Jean's POV
"You really think a pretend drug-bust is the way to make me cooperate?" Sherlock demanded sassily. "It stops being pretend if we find anything," Lestrade countered. Anderson, Donovan and a few other Yarders were rummaging, all of whom, I guessed, Sherlock had given a good dressing down at some point or another, were rummaging about in the bedrooms and kitchen. "What, this guy, a junkie?" I asked. I found the notion laughable. "Have you seen this man?" Sherlock turned towards me, biting his lip nervously. "Jean, you might want to shut up now," he hissed and I looked up at him in astonishment. His eyes were dark with guilt and shame, much to my shock. "You?" I asked in a whisper. "I'm clean. Have been for years. I'm clean." He had turned back to Lestrade, but I could tell the words were also for me. And to my on going surprise, I believed him.
"Yes, but is your flat? All of it?" Lestrade taunted, with a smirk. "For goodness' sake," Sherlock was getting exasperated. "I don't even smoke." He rolled up his sleeve to reveal the nicotine patch on his arm. Lestrade's smirk grew wider. "Neither do I." He rolled up his own sleeve to show the same thing in his own arm. "So, let's work together. We found Rachel."
That caught Sherlock's interest. "Who is she? Where is she?" "Her daughter; she's dead." I frowned as Sherlock yelled, "Excellent. There must be a connection." "I doubt it," the DI responded dryly. "Rachel Wilson was her still born child, fourteen years ago."
I grimaced, while Sherlock visibly deflated. "Why would she mention her then?" He wondered. Anderson laughed mockingly. "Why would she think of her dead daughter in her last moments? You really are a psychopath, not that we needed any more proof." Sherlock wheeled around furiously. "I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research," he snapped. "And she didn't think about her daughter, she scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying; it would have taken effort, it would hurt."
"You said that they all took the poison by themselves," I spoke slowly, inviting everyone's attention. "Maybe he talks to them, you know. Maybe he used her daughter's death somehow?" Sherlock walked back to my side. "Yeah, but that was years ago. Why would she still be upset?"
I stared at him, bewildered. My expression was reflected on all the officers' faces. Sherlock seemed to realize something. Nibbling at the corner of his mouth nervously, he leaned in towards me, his eyes focused solely on me. "Not good?" He guessed in a low voice. I looked around, wondering how to answer. "Bit not good, yeah." He jerked upright again. "Okay, but if you were dying, what would your last thoughts be?" "Please God, let me live." I didn't even have to think about the answer. Sherlock groaned. "Use your imagination." "I don't have to." Again, everyone stared at me in surprise and, in Sherlock's case, guilt. I could feel everyone's gazes on me, but I held Sherlock's eyes. I could read the apology in them and it occurred to me that only I could.
"Okay, but what if you know you're going to die and you're clever, really clever?" He resumed. "Jennifer Wilson was clever, running all those lovers." He paced the room frantically. "Come on, think, think, THINK! Oh!" He stopped, freezing completely, then chuckled. "Oh, she is clever. She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead." He looked around at us in glee. "When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer." We continued to stare back at him, waiting for an explanation.
He rolled his eyes. "Oh, Lord, why can't you people just think?" I shrugged. "Because we're all stupid?" I commented sarcastically, making him sigh. "Rachel is not a name," he said sternly. "Then what is it?" I demanded in the same tone. He pointed at the pink suitcase sitting on the coffee table. "There's an email address on the tag," he instructed and I walked over to look at it. Sure enough, there was an email address, which I read out. Sherlock picked up his laptop and settled at the desk. "Oh, I've been too slow," he chuckled in self-reproach. "She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled." He was typing rapidly, opening up the e-mail website. "So the email address would be her username and the password is…?" "Rachel," I finished, the logic finally dawning on me.
"So what if we can read her emails?" Anderson scoffed. "Don't talk, Anderson, you lower the IQ of the whole street," Sherlock muttered. I had to stifle a laugh at that and I could see Lestrade trying to do the same. "It would be GPS enabled, which means we can track her phone," Sherlock explained. "She could have dropped it," Lestrade reasoned. "But we know he didn't," I told him and he shot me a strange look. Sherlock sets the tracker and just then Mrs Hudson appeared at the doorway. "Sherlock, there's a taxi for you downstairs…" "Not now, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock left the chair and I took his place, watching the spinning map intently. "Sherlock," I called, worried. He didn't pay attention, busy talking to Lestrade. "Sherlock!" "What?" He turned to me, leaning over my shoulder to look at the screen. "It's here at 221B, Baker Street." "How can it be here?" He sounded more unsure than I had heard him all evening. "Maybe it fell out of the case and you didn't notice," Lestrade suggested. "I didn't notice? Me?" I had to admit the notion of the genius missing something so trivial was silly. "Besides we know he still has it. We messaged him earlier and he called back," I added and again Lestrade shot me that weird look.
He turned to give his men orders anyway. I turned to look at Sherlock. He was looking out the window, with his phone in his hand, looking shaken and slightly shell-shocked. "Do you think I should try again?" He didn't answer, but looked down at his phone, comprehension smoothing his brow. "Sherlock?" I asked again. He nodded absently. "Yes, try again," he agreed. I watched in confusion as he began to walk out of the apartment. "Where are you going?" I was suddenly suspicious. "I need some fresh air." "Sherlock, are you alright?" "Yes," he answered and walked downstairs without another glance.
