John
The living room I was led to was gorgeous and elegantly decorated. Kenny Prince, a man in his late fifties wearing a fancy purple shirt, was the first to entered the room while a far younger man, Raoul, paused at the doorway and gestured for me to go next. I gave him a tight-lipped smile and went in, trying not to gawk at the ludicrously expensive furniture and decor.
"We're devastated," Kenny said as he strode across the room. "Of course we are." He paused by the mantlepiece and propped an arm on it.
I followed after him and glanced around. There was a sofa that could probably pay for a year's worth of my rent sitting close by with a hairless cat wandering around on it. It gave a meow every so often, as if trying to seek attention. I sat down on the sofa on the opposite end of it.
"Can I get you anything, sir?" Raoul asked me.
"Er, no," I said. "No, thanks."
Raoul looked across the room to Kenny, who smiled at him. Raoul returned the smile before turning and leaving the room.
"Raoul is my rock," Kenny explained. "I don't think I could have managed." He looked down, his face growing saddened. "We didn't always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me."
The hairless cat walked onto my lap and began to get comfortable. I prudently picked it up and placed it on the cushion next to me as it gave a meow of protest.
"And-and to the public, Mr. Prince," I added, hoping to sound comforting.
"Oh, she was adored," Kenny sighed. "I've seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Routemasters and turn them into princesses."
The hairless cat climbed into my lap again. I didn't think it was going to take no for an answer when it came to cuddling.
"Still, it's a relief in a way to know that's she's beyond this vale of tears," Kenny went on.
The cat purred contentedly in my lap as I awkwardly replied, "Absolutely."
Kenny proceeded to stare thoughtfully at a framed photograph of his sister holding her TV award. I glanced down at my notebook and cleared my throat.
"It's more common than people think," I said. "The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left un..."
I trailed off when Kenny abruptly plopped down on the sofa next to me, causing the can to meow indignantly and hop off my lap. Kenny stared into my eyes intently and all I could think to do was finish my last word.
"...treated..."
Kenny's leg was pressed up against mine. He was a bigger fellow and there was hardly any room to scoot away on the sofa.
"I don't know what I'm going to do now," he said lamentably.
"Right," I said, trying not to let my nerves show. I wasn't often comfortable with people getting into my personal space, especially if I didn't know them.
"I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely..." Kenny went on.
I glanced around the room, squinting slightly. Expensive, certainly, but lovely wasn't exactly what I would call it. All the lavish decor just wasn't my taste.
"...but it isn't the same without her." Kenny continued to gaze at me.
I fidgeted as I attempted to move further away from him, but once again, the sofa was just too small. "Th-that's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?"
"No," Kenny replied.
"Right." I nodded nervously.
"You fire away," Kenny said, still staring at me intensely.
The cat meowed as it trotted across the carpet. I watched it go as I reached up to rub the side of my nose where an itch had developed. For a moment, I was confused when a whiff of disinfectant invaded my nostrils. Had I touched something back at Bart's lab? But no, I'd washed my hands since then.
Pretending to itch my nose again, I took another sniff. It was faint, but it certainly smelled of disinfectant. If it hadn't come from the lab, then what had I touched that smelled of it? I glanced at the cat, almost frowning in wonder before looking toward Kenny nervously.
I needed to call Sherlock.
Maxine
Mrs. Hudson had joined us up in the living room. She'd brought us some tea and snacks, which Lestrade and I were very grateful for. I sipped on my cup from my spot on the sofa as Sherlock finished up a phone call on his mobile.
"Great..." he was saying as he strode toward the fireplace. "Thank you. Thanks again."
Mrs. Hudson was staring sadly at the photographs of Connie Prince on the wall behind me. "It's a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colors."
Lestrade looked toward her. "Colors?"
"You know..." Mrs. Hudson gestured down to her clothes. "...what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me." She nodded toward me. "And Maxine can wear greens and yellows, but never any shades of pink because of her ginger hair. Clashes, you see."
"Good to know," I murmured into my cup.
Sherlock came back toward us while pocketing his phone.
"Who was that?" Lestrade asked him.
"Home Office," Sherlock replied casually, looking at the wall.
"Home Office?" Lestrade echoed in surprise.
"Well, Home Security, actually," Sherlock clarified. "Owes me a favor."
"Of course they do," I said, getting to my feet to stand beside him.
Now all four of us were staring at the wall of papers. Mrs. Hudson shook her head and sighed.
"She was a pretty girl but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days," she said.
I recalled how the news thought Connie was 48 when she was actually 54 and grimaced.
"People can hardly move their faces," Mrs. Hudson went on. "It's silly, isn't it?" She gripped my arm. "Promise me you won't do anything like that, Maxine."
I opened my mouth to vow I'd never do such a thing, but Sherlock spoke before I could.
"Max doesn't need anything like that," he said. "That would be like making changes to an already lovely painting."
