A/N::: The following is actually an original case, so fair warning that we are stepping away from the show's canon cases for a bit. I hope that you guys like it, and that you get to see our lovely trio in a new situation! Enjoy~
Maxine
A couple months went by. Ever since Sherlock had practically confessed his love for me with the Irene Adler case, our relationship got slightly... awkward. It was both more intimate and more strained. Sherlock hadn't actually said the words: "I love you," and neither had I. Neither of us quite understood the ins and outs of dating and romantic relationships. I found myself asking for John's advice, which he didn't seem to appreciate.
"I really don't want to talk about my little sister snogging, thanks," he said when I asked him how long a kiss was typically supposed to last.
We hadn't received any particularly complicated or dangerous cases, which led me to start feeling anxious and pent up. I could see it was getting to Sherlock as well, but since there were so many cases heading our way thanks to John's blog, he seemed to be pacified by the piles of simple cases for the time being.
On a rainy morning, I opened my laptop on my drawing desk, wanting to check my emails and manga sales before going downstairs for breakfast. I yawned, my eyes still burning from sleep. My new manga series had officially launched and already had made excellent sales in Japan. I'd titled it simply "Silas" and it seemed the teen population was eating it up. My publishers were already eager to get English translations out, though they were still pressuring me to continue MANA on top of everything else.
It was getting a bit difficult to balance the manga with Sherlock's work, and I still had a good number of sleepless nights whenever a deadline was approaching. John suggested I just learn to stop procrastinating, but I hadn't missed a deadline yet, even with putting off the work until the last minute.
As I scrolled through my emails, the subject line of one caught my eye.
AKAGE PLEASE READ.
Akage... the nickname Miyako had given me. I stared at it for a long moment, my heart beginning to accelerate and flush the fatigue from my body. I had sent a final email to her long ago, as Sherlock instructed, and switched emails completely. The detective warned me that the Yakuza might use Miyako's email to try and hack my computer—to figure out who I was and where I lived. It was possible they were masquerading as her in an attempt to trick me into opening the email.
Miyako assured me that the crime syndicate would never learn of my true identity, but if I was being honest with myself, there weren't that many white redheaded girls living near Miyako's dojo at the time. The Yakuza was resourceful; I wouldn't be surprised if they figured it out. However, if that was the case, why try to trick me into thinking they were Miyako?
For a long moment, I stared at the email, wrestling with myself internally. Miyako had been my first real friend beside John. She'd seen my true self before I did. I missed her deeply and always felt some level of concern about what she was doing and if she was safe. I had confidence in my teacher's skills, but there was only so much one could do against the Yakuza.
There was a knock on my door.
Startled, I slammed the lid of my laptop shut as Sherlock's voice called out to me.
"Decent?" he asked.
"Er, yeah," I replied, pushing my laptop back on the desk and hoping that nothing minuscule would give away anything about the email.
Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside holding a mug of something that was steaming.
"Tea," he said, gesturing with the cup. "Well, royal milk tea."
"Oh!" I took the cup and peered inside at the frothy surface. "Thank you, Sherlock." I narrowed my eyes and looked up at him. "What's the occasion?"
Sherlock blinked. "I can't make my girlfriend her favorite tea on a Saturday morning?"
I continued to stare at him suspiciously.
The detective let out a sharp exhale and bit his lip before bouncing slightly on his heels. "I might have made a bet with Mycroft."
I raised my brows. "That doesn't seem like a good idea."
"Why not?" Sherlock looked momentarily insulted. "I've won plenty against him."
"Oh, I'm sure," I replied. "But I can only imagine what sort of bets come up between the two of you."
Sherlock scoffed and waved me off. "Oh, it's not that bad. Well, this one isn't."
I chuckled and smiled up at him from my seat. "So, what are we proving wrong?"
"A date."
"Sorry?"
Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "Mycroft doesn't think that I can survive a normal day out... out on a date. You know, cinema, dinner, walks in... the park—dear God, it really does sound dull, doesn't it?"
I laughed and leaned back in my seat, gripping my mug with both hands to warm my fingers. "I suppose it does. But I think if we tackle it together, we can make it somewhat entertaining."
Sherlock grinned and pointed at me. "This is why I adore you."
His words flooded me with warmth and I sipped my tea to hid my rising blush. I was reminded how we hadn't used the word "love" yet. I wasn't certain if love was what I had with Sherlock—I hadn't the first clue what love felt like. I knew I loved my brother, but that was a different sort of love; it wasn't the romantic sense of love that so many works of fiction proclaimed to be like fire and was steeped in irrevocable longing.
I didn't know if what I had with Sherlock was fire. There was heat, that was certain, but it didn't carry the danger and lethality that fire did. It was a safe warmth, something that comforted me down to my bones. If this was what love was, I didn't mind it. In fact, I'd very much appreciate more.
"So, cinema?" I suggested. "Or, are we eating first? Are you supposed to do one first over the other?" I frowned.
Sherlock shrugged. "Who knows. I'm sure there's something relatively intriguing playing... At least something that won't put us to sleep."
"If you guess the ending, don't tell me this time," I scolded.
Sherlock groaned. "They're so obvious."
I rolled my eyes and gestured for him to leave my room. "Well, if we're going out, I need to put on acceptable clothes."
"I dunno..." Sherlock looked me over with his brilliant pale green eyes. "There's something appealing to the tomboyish look..."
"I'm in a shirt that's three times my size and board shorts."
"Oh, you have shorts on..." Sherlock cleared his throat and turned around abruptly. "Right, yes, go on then."
