I just can't believe it," Sherlock went on. "I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian—not a care in the world." He smiled tearfully at the woman.
Mrs. Monkford was clearly going from confused to suspicious. "Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months. Who are you?"
Tears began to trail down Sherlock's cheeks. I made a mental note to ask him to teach me how to do things like this.
"Really strange that he hired a car," he said, ignoring Mrs. Monkford's question. "Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?"
"No, it isn't," she replied. "He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."
"Oh, well, that was Ian!" Sherlock exclaimed with another sniffle. "That was Ian all over!"
"No it wasn't," Mrs. Monkford insisted, her voice now holding a touch of anger.
Like hot wax sliding down a candlestick, Sherlock's grieving persona fell and he stared at the woman intensely. "Wasn't it? Interesting."
With that, the detective turned and walked away. John and I hurried after him, not wanting to be left with the woman as she glared furiously after Sherlock.
"Who was I talking to?" I heard her demand of the police officer.
John caught up to Sherlock's side. "Why did you lie to her?" he asked as the three of us ducked under the police tape.
Sherlock plucked the gloves off his hands and wiped the tears from under his eyes. "People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice?"
"Sorry, what?" John frowned.
I came in stride on my brother's other side. "Sherlock referred to her husband in the past tense," I said. "She didn't contradict that."
"Yes, bit premature—they've only just found the car," Sherlock said.
"You think she murdered her husband?" John asked.
"Definitely not. That's not a mistake a murderer would make," Sherlock said.
"I see," John murmured. Then, more clearly, he said, "No, I don't. What am I seeing?"
As we walked by Donovan, she called out to John.
"Fishing! Try fishing!"
John turned and gave her an exasperated nod before walking along again. I didn't bother to look back at the Sergeant. I'd given her my first warning; if she decided to be so disrespectful to Sherlock when I was around again, then I would be having a different conversation with her.
"Where now?" John prompted.
"Janus Cars," Sherlock said, handing the business card he'd grabbed earlier. "Just found this in the glove compartment."
We had six hours left.
I leaned on the wall by the door of the small office, rubbing the fabric of my scarf in my fingers. John was sitting on the other side of the desk to the owner of Janus Cars, a car hire company. My brother had a small notepad out and was jotting down notes while Sherlock stared out into the forecourt.
Ewert was the man we had the pleasure of speaking with. He was middle-aged, bore dark hair and was a touch on the portly side. However, despite the fact that we were meant to be conducting professional business—something that involved a man's life—I couldn't help but keep glancing at the sign behind Ewert's head.
It was meant to read Janus Cars, that much I was certain. But someone went through the trouble of making the J and the C overly stylized. They appeared like open boxes tangling with one another. The rest of the font didn't go with it at all, which just made it appear like the J and C weren't part of the words written out.
The result: the sign read anus ars instead.
I didn't generally get cracked up about immature humor—jokes about butts or passing gas or anything like that. I didn't generally get cracked up to begin with. But this complete butchery of logo art was about to have me in stitches. I kept running a hand down my mouth in order to fight the grin of amusement that was trying to force its way through.
"Can't see how I can help you gentlemen," Ewert said. "Er, and lady." He smiled awkwardly toward me.
Since my mouth was aching so badly, I ended up grinning back, but my eyes flickered to the sign again.
"Mr. Monkford hired the car from you yesterday," John said. He seemed completely composed, so I assumed he either didn't notice the sign or was a lot better at me with hiding his amusement.
"Yeah," Ewert said. "Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself!"
Sherlock strode over to the other side of the desk so that he was standing
beside Ewert. He pointed toward the forecourt.
"Is that one?" he asked.
Ewert turned his head to look and I noticed Sherlock's eyes dart down to look at Ewert's neck. My immature amusement over the sign gone for the moment, I frowned. What was so important about Ewert's neck?
"No, they're all Jags," Ewert said. "Yeah, I can see you're not a car man, eh?"
Sherlock straightened up as Ewert looked back round and smiled.
"But, er, surely you can afford one—a Mazda, I mean?" Sherlock said.
