The bad news: Obviously, we had something of an unintended hiatus.
The good news: We're back!
Disclaimer: Not our characters, but we promise to play nicely with them.
"So where are we going, exactly?" Watson asks as they settle themselves into the car.
"Union Square Park," Kirkpatrick replies as he turns up the heat to take off the worst of the early morning chill.
He seems disinclined to provide any further details and Watson is studiously poring through missed calls and voicemails, so Sherlock stares out the window and rubs his fingertips and thumb together as they make their way to the Flatiron district. He wanted to give her the space she seems to need in order to process what's transpired between them, but as he was helping her with her coat, he'd been completely helpless to keep himself from pulling her hair aside. She brushed it before they left, pulled out any tangles that may have occurred while they were sleeping, or before, when they were definitely not sleeping. Even as he reached his arm out, he knew how the warm weight of her tresses would cascade across his hand, how soft and smooth they would feel against his palm, but the memory alone wasn't enough to sustain him, and if she even noticed his indulgence, she didn't acknowledge it.
The interior of the vehicle becomes increasingly, almost uncomfortably, warm, and Sherlock suddenly realizes that he can smell her on his skin. She favors sharp, natural scents for her personal care products: citrus, sandalwood, rosemary, only occasionally indulging in the softer florals, most notably jasmine and gardenia. He lifts a hand to his face, ostensibly to rub at the stubble along his jaw, and breathes in the lingering scents of bergamot and ginger. It's disconcerting for just the barest moment before his mind fully processes why the scent is there, and then it becomes familiar and comforting.
When they finally arrive, the officer opens her door and he slides across the seat behind her, noticing in passing that she smells faintly of beeswax and the oil he'd been using last night to lubricate his locks. In short, he can smell himself on her, and, for just a moment, he feels a surge of something vaguely animalistic and more than a little proprietary well up inside of him. He tamps the feeling down ruthlessly and forces himself to focus on why they're here.
Kirkpatrick escorts them past the crime scene tape to the body of a young woman, most likely in her mid-twenties, splayed out face up on the ground next to the fountain. The larger body of a man is crumpled face-down across her legs. Captain Gregson and Detective Bell are already on the scene, as are a much larger than usual contingent of photographers and forensic technicians than is usually warranted by the cases they investigate.
"Glad you two finally made it," the captain says drolly.
Watson starts guiltily for a moment and opens her mouth to offer an excuse before looking at Sherlock uncertainly and then closing it again.
"We're here now, so why don't you catch us up?" he offers.
"You really didn't notice any of this on the news feeds?" Bell asks.
They shrug and look at him blankly as another low rumble of thunder reverberates in the heavy predawn air.
"We were occupied with other matters," Sherlock replies. It's the absolute truth, but it still feels like a prevarication of sorts.
"Well, it's the damnedest thing." Bell points to the smaller victim. "The woman collapses, the man does CPR for a couple of minutes while someone calls for an ambulance, and then he stops suddenly and faceplants. After that, no one would go near them, not even the EMT's. Emergency services thought it might be a gas leak or something from under the fountain and evacuated the area. The hazmat teams finally finished up and gave us the all-clear an hour or so ago. Some of the details are sketchy since a lot of the witnesses fled the scene early on, but it looks like they were together, maybe on a date."
"I can see why everyone was alarmed." Watson approaches the bodies and puts on a pair of gloves before turning the face of the woman toward them. Her skin, where not obscured by makeup, isn't merely the dusky grey of the recently deceased, it's a dark, bluish color. "It may not have been gas, but it sure looks like they were poisoned by something."
Where visible, the male victim's skin is a similar dark hue. "It was obviously fast-acting," Sherlock offers, "and if it wasn't environmental, then that leaves the administration of a topical, or more likely, an ingested poison."
"Maybe a cyanide?" She turns questioning eyes up to him, meeting his gaze fully for the first time since she descended the stairs in the brownstone. If he had any qualms about her ability to maintain her usual level of professionalism in light of recent events, they're gone now.
"I can't think of any more likely possibilities," he agrees, "but if so, they must have been exposed very recently. And there's always the possibility that she was the only intended victim and he was exposed through the mouth-to-mouth contact."
Watson points to a paper coffee cup from a nearby shop still standing on the rim of the fountain. "We should have that analyzed. Most poisons are bitter, and the coffee would have masked that." She narrows her eyes for a moment before looking back at the female victim. "It's hard to be sure, given the skin discoloration, but I think the lipstick on the lid matches hers, so this was likely her cup."
A second cup lies beside the fountain, partially underneath the man's body. The top has fallen off and the contents have largely spilled across the pavement, but there should be enough remaining to obtain a sample of it as well.
Sherlock drops to his knees and takes a cautious sniff of the spilt coffee. "Vanilla soy latte, slight dusting of cinnamon. No hint of almonds, bitter or otherwise."
"As impressive as your sense of smell is, Sherlock, I think a GC/mass spec might yield better results," Watson replies drolly.
"Undoubtedly," he agrees as he gets to his feet and dusts off his hands.
As he backs away from the corpse, technicians move in to take samples of the fluids and the medical examiner prepares the first body for removal.
"So are your Spidey senses tingling at all?" the captain asks hopefully.
"I believe that Watson and I agree that an ingested poison is the likely cause of death. Beyond that, the scene isn't of much value."
He looks toward her and she nods as a smattering of raindrops begins to fall at the end of the block, gradually moving toward them. "Any chance we could observe the autopsies?"
"I'll make sure you have access," Gregson says. "Bell will take you down to the station and brief you on the way about what we know about the victims."
They follow the detective for no more than a dozen steps before the rain begins in earnest. Neither of them thought to bring an umbrella, so Bell leaves them under a nearby shop awning before going to fetch his car. The two of them stand awkwardly in silence for a long moment while he ponders the best way to begin a dialogue.
"Watson, we never got an opportunity to discuss—"
"Last night?" she finishes for him. "It's okay, Sherlock. You don't have to explain. It was an aberration, I know. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed it, but I was never any good at friends with benefits. I can't imagine partners with benefits being any different."
She doesn't understand, and really, how could he expect her to? He's always thought that the term "friends with benefits" should more likely be "friends with complications". Since Watson's come into his life, however, things have been simpler and clearer than he had ever previously envisioned. She's already his friend (and his partner) with benefits too many to enumerate.
Last night, she trusted him enough to truly reveal herself, not just the public persona that she shares with her friends and colleagues. She was wanton, beautiful in her pleasure, generous in his own, and she'd seemed unencumbered by notions of propriety considering their former client/companion relationship.
This morning, everything is as it was yesterday, and he can't help but feel a sharp pang of loss over something that it seems he never truly had.
End of chapter 3