With a slightly awkward gate, he hurriedly left my room, closing the door behind him. I looked down at myself with a frown and realized that the shirt I had on was so big that it had been covering my shorts. Sherlock, despite all his deduction skills, had believed I wasn't wearing any sort of pants.
My face heated and I took another long drink from my tea. The only part of this dating nonsense I didn't like was how often I found myself trapped in an emotion between horrific embarrassment and a glorious euphoria. Doubt always coupled with the embarrassment as well; it told me that I wasn't as pretty as other girls—not as tall or curvaceous, not as confident in her looks or actions. However, every time Sherlock proved my doubts wrong, it flooded me with a high I'd never experienced.
Once I finished my tea, I picked out some clothes with a bit more care than normal. I decided on some of my nicer jeans—a pair that didn't have any holes in them. With it, I wore a simple black tee under a red plaid button-down shirt; It went well with my yellow scarf. I then grabbed the hat Sherlock had gifted me for Christmas and my black coat before heading out of my room and down the stairs.
When I entered the kitchen, John was at the dining table, typing away at his laptop. He glanced up and looked me over with a small level of surprise.
"Do we have a case?" he asked.
"Why d'you ask that?" I replied.
"Well, you're dressed to go outside," John said with a small laugh.
"It's hardly my fault pajama pants are the ideal form of comfort," I said, walking over to his side to peer down at his screen.
John was working on his blog, something I wasn't surprised about. He was documenting a case we'd done a few weeks ago involving a tourist and how his hotel receptionist killed him. When he saw me looking, John cleared his throat awkwardly and closed the lid of his laptop, but not before I managed to read a small passage of it.
"'Though I still have mixed feelings about the whole thing, I have started coming to terms about Maxine and Sherlock being together,'" I quoted and met my brother's eyes. "So, you're going public with it?"
"Er, well... yes," John murmured, drumming his fingers on his laptop.
"He did two blog posts ago," Sherlock said as he emerged from his room, putting on his scarf as he went.
"What?" I exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought you read my blogs," John countered.
"I do—well, I'm a bit behind, but..." I rubbed the back of my neck, embarrassment washing over me.
"Deadline?" John guessed.
"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "She'd be dead on her feet. You know how she puts it off to the last week then doesn't sleep for forty-eight hours."
"I've got two mangas to keep track of now," I defended.
"And you've got a dating life, I suppose," John sighed, glancing between Sherlock and me. "For the record, it's gotten amazing views. I think it's brought in more business too."
"Why do people care?" Sherlock asked incredulously.
"It makes you seem more human, more relatable," John explained. "Speaking of... what are you two doing, exactly? Going out?"
"Is that a problem?" Sherlock replied in a clipped tone.
John rolled his eyes. "Don't take that tone again. I miss the days when you were more worried about my opinion on this whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing."
Sherlock offered him a brief smile that almost seemed smug. I smacked the detective's arm with the back of my hand before addressing my brother.
"We're going on date," I said, though the words came out too structured, like a robot had spoken them.
"A date?" John echoed. "Like... a normal date? Dinner? Cinema? Stroll in the park?"
"Why doesn't anyone think that's possible for us?" Sherlock muttered, heading toward the door. "Don't get into any trouble while we're out."
John gave a small snort of amusement. "Good luck. Don't... I dunno, start any fires or something else equally disastrous."
I smiled at him before following Sherlock down the stairs and out onto Baker Street. For a moment, the two of us stood on the sidewalk side-by-side. I glanced over at Sherlock and gave a nervous chuckle.
"We're off to a grand start," I said.
"Oh stop, I'm thinking," Sherlock retorted. He looked to the left and right along the street, pursing his lips in thought. "Are you hungry?"
"Not particularly," I said.
"Cinema it is, then," Sherlock said.
He started walking toward the road to hail a cab, but paused after a few steps and came back to take my hand in his. I laughed at the awkwardness of it as he pulled me along after him.
Once in the cab, Sherlock gave the driver the address of one of the theatre's, though I noted that it wasn't the one that was closest to Baker Street. As the taxi pulled onto the road and began taking us to our destination, I cast the detective a puzzled look.
"Why that one?" I asked.
"Hm?" Sherlock had been staring out the window and turned to face me when I spoke.
"The theatre," I said. "Isn't there another one that's closer? That one's all the way in Whitechapel."
"Oh, that." Sherlock took out his mobile and peered at the screen. "This one has better reviews, apparently."
I narrowed my eyes slightly, suspicion prickling the back of my mind. Sherlock didn't seem the type to take online reviews into account before going to see a movie. Most of the time, they were just rants and ravings of people who enjoyed being offended. It was a rare day when those who had positive experiences felt the need to speak their mind—humans clung to negativity as if it were second nature.
"Er, what about this one," Sherlock went on, leaning over to show me his phone's screen. "New James Bond film."
I groaned and shook my head. "I think I'm all right without the stereotypical British spy and his sexy lady friend that will inevitably show up purely for the sake of a romantic encounter and not for anything plot-related."
"Ooh, bitter on that, are we?" Sherlock teased.
"It's the same formula over and over," I said. "What else is playing? Is there something fantasy?"
"Fantasy?" Sherlock raised his brows at me.
"What's the point in divulging in fiction unless it contains something we can't normally attain?" I said. "Dragons, super powers, bizarre creatures of inhuman nature..."
"There's a film on vampires that's rather highly reviewed," Sherlock said, bringing up another photo.
"No-no-no-no-no, not Twilight," I said, shaking my head fervently. "I don't know how that franchise is getting away with spacing its last book into two movies. Harry Potter is understandable, that's actually a series with some worth."
Sherlock laughed lightly and put his phone down. "I should have known you'd be difficult to please when it came to this."