Where was he going with this? I had long since learned that Sherlock didn't ask or say anything without purpose and intent. He was fishing for information, but what was so important about this man's financial status?
"Yeah, it's a fair point," Ewert said. "But you know how it is: it's like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the liquorice allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?"
He reached up and scratched near the top of his left arm. Sherlock eyed the movement for a moment before turning away and heading around the room towards the other side of the desk.
"But you didn't know Mr. Monkford?" John asked.
"No, he was just a client," Ewert assured. "Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him. Poor sod."
Sherlock paused on the other side of the deskt. "Nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?" he asked.
"Eh?" Ewert seemed taken aback by the question.
"You've been away, haven't you?" Sherlock stared at him.
"Oh, the-the..." Ewert gestured toward his tanned face. "No, it's, er, sunbeds, I'm afraid, yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it though—bit of sun."
"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock asked abruptly.
"What?" Ewert seemed startled by the change of subject.
"Well, I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change," Sherlock said, offering Ewert a bank not. "I'm gasping."
Not true. Sherlock used patches. So what was this about? What was he trying to accomplish?
"Um, well..." Ewert dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Hmm."
He opened the wallet to peek inside, and I saw Sherlock's eyes lock into whatever contents were within. I couldn't see from where I was standing, much to my annoyance.
"No, sorry," Ewert said.
"Oh well," Sherlock replied calmly. "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Ewert." He turned and headed for the door. "You've been very helpful. Come on, Watsons."
When we walked across the forecourt, John glanced toward Sherlock.
"I-I've got change if you still want to, uh..." he trailed off awkwardly.
Sherlock patted his upper left arm. "Nicotine patches, remember? I'm doing well."
"So what was that all about?" John asked.
"Wallet," I said.
"Huh?" John blinked at me.
"I needed to look inside his wallet," Sherlock clarified.
"Why?" John queried.
"Mr. Ewert's a liar," Sherlock replied simply.
John opened his mouth to ask more questions, but Sherlock waved him off. "When we get in the cab, I'll explain."
There was a moment of silence, but an image kept appearing in my mind over and over and I just couldn't shake it.
"Did anyone else see the sign?" I said, unable to keep it in any longer.
"Yes, anus ars, I can't un-see it," John muttered.
Sherlock snorted in amusement as we left the forecourt.
IMPORTANT NOTICE (A/N):::
Hey guys, I hope you liked the chapter! I just wanted to pop in to thank you guys for the delightful support with this story. This is the first one that is live action (basically anything but anime, heh heh) that I've ever done, so I felt like there was a different tactic to writing this one. I'm so glad so many like Maxine and her interactions with the boys.
However, I do have to drop a slightly unpleasant announcement: there won't be another update for this story until around mid December. There are several reasons behind this, so let me go through them with you.
1: I've reached how much I've had written out already and now officially need to write fresh chapters, which will make updating a bit more time consuming.
2: It's National Writing Month! (NanoWriMo). Basically, the challenge is to write out 50,000 words in the month, and this year I'm prioritizing my original works, specifically hardcore editing my second book. Due to a tragic file corruption I had a while back, I had to make the PDF version of the book back into a Word document and that TOTALLY screwed the formatting. So, since I was giving the first two books a major makeover, I figured I might as well retype out the sucker while editing. The second book is roughly over 130,000 words, and I'm at about 55,000 right now. The good news is, once this is done, I am never looking back at the first two books again and I can focus on getting the third book of the series out.
3: I am making a trip to another state between November 30 and December 5. My grandfather has Alzheimer's, and I am determined to go see him before... well, before he forgets who I am. It's pretty rough, especially since I just lost my grandmother to Parkinson's. So I ask that you guys give me a little leeway on that—I'm not certain how that trip will go or what my mental state will be when I get back.
All right, so those are all the main reasons, but I want to assure you guys, this story isn't going anywhere. Compared to some of my other fics, a month and a half hiatus is actually not that bad at all, to be fair, haha.
Again, thanks loads for the support. Hope you all had a hoppin' Halloween and have a great November! See you guys in December!
—Red