I blinked a few times and looked round at him. Had Sherlock just paid my looks a compliment? That didn't seem like the sort of thing he would pay attention to. He seemed to just be registering what he said and his expression grew a tad nervous, like he hand't meant to say those words out lout. Luckily for him, Mrs. Hudson hadn't noticed.
"Did you ever see her show?" she asked him.
"Not until now," Sherlock said, clearly relieved about the change in subject.
He turned and picked up his computer notebook off the desk and opened it. A video started to play immediately, showing that he had been in the middle of watching it earlier. It was footage of Connie's make-over show and she was talking to her brother, Kenny Prince, in the studio.
"You look pasty, love!" Connie said.
"Ah." Kenny awkwardly looked toward the audience. "Rained every day but one!"
"That's the brother," Mrs. Hudson explained. "No love lost there, if you can believe the papers."
"So I gather," Sherlock said. "I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved this show. Fan sites—indispensable for gossip."
On the video, Connie was gesturing to Kenny's clothing. "There's really only one thing we can do with that ensemble, don't you think, girls?" She got to her feet and began to rhythmically clap and chant, "Off! Off! Off! Off!"
The audience took up the chant and clapping with the enthusiasm of a cult and by the third "Off!" Connie was beating her hands quite hard on Kenny's back while he dropped his jacket to the floor. He grimaced in pain as he unbuttoned his shirt, but then turned a false smile toward the audience.
I wasn't exactly good at dealing with people and their emotions, but it was clear to see that Kenny wasn't too keen on this.
"Mmm..." Mrs. Hudson frowned and shook her head sadly. "I'll go gather us some more nibbles, shall I?" She smiled to each of us and then headed out the door and downstairs to her own flat.
Sherlock set the notebook on the desk again and studied the video with a furrowed brow.
"Motive?" I suggested, nodding toward Kenny on the screen, who was still awkwardly undressing.
"It wouldn't surprise me," Sherlock replied.
Lestrade glanced between the two of us as the video ended. The Inspector looked like he wanted to say something, but seemed to think better of it and bit his lip instead. At that point, Sherlock's mobile began to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket, and a quick glance at the caller I.D. over his shoulder told me it was my brother calling.
"John," Sherlock greeted when he answered.
There was a brief pause and I heard John's voice talking on the other line, but I couldn't make out his words.
"I'll remember," Sherlock assured. More words from John, then Sherlock nodded. "We're on our way."
The detective pocketed his phone and looked at me.
"Is he all right?" I asked.
"Grand," Sherlock said. "We need to head over, though. Are you ready for some improvised acting?"
I tilted my head at him. "Why, is Sebastian there?"
Sherlock snorted in amusement. "No. Nothing like that this time."
"What's going on?" Lestrade asked.
"John thinks he's onto something," Sherlock explained. "Max and I are going to help him. We'll meet you back at your office, Detective Inspector."
Lestrade sighed and nodded. "Just... do try to hurry. We don't have much time left."
"We will," I assured him as he headed out the door.
Sherlock began to walk toward his room. I followed after him at a trot.
"What exactly are we doing?" I asked.
"John went to Kenny Price under the premise of getting a story for his paper," Sherlock said. "We're going to be his photographers. Well, I am. Dunno why any paper would have two photographers come to the same place."
"Should I just stay here, then?" I asked. "I could do some more research on Connie."
"No, no," Sherlock said. He hesitated just outside his bedroom door. "I, er, do better with company, remember?"
"Right," I said, furrowing my brow.
Sherlock had been acting stranger and stranger the past couple of days. I wasn't certain if it was about the bomber or something else.
"So..." I said slowly. "What am I, then? Assistant photographer?" I smiled wryly.
Sherlock waved me off. "Sure, why not? You can act as the person who sets the poses and..." He sighed and shook his head. "We'll figure it out."
With that, he opened his bedroom door and stepped inside.
I remained just outside of his room, realizing that in all the months I'd lived at 221B Baker Street, I'd never actually been inside it. From what I could see, it was cluttered and messy just like the rest of the flat at the moment. Clothing lay scattered around a wardrobe and dresser in the left-hand corner and the sheets were half-off the bed in a tangled heap. There was a small desk with a few books stacked on it as well as some stacks of paper.
Sherlock stepped to the right and out of my sight in search for something. I didn't dare enter without his permission, so I remained where I was, shifting foot-to-foot nervously. Eventually, the detective came back with a large black bag over his shoulder and a narrow case in his hand. I assumed the case held a tripod to mount a camera on.
"What?" he said, noticing my expression.
"Er..." I couldn't exactly tell him that I was nervous about being near his bedroom. "Just... worried about John."
"Right." Sherlock moved past me, closing his bedroom door behind him. "Then let's get going."
When we walked into the living room of Connie Prince's (now Kenny Prince's) home, I stared around in bewilderment. How could somebody stand this much decor? Everything was bright, glittering, and gaudy. The whole place smelled very clean, and I guessed that had to do with the houseboy, Raoul, who led us in from the front door.