"I'm not apologizing for wanting quality in the fiction I take in," I muttered, folding my arms.
"Well, what about this one?" Sherlock clicked another film poster. "This one I know: J. R. Tolkien. The Hobbit."
"Oh!" I peered down at the photo. "That's right, they're splitting it into three parts. Another book that can get away with it. Er..." I frowned at the actor on the front of the poster. "Bilbo looks a lot like John, doesn't he?"
Sherlock looked down at his mobile, furrowing his brow. "Now that you mention it, there is a strange resemblance, isn't there? Well, as a hobbit, he's probably the same height as John."
I nearly choked on my own saliva when I gasped with both amusement and shock at Sherlock's quip.
"That one," I managed to say after clearing my throat. "Let's see that one."
When we arrived at the theatre, we had a few minutes before seating was going to be started for the movie. We took a seat in the lobby and Sherlock pursed his lips as he peered out the expansive windows that covered the front of the building, looking out over the parking lot.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"Hmm?" Sherlock blinked and looked back at me. "Sorry, what?"
"You had that look on your face," I told him.
He looked taken aback. "What look?"
"The one you get when you're trying to figure something out," I replied, leaning toward him from across the table. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
"What? No. No, of course not," Sherlock assured, shifting in his seat to face me properly. "You've my full attention."
I grinned a little, knowing he was lying, but I decided to set it aside for now. Sherlock would tell me in due time, I was sure.
"So, tell me, how exactly did Mycroft take it when he found out we were taking this seriously?" I asked.
Sherlock's face scrunched up as it usually did when there was mention of his brother. He cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table in front of him.
"Well, he found out by outside means, naturally," he said. "I'd never tell him myself, it isn't worth his infuriating criticisms."
"Did he phone you?" I tilted my head.
"If only," Sherlock muttered. "No, he had to find me when I was out on an errand and alone, of course..."
Sherlock
Nearly a month back, I had been out to follow up on a promising case. Someone had killed an American tourist and I was determined to see if it was worth my time or would be better suited for the Scotland Yard. When I was trying to find a cab to take me back to Baker Street, a sleek black car had pulled up to the curb where I was walking and the passenger side window rolled down to reveal none other than my older brother.
"Mycroft," I said, sighing in exasperation. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I'd like to talk," Mycroft replied. His expression was stern—a look he tended to adopt whenever he was irritated with me. "Dinner?"
"Nope, sorry, I've got plans," I said, turning and continuing my walk down the street.
The black car slowly followed me.
"Sherlock, get in the car," Mycroft insisted.
"What part of 'plans' didn't you understand?" I retorted without looking at him.
Mycroft groaned in annoyance. "Stop here, yes, stop. I'll be fine. Stay here."
The black car halted and Mycroft got out of the vehicle. He had his black umbrella with him, the one he kept even when there was clear skies. Using it as a walking stick, he strode after me and tapped my ankle with the tip of it when he reached my side.
"I read John's latest blog," Mycroft said. "The Christmas/New Year special?"
"Did you? Fascinating," I replied sarcastically, not slowing in my stride or bothering to look at him.
"It chronicled a most interesting event," Mycroft went on. "One in which you told Doctor Watson that you were going to begin dating his younger sister."
I pressed my lips into a tight line and refused to satisfy my brother with any acknowledgement. I quickened my pace, eager to get to a main street and find a cab to get me away from him.
"I thought you and her were a simple fling yet now it seems serious enough for John to blog about." Mycroft pressed.
"Mycroft, I'm in the middle of a case," I said irritably.
"Oh, the one about tourist?" Mycroft scoffed. "We both know it's the hotel receptionist."
"It would be delightful if you could stop spying on me," I muttered.
"So you're really in a serious relationship with Maxine?" Mycroft said. "You don't plan on ending this foolishness?"
"From what I recall, you find her quite appealing as well," I replied, my voice tight with rising anger. "Is that why you're frustrated? Or were you hoping all the games you were playing would show me how having any sort of strong connection to her would be a disadvantage for me?"
"It is a disadvantage," Mycroft insisted. "How do you expect to remain on your best game when your mind fogs with these ridiculous feelings for her?"
"My feelings for her don't fog my mind," I retorted. "They sharpen it."
Mycroft snorted with amusement and disbelief. "Listen to yourself, little brother... you sound like school girl."
I stopped dead in my tracks and finally turned to face Mycroft. I locked my heated glare on his eyes and felt my breath begin to fall out of my control in my rising rage.
"For once in my life, I feel something more than just boredom and idle stimulus," I snarled. "Max makes me feel valued beyond just a problem-solving detective. She sees me. Really sees me. And I see her. So, let me say this once and only once."
I took a step closer to him, leaning my face into his so our noses were a mere millimeter apart.
"I don't care about your opinion on the matter," I whispered sharply. "Nothing you say or do is going to change anything. So I suggest you get back into your fancy car and leave."
Mycroft didn't even flinch. He stared back at me with a thoughtful gleam in his eyes. After a moment, he gave a small smirk and shook his head, chuckling softly.
"You think the two of you can truly do this?" he said. "Play the ideal couple? Sherlock, you don't even understand the concept of courting—especially not on an emotional level. I would make a bet that you couldn't survive a single, normal date."
I took a step back from him and furrowed my brow. "Define normal."
Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. "Taking her to the cinema, going for strolls in the park, visiting the museums. Things that other, normal couples do all the time, some even once a week."
"Isn't the point just to spend time together?" I asked. "We already do that."
Mycroft laughed and shook his head. "See? This is what I mean. You don't have the capacity to be in a relationship with anyone, Sherlock. I'm not sure Maxine does either. Quit while you're ahead."