Confused, I called Jennifer's number and walked over to the window. There was a taxi cab, the driver standing outside. The phone was ringing at my ear and downstairs, Sherlock appeared on the sidewalk. He seemed to be chatting with the cabbie before getting in. "He got into a cab," I yelped. "He's getting into a bloody cab." I turned back to Lestrade just as the can pulled away. Donovan was glaring at him, but he looked at me. "I'm calling on the number and it's ringing out," I explained. "That means it's not here," he agreed. "It doesn't matter," Donovan finally exclaimed, just short of screaming. "He's been wasting all of our time, just running us in circles all evening and you're letting him." She was staring daggers at both Lestrade and me, but I ignored it, more concerned about Sherlock. Something about his behaviour hadn't seemed right. As Lestrade gave the order of dismissal, I resumed my seat at the desk, typing in the tracking commands again. "Any idea why he left?" Lestrade seemed to be grasping at straws, as he put on his coat. "You've known him longer, you know him better than I do," I reminded him with a frown. "I've known him for five years and no, I don't." There was a hint of bitterness in his words and I surmised that he was right in a way. I had been able to keep up better with Sherlock after having met him just the day before, than any of these people who had apparently known him for half a decade. "Then why do you put up with him?" I wondered. "Because I'm desperate and Sherlock Holmes is a great man," he said. "And maybe one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one."
He left me wondering if I should really put up with him as well, but then my eyes fell on the walking cane I'd placed in the corner. What was I thinking? I couldn't leave Sherlock. The man had done what the best doctors in the army and my therapist has failed to accomplish. He'd cured me of my limp, my tremor and most importantly, he had made me feel more alive than ever since I'd left the army.
It was a few minutes after Lestrade left that the tracker located the phone. I stared at the location for a few seconds in a myriad of emotions: surprise, confusion, realization, horror. "Oh, shit," I cursed and ran out of the apartment.
"Sherlock!" I screamed. It was in vain. I could clearly see the two figures moving in sync; one tall and gangly, the other short and stooped, both their hands moving to their mouths. I waited for something to happen, waited. And when I realized that Sherlock was going to actually take the pill, I knew I had only one option. The police wouldn't be here fast enough. I raised my gun; my hand perfectly steady; took aim and pulled the trigger. I didn't bother staying a second longer; I turned on my heels and fled, just in time as sirens filled the air.
It barely took me five minutes to position myself so that it would seem as if I had just arrived. It took another ten minutes for the Yarders to retrieve Sherlock. He didn't spot me for several minutes more as the on-scene paramedics checked his vitals. Meanwhile, Sgt. Donovan gave me the rundown on the scenes, which I listened to politely, already having worked it out.
Finally, Sherlock was left alone with an orange blanket. I didn't go to him yet. But I could clearly hear him complaining even from this distance, his deep voice drowning out everything else in my ears. "But I'm not in shock!" I listened, looking the other way, as Sherlock talked to Lestrade about the gunshot and the 'mystery gunman'. "I'd say you're looking for someone with a history of military service and…" he slowed down, making me look in his direction. He was staring at me and I found myself smiling innocently. "Nerves of steel," he trailed off. "You know what, ignore that, it's just the shock talking." He mumbled something nonsense to convince Lestrade to let him go and walked over to me, ducking under the police tape to join me.
"Sgt. Donovan was just telling me… something to do with two pills? Dreadful really…" I was rambling, though I knew he had already worked it out. "Good shot," he cut me off quietly. I stopped. "Yes, it was." "You would know," he shot back. "Where's the gun?" "What?" I was still playing dumb. "Don't… just don't," he was smiling. "Where is it?" "Bottom of the Thames." He nodded, staring at me with something akin to wonder. "Are you alright?" He asked in concern. "You have just killed a man." I took a second to think about it. "That's true," I murmured. Surprisingly, it wasn't bothering me as much as it should. "But he wasn't a very nice man," I decided and Sherlock smiled, obviously convinced. "And frankly he was a bloody awful cabbie." He laughed and I joined in. "Yes, he was a bad cabbie," he agreed with a grin as we began to walk away from the scene. "You should have seen the route he took to get us here." That set me off again, with Sherlock chuckling beside me, all the tension left over from the events of the evening draining away. "Stop it, stop laughing. It's a crime scene, we can't giggle at a crime scene," I gasped. "Don't blame me, you're the one who shot him," Sherlock laughed. "Keep your voice down," I reprimanded through my laughter. We both sighed in pure exaltation. "Dinner?" Sherlock asked. "Starving," I agreed. "There's a good Chinese restaurant at the end of Baker Street," he said. "You can always tell a good Chinese restaurant, by the bottom third of the door handle." I scoffed, just as Lestrade caught up to us again.
"Hang on, Sherlock," he called. "I need your statement now." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but I got there first. "Inspector, to my certain knowledge, this man hasn't eaten anything for several days." Both men stared at me in surprise. "Now, if you want him alive for your next case, then what he's going to do right now is have dinner." I spoke in the firm, cool tone that came with giving orders and I could see the effect it had on the DI. "And who the hell are you?" He challenged me anyways. I glanced once at Sherlock. "I'm his doctor." "And only a fool argues with his doctor," Sherlock added, grinning again. Lestrade looked curiously between us. "Alright, I'll pull you in tomorrow then. Off you go."
I pulled Sherlock by his coat, before he could say anything more and he fell into step by me easily. It would have been the perfect end to the evening, except then I spotted a vaguely familiar figure in a black suit. "Sherlock," I said in alarm. "That's him, that's the man I was talking about." He looked to where I was pointing and immediately, his smile morphed into a scowl. "I know exactly who that is," he growled.