John was standing near an expensive-looking sofa and Kenny was over by the fireplace. Sherlock instantly strode toward him.
"Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?" he greeted.
"Yes," Kenny replied, looking between Sherlock and me with a bit of surprise. I didn't think he was expecting more company.
"Very good to meet you," Sherlock said with a nod.
"Yes; thank you." Kenny glanced toward me when I paused by my brother.
"Mmm, yes, this is, er, my sister, Maxine; she helps with editing," John said, patting me on the shoulder. "And Sherlock, our photographer."
"Ah." Kenny seemed to relax a bit, though I wasn't sure why.
Sherlock shook his hand. "So sorry to hear about..."
"Yes," I added, hoping I sounded convincing. "A tragedy."
"Yes, yes, very kind," Kenny said.
"Shall we, er..." John gestured to Sherlock's bag.
Kenny turned to look at a nearby mirror and began to fix up his dusty brown hair. Sherlock came over to us and put his case down on the sofa before rummaging in his bag. John leaned close to him.
"You were right," he whispered. "The bacteria got into her another way."
Sherlock smirked toward him. "Oh yes?" By his expression, I got the impression that he found John to be a child who insisted he could fly.
"Yes," John said.
"Right." Kenny turned toward us. "We all set?"
"Um, yes," John said.
Sherlock pulled a camera and a flashgun from his bag. John jerked his head toward Kenny in a gesture for Sherlock to get started.
"Can you...?" my brother prompted.
All the way here, I wasn't able to get anything out of Sherlock about what John was up to. I was certain the detective would have an inkling of what John suspected and why we needed to bring a camera. It had to be more than just for show.
Kenny leaned one arm on the mantlepiece and posed. Sherlock strode closer and started to snap some photographs.
"Not too close," Kenny said. "I'm raw from crying."
There was a sudden meow and I looked down to see a hairless cat had come up to Sherlock. It gazed up at him expectantly and meowed again.
"Oh, who's this?" Sherlock asked.
"Sekhmet," Kenny answered. "Named after the Egyptian goddess."
"How nice," Sherlock said. "Was she Connie's?"
"Yes," Kenny replied.
John reached down toward the cat, but Kenny beat him to it, bending down and picking it up. Looking frustrated, John straightened up and glanced toward Sherlock.
"Little present from yours truly," Kenny went on.
"Sherlock?" John suddenly said. "Uh, light reading?"
"Oh, um..." Sherlock lifted a second flashgun that he had been holding in his other hand. He aimed it towards Kenny and fired it straight into his face. "Two point eight," he confirmed.
Kenny flinched and clamped his eyes shut against the light.
"Bloody hell," he gasped. "What do you think you're playing at?!"
John instantly darted in and rubbed his fingers over one of the cat's front paws. Sherlock continued to fire the flash gun, forcing Kenny to keep his eyes closed.
"Sorry," the detective said.
John lifted his fingers away and sniffed them while Sherlock went on firing the flashgun.
"You're like Laurel and bloody Hardy, you two," Kenny complained. "What's going on?"
"Actually, I think we've got what we came for," John suddenly said. "Excuse us."
"What?" Kenny said, clearly startled.
"Maxine, Sherlock," John beckoned.
"What?" Sherlock and I said in unison.
John snatched the case from the sofa and headed for the door. "We've got deadlines."
Sherlock and I exchanged a look before following after him.
"But you've not taken anything!" Kenny protested.
Ignoring him, the three of us hurried out of the home at a light trot. Once heading down the drive and towards the main road, John chuckled delightedly.
"Yes!" he breathed. "Ooh, yes!"
Sherlock smiled toward him. "You think it was the cat," he said. "It wasn't the cat."
"The cat?" I echoed. "How could it be the cat?"
"What?" John looked between the two of us. "No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant."
Sherlock was still grinning. "Lovely idea."
"No, he coated it onto the paws of her cat," John insisted. "It's a new pet—bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have—"
"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother," Sherlock interjected.
"How d'you mean?" I asked. "Was it someone else?"
"That's the question isn't it?" Sherlock said.
"He murdered his sister for her money," John said.
"Did he?" Sherlock glanced toward him.
"Didn't he?" John replied, frowning.
"No. It was revenge," Sherlock told him.
"Revenge?" John repeated disbelievingly. "Who wanted revenge?"
"Raoul, the houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally he had enough; fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed by a certain lifestyle so..."
John halted. "No, wait, wait. Wait a second."
Sherlock and I paused to look at him.
"What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?" John pressed.
"Raoul keeps a very clean house," Sherlock said. "You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it."
John pulled up his jacket to take a whiff as Sherlock led us toward the main road.
"Raoul's internet records do, though," the detective went on. "Hope we can get a cab from here."
As he walked off, John sighed with exasperation and a touch of disappointment. I glanced at him warily.
"It was a good thought," I assured him.
"Not good enough," John grumbled. "I really thought I had something there."
"More than I would have ever thought up," I said. "The medical side of things doesn't really click with me. I didn't even know you could get tetanus from cat claws."