I scoffed. "You don't understand the first thing about us, Mycroft," I told him. "I'll see your bet. I guarantee we'll survive and entire day of dates. Cinema, dinner, the whole thing."
Mycroft exhaled sharply through his nose and gave me a pitying look. It infuriated me. He shook his head again and tapped his umbrella against the ground.
"All right, little brother," he said. "Go on and prove to me that you can play along with all the other people in the world."
Part of me knew Mycroft was trying to show me how I was attempting to become mundane and ordinary like the common people that inhabited this planet. However, he didn't understand the level I could operate fueled by spite alone. Maxine and I would never be like other couples, I knew that. We'd never be satisfied by merely going to a restaurant to eat together or holding hands while watching a movie. Out relationship had blossomed in the heat of strenuous cases and when our lives or the lives of others were on the line. Its flames were fanned by the constant threat of death and the thrill of adventure.
Unfortunately, I never could pass up an opportunity to prove Mycroft wrong. Even if normal dating wasn't in our nature, I would show my older brother that I was serious about Maxine—that I wanted her beside me for the rest of my life.
When I finished explaining the encounter with Mycroft to Maxine in the theatre lobby, she smiled and gave a small chuckle.
"He was really doing all those things to poke at you?" she asked. "The whole kissing my hand and showering me in compliments?"
"Well, I wouldn't be surprised if he meant the compliments," I replied. "Even Mycroft can appreciate a beautiful woman."
Maxine's cheeks tinged red and she lowered her gaze nervously. I often forgot how bashful she was when it came to praise regarding her looks. It wasn't something I commented on too much; perhaps I should start doing it more often... she looked awfully cute when she was shy.
"He doesn't approve of us, though?" Maxine asked, clearly eager to change the subject.
"Mycroft doesn't approve of most of the things I do in life," I said. "His opinion doesn't matter, Max, I assure you. He's just trying to prove a point. He loves doing that."
"I'm glad you stood up for us to him," Maxine murmured, smiling again.
"I'd do nothing else," I said, checking the time on my mobile. "The theatre should be opening up. Shall we go sit through a half hour of ads and trailers?"
"The trailers are the best part," Maxine said, getting to her feet.
I sent one more glance out the front windows of the theatre and wondered how fast it would be to enter the alleyway from the parking lot. Was the entrance visible from there? I'd make a more thorough search after the movie.
The cinema was, of course, quite long. We watched as Bilbo Baggins was taken along on an adventure by Gandalf and several dwarves. All in all, it was a adequate film. Some of the fight scenes broke the laws of physics, but I went by some advice Maxine had given me regarding fiction and put it aside to enjoy the story.
When I grew bored, I would sneak glances at her. She stared up at the screen with eyes full of awe and hunger. Maxine had said on multiple occasions that fiction is one of the things that kept her going. She adored the impossible and the fantastic; I assumed that was part of why she loved throwing herself into danger so much as well. She wanted to simulate the feeling of being part of some grand adventure.
I marveled at her expression. I'd always been desperate to find appeal in the fictional world of cinemas, books, and later even a few video games, but nothing could hold my attention like the thrill of a good case. Maxine and I had a lot in common, but she held onto a connection to this world that I couldn't—the fantasy world of other people's minds. There was something strangely intimate about reading another person's invented tale or watching their created project on screen. It was like they were sharing a piece of their soul.
That was something I was never good at—intimacy. Kissing Maxine and holding her hand was still a wild and unpredictable ride for me: one that I both cherished and longed to get on again and that I wanted to bail out of at the first opportunity, screaming. She was purity and chaos all at the same time—bliss and sheer anxiety.
Yet, I was pleased I'd managed to ask her out and that she agreed. I was utterly thrilled that I could call her mine and she could call me hers. There was something... liberating about the whole thing; but I was still terrified most of the time. I couldn't help but wonder if she felt the same or if sharing herself like this was easy like how she shared her manga to the world.
As the movie went on, the two of us held hands on and off. I think both of us realized that while the physical connection was pleasant, the hand sweat wasn't. A small jolt would shoot through me every time out skin touched again. I simultaneously wanted to smack her hand away and hold onto it even tighter.
When the film finally ended, Maxine stretched her arms up over her head and gave a contented sigh. I realized that I'd never actually sat through a full cinema at the theatre before; I'd always lost interest and left. Yet Maxine had managed to hold my attention for two and a half hours.
"Well, that was nice," she said as the lights overhead began to shine brighter. "A few differences from the books, but that's always to be expected. Besides, I love J. R. Tolkien, but the Hobbit was a rather dry read."
Maxine looked over to see me staring at her. She slowly perked a brow and her cheeks began to pink.
"Uh, is there something on my face?" she asked with a nervous laugh.
"Er, no, no." I shook my head and adverted my gaze. "My apologies. I just..." I'd been admiring her beauty, but I didn't feel comfortable admitting that. Despite us being together, there were certain boundaries I was uncertain of.
Maxine smiled lightly at me as she got to her feet. "You flatter me," she murmured.
Of course she knew. I sighed and stood up as well. "No, I fancy you," I corrected, taking her hand in mine to lead her out of the theatre.
Once outside, I began to walk toward the alleyway, Maxine's hand still in mine.
"Where are we going?" she inquired. "The main road's the other way."
"Yes, but the restaurant I'd like us to go to is nearby," I said. "This is a shortcut."
Maxine gave me another knowing grin and squeezed my hand. "All right. Whatever you say."
When we entered the alley, it was empty save a couple of bins. The scent was faintly sour from garbage, but there was something else clinging to the air as well—something sharp and sterile.
"Did someone clean the pavement down here?" Maxine said, glancing around. "It smells of bleach."
"Mm, yes. I was more intent on getting here before they cleaned up the crime scene, but I didn't get word of this one until the day after it happened," I replied.
Maxine beamed at me. "So we are on a case," she whispered with excitement.
I returned her smile. "Of course, what sort of date would it be without one?" I paused about halfway down the alley and released her hand to dig into my coat pocket. "Though, if it's all right with you, I'd like to keep pretending it's a normal day out so that I can win fifty pounds from Mycroft."
Maxine laughed. "Oh, anything to spurn your brother."
I pulled out my magnifier and squatted on the ground. There were still dark stains on the pavement from the gored body. I peered at it with my magnifier, letting my mind slip into deduction mode. It was surprisingly easy despite how caught up I was in my feelings for Maxine.
"What do we have?" Maxine prompted.
"Male, 21 years old, named Arthur Quinn," I explained. "Killed in a savage dog attack, according to the papers."
"But not according to you?" Maxine guessed.
"I managed to get some pictures from the autopsy," I replied. "Molly was kind enough to send them my way when I asked."
Maxine's face twisted a bit at the sound of Molly's name. I sighed and looked up at her.
"I wasn't manipulative, I assure you," I said. "I think she's actually quite grateful to you."
"How d'you mean?" Maxine asked.
"Well..." I cleared my throat awkwardly. "She's been running off this false hope for so long that we'd end up together. You sort of cemented it in her mind that it won't happen. Now she can move on."
"You really think she doesn't have a crush on you anymore?" Maxine said disbelievingly.
"Most girls would be jealous, not worried that their boyfriend was exploiting someone's feelings without any romantic intent," I pointed out.
"Well, if I was most girls, you wouldn't be dating me," Maxine retorted.
I shrugged in amendment. Turning my attention back on the stains, I pocketed my magnifier and pulled out my mobile. "There are certain wounds on the young man that isn't consistent with the bites of a dog. They're very subtle—very carefully hidden. I was hoping to take a look at the body in person, but Mycroft showed up."
"What marks are you on about?" Maxine said, crouching beside me.
I brought up the photos on my phone and zoomed in on the man's neck. Most of it had been torn out—his cause of death, according to Molly—but just above the ripped flesh was a small, bloody pinprick.
"A bug bite?" Maxine frowned.
"No," I said. "A needle mark. Someone injected him with a sedative. When I asked Molly to test for it, the results came back positive. Someone rendered him unconscious and then did all this to him. Look."
I zoomed out then went back in on a different picture, this of the man's right hand.
"Here we see dark fur is under his nails and in his palm, suggesting he attempted to defend himself from a German Shepherd or another large dog. Someone was intent on making this look like something it isn't. It's very well done; it fooled the police and Molly even though no one heard the attack and there were no witnesses either."
I flipped to another picture, this one focused on bite wounds on the man's right arm and shoulder.
"These bite marks aren't consistent with how a dog actually bites," I said. "A dog bites down and pulls. There's no drag on the puncture wounds—it's like he was just stabbed with the teeth straight down. But these are bite marks from the upper and lower jaws of a large herding dog. So, the killer used actual jaw bones—or replicated jaw bones—from a dog to make them."
Maxine shook her head and furrowed her brow in bewilderment. "So they make their murder look like a dog did it. Bizarre, but I suppose it would have worked if it wasn't for you."
I frowned back at the stains on the ground. "I don't know," I murmured. "I feel like there's something more to it, something that I'm missing."
"What d'you mean?" Maxine asked.
"Why a dog attack?" I said, looking over at her. "There are easier things to use to cover up a murder. Countless poisons, framing other people, disposing of the body completely... this person is clearly stealthy enough to leave the body here before anyone noticed. He moved this man here, sedated, then proceeded to kill him by way of a dog's jaws."
"So, what now?" Maxine asked with a small sigh.
"Not certain," I admitted, standing and peering around the alley. "I'd hoped I would be able to find something more at the scene but Anderson and his ilk have stripped it clean... there's nothing of use for me here. Let's go eat. Perhaps we'll think of something on full stomaches."
Maxine nodded and we both stood. This time, she was the one who took my hand before we began to walk. The motion startled me; I wasn't used to her making any moves toward physical contact, not in public at least. I fought down the jolting sensation it shot through my body and forced myself to concentrate.
Maxine
Sherlock took us to a small restaurant that was just inside Whitechapel. They served rather delicious Mexican food and as I chewed my burrito, I glanced up at the detective across the table from me. He was staring out the window with a pensive expression, clearly trying to make pieces fit together. My own mind was buzzing with discontent. I kept thinking about the email Miyako sent me.
Part of me wanted to tell Sherlock about it, but I had a feeling he'd overreact. Mycroft was right about Sherlock's feelings affecting his normally rational mind. Even back when he first found out the truth about my time in Japan, the detective had been uncharacteristically emotional. Perhaps that was when his feelings for me had first started developing. If I told him about the email, he'd likely call off our date and the case we were sneakily working and put me on 24 hour police protection.
I took out my mobile and looked at it from under the table. My email account was linked to it, and I could see the one from Miyako on the unread list. My heart gave an insistent thud against my chest as if egging me to open it. My friend could be in serious trouble and I might be able to help her, or... it was the Yakuza trying to locate me to use me against her.
Regardless of the truth, it would be dangerous to open the email, and that was why it was so damned tempting.
"It's a message," Sherlock suddenly said.
I blinked, startled out of my inner turmoil. I locked my phone and looked up at him.
"Sorry?" I said.