John shook his head. Sherlock was a few meters in front of us now and my brother glanced over at me with a small frown.
"He's been acting odd, hasn't he?" he said softly, jerking his head at the detective's back.
"Odd?" I repeated. "Odd how?"
John shrugged. "Like when you offered to come with to see Mycroft with me, or-or how he reacted when I told you Mycroft said hello."
"It was a bit strange," I admitted. "But we both know that Sherlock doesn't get along with his brother."
"Sure, but this seems like something different," John murmured. "Mycroft—he told me to pass on his message to you in front of Sherlock."
I furrowed my brow. "Why would he do that?"
"Dunno," John replied, though his expression seemed a bit sheepish, like he wasn't divulging his honest thoughts. "Has-er... has anything happened between...?"
My brother trailed off as he met my eyes anxiously.
"Between what?" I asked, starting to frown.
"N-nothing," John stammered, suddenly waving me off. "I... it's nothing. It must be something else."
Before I could pester my brother for more information, Sherlock called to us over his shoulders.
"What are you two going on about back there? You two do realize we're on a time limit, right?"
"Sorry!" John called and the two of us hastened to catch up with the detective.
Evening had fallen by the time we finally went to the New Scotland Yard. John and I followed after Sherlock as he strode toward Lestrade brandishing a folder triumphantly.
"Raoul de Santos is your killer," the detective declared. "Kenny Price's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince—it was botulinum toxin."
Sherlock put the folder on Lestrade's desk and as the Inspector reached for it, Sherlock leaned closer to him. "We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself."
Lestrade took up the folder and began to head toward his office. He glanced quizzically over his shoulder at Sherlock. "So how'd he do it?"
"Botox injection," Sherlock said.
Lestrade paused and turned toward Sherlock. "Botox?"
"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum," Sherlock explained. "Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases." He pointed to the folder. "He's been bulk ordering Botox for months."
Amazed by Sherlock's deduction, I glanced toward John to see if he too was fathomed. However, my brother was staring at Sherlock with a mounting expression of anger.
"Bided his time," Sherlock went on, oblivious to John's glare, "then upped the strength to a fatal dose."
"You sure about this?" Lestrade asked.
"I'm sure," Sherlock insisted.
"All right—my office." Lestrade turned and walked toward his office. Sherlock started to follow him, but John put out an arm to stop him. His expression was still twisted with fury.
"Hey, Sherlock. How long?" he asked.
"What?" Sherlock blinked, seeming confused by both the question and the anger on John's face.
"How long have you known?" John demanded.
"Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake." Sherlock tried to go toward Lestrade's office but again John stopped him.
"No, but Sherl... The hostage... the old woman. She's been there all this time," John pressed.
Sherlock leaned down into my brother's face, staring at him with a heavy amount of intensity. "I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!"
With that, the detective headed into Lestrade's office. John pursed his lips in frustration as he stared after him. I worried my fingers in the fabric of my scarf as I tried to discern what had upset him so much. Sherlock had been clever on this one. Why waste the time the bomber gave us? Sherlock didn't just have to solve each case that was thrown at him in this strange game, but he had to try and solve the overall case of the bomber as well. He needed additional time to piece everything together.
"John..." I began.
John shook his head. "I know what you're going to say."
"Do you?" I tilted my head.
John sighed and turned toward me. His dark blue eyes were still glittering in anger. "That he's right. That we need to solve the real case—right? The bomber. So-so who cares if some old woman is out there terrified out of her mind that she could be blown to bits at any moment? Who cares if she's being forced to put her life in the hands of a complete stranger and has no idea why?"
"But Sherlock is going to save her..." I murmured.
John let out a humorless and bitter laugh. "Come on Maxine, I've taught you better than this!" He glared at me so harshly I feared I might catch flame. "Think about how she must feel! We could have gotten her out of this mess sooner but Sherlock decided to just... leave her there while he went off and..."
"And started putting things together for us to catch the bomber," I finished for him when he trailed off. "If we don't stop him, more innocent people will be put into these exact same situations."
"For the greater good, then?" John asked tightly. "That's all this is? He could at least show some feeling toward this poor woman. Both of you could."
"Thing is: we can't, John," I said softly.
John blinked. "What?"
"C'mon," I said instead of clarifying. "Once Sherlock tells the bomber he's solved it, we can get that old woman out of there."
I went after Sherlock into Lestrade's office. John took a moment to follow me and I could tell by the way he walked he was upset; his footfalls were heavy and deliberate.
Inside the office, Sherlock has a laptop open and was typing a message into his website. I went to the detective's shoulder and peered at the screen.
Raoul de Santos, the houseboy, botox.
Sherlock hit the send button and we only had to wait about five seconds before the pink phone began to ring. Sherlock grabbed it and started to bring it to his ear, but after a sharp look from me, he put it on speaker.
"Hello?" he said.
The old woman replied in an anguished voice. "Help me."