Sherlock turned to meet my eyes. "Why else would someone kill someone in such a manner?" he replied. "It's a message. He's trying to communicate with someone. But who? The man's family? Friends? Who was Arthur Quinn connected to that would warrant such a thing?"
His eyes began to gleam and his lips began to twist in a small smile. It was the look of delighted realization he'd often get during cases—a look I cherished. He reached across the table and grabbed my hand.
"We've got something," he said. "We'll look into Quinn's colleagues, friends, family. There must be something there."
"Does he have family in London?" I asked.
"Let's find out." Sherlock released my hand and took out his mobile. He typed on the screen, either sending a text or searching the internet.
I took another bite of my burrito as he worked and cast my eyes out the window. It was beginning to rain outside and passerby took out their umbrellas or hurried down the street if they were unlucky enough to lack one. I spotted a small tour group all clutching pamphlets with jagged red font reading: RIPPER STREETS. Of course, being in Whitechapel, tourists often were eager to walk the streets and alleys that Jack the Ripper left his victims.
"We're near one of the sights?" I inquired, nodding at the group out the window.
Sherlock looked up from his phone long enough to follow my gaze before refocusing on texting. "Yes—just down the street is where they found Anne Chapman. Ah, looks like Arthur has an older brother. Kyle Quinn, 26. He lives in Westminster. Seems the police have already questioned him once, according to Lestrade."
I ate more of my burrito before responding. "Did Lestrade think he was suspicious in any way?"
"It's Lestrade," Sherlock replied dryly. "Of course he didn't. He was even going to let this one be chalked off as an animal attack."
"Shall we go ask some questions of our own, then?" I suggested.
"Yes—it looks like there's an art shop nearby his flat. We can use that as our excuse for going over there," Sherlock said.
Outside, there was a sudden cry of shock and horror. More joined it by the time I turned my head in time to see the tour group members were moving back from the building next door. Sherlock was immediately on his feet, his eyes sharpening. I went after him, abandoning what was left of my burrito on the plate.
When we exited the restaurant, we hurried down the sidewalk toward the center of the block. The shops were all connected as one large complex, and consuming nearly half of the massive building was a car dealership. Number 29 bore a black door and didn't have any windows like the rest of the dealership. Graffiti tags covered the brick wall and door, showing that not much care was given to it.
From the roof hanged the thing that sent the tourists scattering. A young woman's body was strung up by her neck and her gut had been slashed open to allow her innards to spill out. Her blood was still seeping from her wounds down onto the walkway and she swung back and forth slowly.
This just happened. Whoever did it might still be on the roof.
Sherlock must have been thinking the same thing, for he rushed forward down the street to our right. I turned and sprinted after him, heart hammering in my ears. We turned the corner in front of the dealership, but Sherlock ran right past the entrance. It wasn't likely they had access to the roof from inside in a building like this. We'd have better luck in the alley.
Sure enough, when we turned down the alley, there was a latter leading up to the roof near the bins. Sherlock propelled himself up it two rungs at a time and was on the roof before I could even grab the ladder. Hurrying after him, I clamored over the lip of the roof and got to my feet. Sherlock had ran toward the center of the roof where a bucket sat with a rope attached to it. There had to be some sort of weights inside of it to be a decent enough anchor for the swinging body.
I looked left and right, panting as I searched for any sign of the murderer. The roof was flat and didn't have many objects to hide behind. Whoever did this wasn't up here any longer. Sherlock seemed to realize there wasn't much point in searching further; our perpetrator was gone—lost in the crowds below. He pulled out his phone and pressed it to his ear as I trotted to his side. Sure enough, there were three cinder blocks inside the large bucket holding up the body.
"Lestrade," Sherlock said into his mobile. "Don't suppose you've gotten a 999 call regarding a body at 29 Hansbury Street... Yes, yes, Max and I are already here..." He paused, listening while stepping over to the roof's edge and peering down at the corpse. "You might want to hurry. There's quite a crowd." He switched off his phone and pocketed it before walking back to the bucket.
"Sherlock..." I said slowly as he examined the bucket without touching it. "This... this is the same address as the Ripper murder, isn't it? 29?"
Sherlock nodded. "Seems another case has fallen in our lap," he murmured. "Someone's copycat murdering off Jack the Ripper." He exhaled sharply through his nose as he straightened up. "He couldn't dump the body in a back garden because it doesn't exist anymore, so instead..."
"He tosses the body off the roof after he..." I trailed off as I spotted the blanket laid out nearby. It was a dark purple shade and its plush surface was stained with a large blood pool. A single tool laid on it, blood-stained like the blanket—a sickle. Next to it laid a piece of paper weighed down by a small stone.
"The murder weapon, I'm assuming," Sherlock said, following my gaze. "And a note."
I nervously walked over to the blanket and squatted down next to it. The stone obscured most of the writing on it. Sherlock came to my side and stared down at it with me.
"Should we move anything?" I asked. "Forensics—"
"Oh, Anderson will survive with a picture," Sherlock muttered, pulling out his mobile and snapping a photograph. He paused for a moment, seeming to consider something, then he turned the phone's camera to face me and took another picture.
I blinked at the abruptness of it and frowned at him. "Why'd you do that?" I asked.
"I've been meaning to get more pictures of you," Sherlock replied without meeting my gaze. "It's nice to be able to look at them when you're not around. Anyway, what's this note say?"
Crouching beside me, Sherlock reached into his pocket to stow his phone away and pull out some latex gloves.
"You had some with you?" I asked incredulously.
Sherlock then handed me my own pair and winked. "Of course."