"Tell us where you are. Address," Sherlock replied in a clear voice.
"He was so... His voice..." the old woman said.
"No, no, no, no," Sherlock cut in urgently. "Tell me nothing about him. Nothing."
My heart leapt into my throat. If the old woman gave us any information, then surely she would be—
"He sounded so..." the old woman murmured shakily. "...soft."
There was a strange, sudden bursting sound and the line went dead.
"Hello?" Sherlock said, his eyes going wide.
Everyone in the room was quiet for a moment. Sherlock stared blankly ahead and lowered the phone. He bit his lip as Lestrade let out a tight breath. John's expression was slowly falling in devastation.
We all knew that the old woman was dead.
"The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people is said to have been caused by a faulty gas main."
Sherlock, John, and I were in the living room watching the TV with grim expressions. The screen displayed a high-rise block of flats and the headline at the bottom read: 12 dead in gas explosion. Of course, we knew better. The camera focused in on the corner of the building which had been torn open and exposed.
"Old block of flats," John said, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock. The two of them were in their armchairs while I sat on the coffee table cross-legged. "He certainly gets about."
"Well, obviously I lost that round," Sherlock murmured. "Although technically I did solve the case."
He snatched the remote control and muted the telly's volume before staring thoughtfully into the distance. The windows still had yet to be repaired and the noise of the traffic outside came flooding into the living room unhindered.
"He killed the old woman because she started to describe him," Sherlock said. He raised a finger. "Just once, he put himself in the firing line."
"What d'you mean?" John asked.
"Well, usually, he must stay above it all," Sherlock explained. "He organizes these things but no-one ever has direct contact."
"His voice," I said. "The other times he used the pagers, but the woman was blind. It was the first contact any of them had with him directly."
"Wait," John interjected. "What... like the Connie Prince murder—he-he arranged that? So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?"
"Novel," Sherlock said, his eyes filled with sudden admiration.
John stared at Sherlock in disbelieve for a moment before looking back at the TV, which had already moved to a new story.
"Huh," John grunted, jerking a finger toward the screen.
Sherlock and I looked over to see Raoul de Santos being bundled out of Kenny's house by police officers. The press were shoving each other as they struggled to get closer to Raoul and take photographs while interviewers shouted questions. The headline on the screen read: Connie Prince: man arrested. Raoul was shoved unceremoniously into the pack of a police car.
"Taking his time this time," Sherlock said, glaring at the pink phone on the coffee table.
"Well, it gives us more time to work, doesn't it?" I said.
Sherlock gave an amending nod, but he still looked a touch annoyed.
"Anything on the Carl Powers case?" John prompted.
"Nothing," Sherlock replied. "All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection."
"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?" John suggested.
"The thought had occurred," Sherlock said.
"So why's he doing this, then—playing this game with you?" John asked. "D'you think he wants to be caught?"
Sherlock pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth and smiled slightly. "I think he wants to be distracted."
John laughed humorlessly before getting out of his chair and heading toward the kitchen. "I hope you'll be happy together."
Sherlock and I both frowned toward him.
"Sorry, what?" Sherlock said.
John whirled around and his face was consumed in fury. He gripped the back of his chair and leaned forward.
"There are lives at stake, Sherlock—actual human lives... Just-just so I know, do you care about that at all?" John demanded.
I pursed my lips. We had just had this argument back at the police station, however now that twelve people were dead because of the bomber, I guessed John's anger had reignited.
"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock replied irritably.
"Nope," John said.
"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." Sherlock held my brother's gaze unyieldingly.
"And you find that easy, do you?" John snapped.
"Yes, very," Sherlock said. "Is that news to you?"
"No." John smiled bitterly. "No."
They stared at one another for a moment. I glanced warily between them, wondering what I should do or say, or if I should do anything at all. John was my brother and I cared for him, but Sherlock had done everything he could to save that old woman. It wasn't his fault of what happened.
"I've disappointed you," Sherlock said at last.
John was still smiling angrily and pointed at the detective. "That's good—that's a good deduction, yeah," he said sarcastically.
"Don't make people into heroes, John," Sherlock said tightly. "Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."
John shook his head disbelievingly before looking at me. I swallowed. Oh, here it goes.
"You agree with him, don't you?" he said tightly, gesturing to Sherlock.
"It's not that simple, John," I said.
John's expression began to grow more angry.
"Listen to me for a second before you go off again," I said, getting to my feet. "You knew—we both knew—what kind of person Sherlock was from the first case we worked together. The Study in Pink, d'you remember?"
"Of course I remember," John grumbled.
"All right." I crossed my arms. "He described himself to Anderson that day as a high-functioning sociopath. It means that empathy is lost on him. The ability that you have, John—the ability to look at someone, see their situation and imagine almost perfectly what it emotionally feels like to be in their shoes is a concept that he isn't capable of! And it's cruel to expect him to change because it would make you feel better about it. Especially when it's a change that he can't possibly even accomplish."
John blinked a few times, clearly taken aback by the passion in my voice. "Maddie..."
I held up my finger to make him stop. "Sherlock has saved two people that this bomber has targeted so far. He would have saved that old woman too. What happened was completely out of his control and in no way his fault."
John adverted my gaze. I dropped my arms to my sides and exhaled sharply through my nose. A glance toward Sherlock revealed that he was staring at me in awe. Apparently he hadn't expected me to stand up for him against my brother of all people.
Before more could be said, the pink phone gave a message alert.
"Excellent!" Sherlock, gleeful at the distraction, snatched up the mobile and activated it. He looked at the screen for a moment. "View of the Thames. South Bank—somewhere between Southward Bridge and Waterloo." The detective reached into his jacket for his own phone. "John, you and Max check the papers; I'll look online."
John didn't respond. His head was lowered and his hands were still braced on the back of the chair.
"Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help," Sherlock guessed, looking up at him.
John lifted his head and shrugged wordlessly. He gave a small, uncomfortable glance in my direction.
"Not much cop, this caring lark." Sherlock loudly clicked the 'k' on the last work before going to his phone and typing away, presumably on a search engine.
I gave one last look at my brother before walking across the room toward the sofa. John sniffed awkwardly before following after me. The two of us gathered up the papers from the coffee table before sitting side by side on the couch. We exchanged a glance before thumbing through the pages.
After a moment of silent reading, John spoke.
"Archway suicide," he said, reading from the paper in his hands.
"Ten a penny," Sherlock snapped.
John cast him a sharp look with the detective ignored.
I went through my own papers but my eyes ran blankly over the words. My mind was still reeling with how I'd stood up for Sherlock just a moment ago. Normally, I ran away from confrontations of the verbal nature; of anything to do with emotion and drama—especially with my brother. Yet something had risen up inside me in that moment that couldn't be staunched.
"Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington," John read.
Sherlock didn't respond, so I took it that what John found couldn't be relevant. I forced myself to focus on my own paper and realized what was on the page I'd been holding for nearly a minute.
"John..." I murmured, gesturing to it.
John looked over at the article and his eyes lit up. "Ah. Man found on the train line—Andrew West."
It was the same man that Mycroft wanted us to investigate. I looked up toward Sherlock, certain he'd be intrigued, but instead I saw the detective glaring at his mobile.
"Nothing!" he exclaimed in exasperation before hitting a few buttons and putting the phone to his ear. After a moment he said, "It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and the Southwark Bridge?"
The oddity found by Lestrade and his men wasn't Andrew West; in fact, no one had any clue who the dead man found on the bank was.
The tide had receded to reveal him: a large man wearing black trousers, a white shirt, and black socks but no shoes. He looked waterlogged, which was to be expected, but I doubted that he'd merely drowned. If this was a case the bomber sent us, it was clearly something more intricate than that.
When we arrived, Lestrade didn't bother greeting us. All he asked was, "D'you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?"
Sherlock, who was just finishing pulling on a pair of latex gloves, replied, "Must be. Odd, though." He held up the pink phone. "He hasn't been in touch."
"But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?" Lestrade asked grimly.
"Yes," Sherlock replied.
He stepped back and took a long look at the body. The corpse was laid on its back atop a plastic sheet. John and I stood awkwardly side by side. We hadn't really talked to one another since my outburst back at the flat. I could tell that John wanted to say something to me, but he either felt this wasn't the time or he didn't know how to say it.
"Any ideas?" Lestrade prompted Sherlock.
"Seven," the detective replied, "...so far."
"Seven?!" Lestrade exclaimed.
Sherlock walked closer to the body and squatted down to examine the man's face with his magnifier. He then looked at the ripped pocket on the shirt before moving toward the watch on the man's wrist. I saw him mess with the buttons for a moment then worked his way down to the feet. The detective carefully pulled off one of the socks and examined the sole of the man's foot with the magnifier. After that, Sherlock stood and closed the magnifier before gesturing to John with a jerk of his head for my brother to examine the corpse.
John, ever the lawful one, looked to Lestrade for permission first. The Inspector held out his arms in a motion that said, Be my guest. John stepped forward and squatted down beside the body. He reached out and took hold of the man's wrist while Sherlock walked a few paces back and got out his phone.
"He's dead about twenty-four hours—maybe a bit longer," John concluded. He looked toward Lestrade. "Did he drown?"
"Apparently not," Lestrade replied. "Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."
"Yes, I'd agree," John said. "There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here." He gestured toward the man's hairline.
I frowned and stepped forward to crouch at my brother's side, not bothering to ask Lestrade for permission. I stared at the bruises which were round and red like grapes.
"What could have caused these?" I wondered out loud.
"Fingertips."
I blinked and looked back to see Sherlock was staring at his phone.
"Fingertips?" I echoed.
Sherlock nodded, not bothering with giving more information. He typed away on his phone.
"In his late thirties, I'd say," John went on. "Not in the best condition."