I laughed softly before pulling on the gloves. Sherlock reached forward and grabbed the paper before removing the stone. He then held the letter between us so we could both read it. The script was elegant and written in red ink. It read:
From Hell,
Dear Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'll be sending you Miss Francine's kidney on the 'morrow so that you might know me. Think of it as a gift. I do hope you tell your friend Sherlock about it. I'd love to play with him.
"'From Hell...'" I breathed. "Jack the Ripper was said to have sent a letter titled that, and he sent the Inspector half a kidney."
"Yes, though that letter was far less literate and was clearly a copycat killer to the true Jack the Ripper," Sherlock replied. "Regardless, this man is desperate to make an impression. He wants to be noticed."
"Don't most serial killers?" I said.
"Certainly, but there's something else about it..." Sherlock murmured. "Why request for me personally?" His expression tightened with dread and confusion.
"Moriarty?" I whispered the dreaded name.
"No," Sherlock said. "No, no... Moriarty would be more direct, I think. He'd announce it was him in the letter."
"So someone else who's a fan of yours?" I suggested.
Sherlock shook his head. "It's too soon to tell anything... Judging by this note, he wasn't expecting us to come across the crime scene before Lestrade, which tells us he didn't know we were eating just down the street."
"Huh." I shook my head in bewilderment. "Coincidences just don't seem possible for us."
"They can happen on occasion," Sherlock admitted. He pulled a plastic baggy from his coat pocket and carefully put the letter inside.
"Do you just have crime scene gear on you all the time?" I asked him.
He shrugged. "Comes in handy." He frowned down at the crime scene again. "He killed her here, but she didn't make a sound."
"Drugged her first," I said.
Sherlock nodded grimly. "We can make sure there's a toxicology report on the body. Perhaps we'll learn something from it..."
When the first police cars arrived to start sanctioning off the street, I peered over the ledge to look for Lestrade. Sherlock and I remained on the roof for the time being to examine what the killer left. We figured that moving the hanging body would make Anderson have an aneurism.
I spotted the Detective Inspector step out of one of the patrol cars and gape at the corpse with a mixture of horrified awe and barely-contained rage. I supposed that seeing a young girl butchered in such a fashion would anger the majority of people. It was awful—a part of my mind did register that—but there was another part that shoved aside the horror of it to instead focus on figuring out who did this and why.
Sherlock appeared at my side and called out, "Inspector!"
Lestrade lifted his head to see us. He blinked a few times and looked around for how we managed to get up on the roof.
"The alley," I explained. "There's a ladder."
"Is there anything up there?" Lestrade asked.
"Oh yes," Sherlock replied. "Hurry up, will you? I want to look at the body."
It took about a half an hour for the officers to bring the young woman's corpse down. In that time, we had to deal with Anderson's irate behavior about us 'contaminating' his crime scene. Sherlock didn't bother mentioning the note to him; in fact, he didn't bring it up until we were back on the ground where the body was laid out.
"Found this on the roof on the blanket," Sherlock said, shoving the bagged piece of paper against Lestrade's chest as he walked over to crouch by the corpse.
Lestrade read it and let out an exasperated huff. "Another killer looking for you specifically?"
"Another killer who's bored and wants a challenge," Sherlock corrected. He wrinkled his nose at the state of the girl's body and pulled his magnifier from his pocket.
"What were you two doing over here, anyway?" Lestrade asked.
"Er, lunch," I replied. Lestrade knew—like the rest of London thanks to John's blog—that Sherlock and I were dating, but he seemed to constantly forget about it.
"Oh? Oh." Lestrade blinked several times and cleared his throat awkwardly. "J-just lunch? Like... like a date?"
"Why is it so hard for people to believe?" Sherlock muttered as he carefully examined the girl's hands.
"We saw the first Hobbit movie earlier," I added. Perhaps planting the idea that Sherlock and I truly were on an ordinary date wouldn't force Sherlock to lose his bet with Mycroft, seeing as we certainly weren't going to complete a day's worth of activities with this case landing on top of us.
"Oh, yes, I heard that was out," Lestrade mused. "Doesn't the fellow that plays Bilbo look an awful lot like John?"
"We do have a dead body here," Sherlock interjected. "Strange that I have to be the one to remind you of that, Inspector."
"Sorry," Lestrade said, looking down at the corpse. "I think I just wanted a momentary distraction. Poor girl. This guy is really copying Jack the Ripper?"
"You saw the letter," I said. "'From Hell.'"
"Yes, but..." Lestrade's face twisted up. "It doesn't add up, does it? That letter came from a different murder than that of Anne Chapman, who died here back in 1888."
"And a copycat-killer to boot," Sherlock put in, moving his magnifier up the girl's torn and bloodied sweater.
"It's like he has his facts wrong," I said. "Either that, or he is merely trying to emphasize the fact that he's doing this as a... loose reenactment of Jack the Ripper's work."
"Something to get attention," Sherlock said softly. "Something to snare the public's eye to ensure that..."
"That you would end up on the case." I squatted down at Sherlock's side and eyed the girl's body.
"Are we sure it's not Moriarty?" Lestrade pressed.
"He wasn't the one who did this," Sherlock murmured. "But that isn't to say he isn't involved somehow. Remember how he incited a cabbie to become a serial killer?"
"Well, I don't think Jeff Hope enjoyed his work," I pointed out. "Not truly. He gave off the impression, but he was already a dying man and he was acting to help his children. Whoever did this... they cherished carving this girl."
"How can you tell?" Sherlock asked me, though I figured he already knew what I was talking about.
"Look at how clean the cuts are," I said, pointing to the girl's open gut. "Smooth, precise, like a stroke of an artist's brush. He left the things up on the roof for us as well—a staged crime scene. He could have experience with surgical work, or he could simply be very, very even-handed. With a sickle no less."