My brother and I straightened up as Sherlock continued on his phone. I guessed he was on the internet again.
"He's been in the river a long while," Sherlock said. "The water's destroyed most of the data." He quirked a grin. "But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake."
"What?" Lestrade said, baffled.
"We need to identify the corpse," Sherlock said, ignoring him. "Find out about his friends and associates."
"Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait," Lestrade said. "What painting? What are you-what ware you on about?"
"It's all over the place," Sherlock said. "Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds."
"Okay." Lestrade still looked confused. "So what has that got to do with the stiff?"
Sherlock grinned. "Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?"
"Golem?" Lestrade echoed.
"It's a horror story, isn't it?" John said. "What are you saying?"
"It's a Jewish folk story," I corrected. "A gigantic man made of clay that would defend homes."
Sherlock nodded. "It's also the name of an assassin—real name Oskar Dzunda—one of the deadliest assassins in the world." He pointed down to the body. "That is his trademark style."
I stared down at the man's face and the strange grape-shaped bruises. "Fingertips, you said. And given the name, I'd say that this assassin is a big bloke. So... so he suffocated this man by just... just grabbing his face and pushing down?" I shook my head. "His hand alone must be like a dinner plate. And his strength..."
"There's a reason he's so lethal," Sherlock said.
"So this is a hit?" Lestrade said.
"Definitely," Sherlock replied. "The Golem—like Max said—squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."
"But what has this gotta do with that painting?" Lestrade asked. "I don't see..."
"You do see—you just don't observe," Sherlock corrected in exasperation.
"All right, all right, girls, calm down." John gestured at the two of them by moving his hands downward in a calming motion. "Sherlock? D'you wanna take us through it?"
Sherlock took a small moment before pointing at the body.
"What do we know about this corpse?" he said. "Max, can you tell me?"
I blinked, startled that he'd put me on the spot like this, but looked down at the body and frowned.
"Well, there isn't much left, is there?" I said. "Not even his shoes. He's just got the shirt and trousers. Oh." I spotted the man's wrist. "And a watch. Um, the outfit's rather formal, but they look a bit big on him. Ah, there's a hook there too—on his belt. For a walkie-talkie, maybe?"
Sherlock smiled at me. "Yes. Those clothes are also cheaply made; the pants are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? That hook give a clue."
"Tube driver?" John guessed.
Sherlock shot him a look that blatantly said: Idiot.
"Security guard?" John tried again.
"More likely," Sherlock replied. "That'll be borne out by his backside."
"Backside?!" Lestrade exclaimed.
"Well, he's a tad flabby," I pointed out. "But Sherlock was looking at his feet. I'm guessing he's thinking security guard because he found the feet to be pretty well done in. That means the man was walking a lot, but the flab says he was sitting a lot too."
"Yes, Max," Sherlock agreed. "The watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."
"Why regular?" Lestrade asked. "Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died."
"No-no-no, the buttons are stiff, hardly touched," Sherlock said. "He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution."
The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out a small scrunched-up ball of paper.
"Found this in his pocket," Sherlock said. "Sodden by the river but still recognizably..."
John peered at the ball of paper. "Tickets?"
"Ticket stubs," Sherlock corrected. "He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check—the Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing." He pointed down at the body. "Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference: the dead man knew something about it—something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake."
"Fantastic," John said admiringly. Seemed all his previous ire toward the detective was washed away with Sherlock's incredible ability to deduce such a thing.
Sherlock shrugged; apparently he was still peeved about their earlier row. "Meretricious."
"And a Happy New Year!" Lestrade exclaimed.
John tossed the Inspector a look that said: Seriously? and Lestrade grinned sheepishly. My brother then looked back at the body on the ground.
"Poor sod," he said.
Again, I wondered what it felt like being able to so vividly imagine other people's emotions.
"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character," Lestrade said.
"Pointless," Sherlock said. "You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."
"Who?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock grinned. "Me."
With that, the detective turned and strode away. John and I exchanged a slightly tired look before following after our friend.
The three of us clamored into the back of a cab that Sherlock had hailed on the main road. Nothing had been said about John and Sherlock's previous argument or how I stood up for the former and I was planning on keeping it that way. It was nice to focus on a case and put all of that in the back of my mind where I could hopefully just forget about it.
"Why hasn't he phoned?" Sherlock asked on my left. "He's broken his pattern. Why?"
The detective was glaring at the pink phone in frustration. He clearly didn't appreciate an oddity that he didn't know the origin of. It reminded me of when he noticed that I had a strange past in Japan and couldn't let it go until he had the answers. Then, Sherlock's expression changed as if a thought had stuck him.
"Waterloo Bridge," he told the cabbie.
"Where now? The Gallery?" John asked from my right, leaning forward to look past me at Sherlock.
"In a bit," Sherlock said as the cab pulled onto the road.
"The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it?" John said, flicking his eyes to me.
"Yeah," I confirmed.
John frowned. "Why have they got a hold of an Old Master?"