"I agree," Sherlock murmured, looking back at the body. "Though, with how those cuts are... I don't think that the sickle was the thing to cut her open."
"So why leave the bloodied sickle?" Lestrade asked.
"Not certain," Sherlock replied. "Have it tested—make sure the blood on it belongs to the victim. Seems there are organs missing—her kidneys, her uterus and ovaries."
"Just like some of Jack the Ripper's victims," Lestrade rasped.
Sherlock nodded grimly. "Anne Chapman was the second victim. I'm going to suggest that you have police watching the other murder sights, Lestrade, and check your missing persons reports for young women."
"Y-yeah, of course," Lestrade stammered. "That's the best course of action. I'll get word back to the station. Take a few more minutes to get what you can. I can't keep Anderson back for much longer."
As Lestrade stepped away while pulling out his mobile, I turned to face Sherlock.
"Any idea who this girl is?" I asked. "Perhaps there's something about her identity that can help us."
"Mm..." Sherlock shifted closer to the girl's legs and carefully reached into her jean pockets. He found a wallet in the left one and flipped it open to peer at the ID inside. "Heather Peterson. 19." He pursed his lips as he replaced the wallet. "She lives nearby. I'd assume still with her parents, given the quality of her clothes." He pulled out her mobile from another pocket and switched it on. After going through it for a moment, he put it back and exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Should we go speak with the family?" I inquired as Sherlock got to his feet, stowing away his magnifier.
"No, no," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "Lestrade or someone else needs to inform them of her death first. At times, it can be valuable to witness family members' first reaction, but I feel in this case, they'll be useless for the next twenty-four hours."
"What makes you say that?" I tilted my head at him as I straightened up.
"No sign of bruising or other signs of neglect or abuse on her," Sherlock replied. "Her contacts in her phone list a father, but not a mother. Single father, most likely—cherishes his daughter, given the photos, but not in an unhealthy sense. Doubtful he's involved."
"Oh, well, then..." I glanced over the body once more, furrowing my brow. "So, what, we just sit on this until tomorrow? Or did you find something else?"
"Nothing on this one, but we still have Arthur Quinn's brother to go speak to," Sherlock replied. "Lestrade will contact us if there's anything else of note, but I doubt he'll find anything here at the scene."
"Not often another case falls into our lap while we're working one," I noted softly. "But yes, let's go see the brother. What's his name again?"
"Kyle," Sherlock said. "Not too far from here; we can walk. Don't think we could get a cab anyway with all the police around..."
With that, the detective replaced the dead girl's items back in her pockets and peeled off his latex gloves. As we walked out of the crime scene, Anderson and Donovan shot us some heated glares.
"Why am I not surprised to see the two of you here before us?" Anderson snarled. "Interesting development. Dead bodies tend to follow you lot."
"Perhaps because that's my line of work," Sherlock replied coolly.
"Is it true you're actually dating that lunatic?" Donovan demanded of me.
I blinked and glanced over at Sherlock while I took his hand. "Is that so surprising? And I didn't know you read John's blog, Sergeant."
Donovan's cheeks darkened and she glanced away. "Knew there was something up with you. I suppose freaks ought to keep together—no-one else will take you."
Sherlock's grip on my hand tightened slightly and paused before Donovan to glare down at her. "Well, at least us freaks understand the concept of monogamy and faithfulness. Anderson, get a different cologne—this one is far to potent."
Leaving the two speechless, he pulled me along after him under the police tape and down the road. A smile creeped along my lips and I looked over at him.
"You've never let the 'freak' word bother you that much before," I said.
"It's different when it's just me they're insulting," Sherlock said. "It doesn't bother me too much anymore. However, for them to speak ill of you is an entirely new story—one that doesn't end well for them."
A warmth fluttered through me at his protectiveness. I beamed at him and gave his hand a light squeeze. "Well, I couldn't care less what they say. Your opinion is what matters to me. Well, John's too, I suppose."
"I can assure you that my opinion of you is immeasurably high," Sherlock replied.
He glanced toward me and we paused for a moment. The detective seemed fidgety and unsure of himself as his eyes darted between the two of mine.
"What?" I asked with a small nervous laugh.
"I'm just... I'd like to kiss you right now." Sherlock then looked around us where there were several people coming and going—pedestrians attracted to the police tape like moths to a flame.
We still weren't good at expressing our affection toward one another in front of other people. It was like there was some strange sort of veil between us that we had to fight to get through—one that both of us felt like we'd drown in if we stayed inside it too long.
"Why is chasing and fighting killers so much easier than this?" I whispered.
Sherlock exhaled in amusement and smiled. "This is a different sort of... vulnerability."
I hesitantly moved one hand to his shoulder and began to pull him closer. Seeming pleased about the initiated move, Sherlock obliged by leaning in, pressing his lips against mine. It was a brief, electric moment, and then we pulled away from one another abruptly, both warily glancing around.
No-one seemed the least bit interested in us.
"Hoo..." I breathed through my still-tingling lips. "Well. That was..."
"Terrifying," Sherlock said. He was staring into my eyes again. "Sh...shall we try again?"
I gave one small laugh before his hand cupped the back of my neck to bring me in again. This time, we remained against one another for longer. It was a deep, heated feeling. It made me forget everything but him—his curly hair in my fingers and his chest pressed against mine. Then, we separated slowly, both of us out of breath.
"Ah..." Sherlock rasped. "Well... let's get to the Quinn residence, yes?"
"Yeah," I replied, my smile coming easier to me this time.