"Dunno," Sherlock admitted. "Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data."
He pulled out a notebook from his pocket and began to write something on a page before tearing it out and folding a bank note inside it. I didn't manage to see what he'd written and gave him a curious look which he waved off. He put the paper into his pocker, then a few second later, called out to the cabbie.
"Stop!"
The cab pulled over to the side of the road and the driver glanced back at Sherlock a bit indignantly.
"You wait here. I won't be a moment," Sherlock said before hopping out of the cab and vaulting over the railings at the edge of the pavement with ease.
John and I exchanged one look before following after him; seems Watson blood was curious.
"Sherlock..." John said in confusion.
Our flatmate merely waled off down the sidewalk. I shrugged at my brother as he shook his head in exasperation and the two of us followed him. John scrambled over the railing as I hopped over them with the same ease as Sherlock. The detective led us to a set of steps beneath Waterloo Bridge where a young woman was sitting on a bench. There was a large bag beside her with a handwritten cardboard sign poking out of the top. The only words that could be made out on it were: HUNGRY AND. I guessed the next word was most likely HOMELESS.
"Change?" the girl said. "Any change?"
"What for?" Sherlock asked her.
"Cup of tea, of course," she replied earnestly.
Sherlock pulled the paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "Here you go—fifty."
The girl smiled. "Thanks."
Without another word, Sherlock turned and walked back toward the cab again. John and I both blinked at him in bewilderment before hurrying after him.
"What are you doing?" John asked, gesturing back to the girl.
"Investing," Sherlock replied.
Looking back, I saw the girl was unfolding the note and reading it. Part of me was tempted to go back and ask her what it said, but I knew Sherlock would reveal everything eventually.
"Now we go to the Gallery. Have either of you got any cash?" the detective asked.
"Yeah," John said as we jumped the railing and climbed back into the cab.
When we got to Hickman's Gallery, Sherlock stepped out of the cab first. When John and I tried to follow, he held out a hand to us.
"No. I need you two to find out all you can about the gallery attendant," he said. "Lestrade will give you the address."
"What?" I blinked at him. "But—Sherlock, you do realize I have an art degree. A Master's degree."
"Yes, but I need to get close to the painting, which isn't open to the public yet," Sherlock said. "Won't be as easy with two of us. Besides, do you really think you'd be able to tell it's a fake just from a glance?"
"Alex Woodbridge figured it out, didn't he?" I said.
"He did," Sherlock confirmed. "Which is why I need you to go to his house and figure out how."
With that, Sherlock shut the door and strode toward the gallery.
"I'll just... text Lestrade," John muttered awkwardly.
I scooted over to the seat Sherlock had vacated so John and I weren't right up against one another. My brother typed away on his phone and it didn't take long for Lestrade to get back to him. John read off the address to the cabbie, and then we were off.
As the cab drove, John cast me an anxious look.
"What?" I said softly.
Left alone with John meant that he was probably going to talk about what had happened earlier; about me defending Sherlock so much.
"You've come with me on errands for cases before," John pointed out. "Why were you so keen on staying with Sherlock this time?"
I pursed my lips and looked out the window. John let out a long sigh.
"You don't have to answer, I think I know," he said. "You don't like arguments or... confrontation of the emotional sort. 'course no-one could've tell with how you jumped down my throat earlier."
I started digging into my pocket for my phone but John grabbed my arm.
"Stop, Maddie," he said. "I get it."
I glanced at him. "Get it?" I repeated.
John nodded. "It really makes sense now, with how well you clicked with him. You're like him, right? That whole high-functioning sociopath thing."
Adverting my gaze, I clenched my fists in my yellow scarf. I didn't know why hearing John say it made knots tighten in my gut. I had come to terms with what I was and Sherlock had helped me see that it wasn't anything to be ashamed about, but I just didn't want things to change between me and my brother.
"It-it's fine," John assured me, as if sensing my growing anxiety. "Really. Maxine, it doesn't mean that there's... anything wrong with you—it doesn't change anything."
"It doesn't?" I looked at him again, my hands trembling somewhat. "John, all my life you've been teaching me how to act and be around people; how to be civil. What to say, what not to say, how to be mindful of people's feelings. You were teaching me to be normal, John, when I'm not."
John let out a long exhale and ran his thumb over his fingers. He looked out the window for a few moments, as if searching for inspiration. Finally, he turned and his gaze found mine again.
"People are cruel, Maxine," John said softly. "When I saw how you were, growing up, I didn't want other kids to target you in school or... I just wanted what was best for you."
"I know," I said, shaking my head. "I'm not saying I don't appreciate it—it's probably helped loads. I just... I know how hard you tried to make me normal and I didn't want to tell you that it was pointless. That... I don't know what I'm trying to say, John."
"It's all right," John said, gripping my arm again. "You're still my sister, Maddie. Nothing is going to change that."
"Don't go getting sappy when we're on our way to interview some mourners." I shoved him playfully but gave him an appreciative smile.
John smiled back.