~xXx~
As suspected, 292 Sarsfield Rd. wasn't exactly close. His safe-house was on the far east side of London, and he'd caught a cab during peak evening traffic which put his estimated time of arrival approximately 37 minutes from now. Though, he supposed that the time the parcel was delivered and thus his time of his departure had been purposefully planned, if only because nothing Moriarty did was ever accidental. Sherlock snorted and leaned against the window of his cab, his mind iterating through Moriarty's words like a broken record.
Three bodies and three journals over the next three days.
Interesting. Were they already dead, or was there a chance that Sherlock could save them like before? He would have to assume the former for now. Moriarty's interest wasn't in watching him dance. No…this time he wanted Sherlock to understand something. But what? What point had he missed?
I'll be watching closely.
And what did that mean? Of course, Moriarty hadn't meant himself. Obvious. So then there was someone still loyal to him—someone still willing to have their strings pulled even though the puppet master was dead. Someone loyal enough to murder three people just to play this little game. But who could possibly be so loyal to a dead man? A sudden shiver wracked Sherlock's spine as John's name waded across his mind, and another annoying pang in his chest caused the detective to squirm uncomfortably in his seat.
John. He still needed to figure out the problem about John. Then maybe this feeling would stop distracting him. Sherlock checked his watch—judging from the driving pattern of the cabbie, the bleak weather, and the traffic, he still had 31 minutes before they arrived. That would be more than enough time.
Where then to start? Baskerville? No, he needed to go through all of it. All of it, starting from the very beginning.
Normally, Sherlock didn't keep detailed records of people in his mind-palace. Unless a specific need arose, he would just log important information—if there was any—and toss it in a back room somewhere. But for some reason he hadn't done that with John. John had his own room, up front and easily accessible so that Sherlock could peek in whenever he so chose. Sherlock told himself that living with the doctor made it pertinent that he do so, though he didn't bother to note that no one else he'd ever lived with had received the same treatment.
Alright. So he needed to find them—the moments. The important moments. Ones that stood out amongst the others because…well…because John had been trying to tell him something that he'd chosen to ignore. Not with words. Sherlock rarely ignored John's words. The message was something more subtle than that—something written between the lines of gestures and expressions. Maybe John didn't even know it himself. But the evidence was there—Sherlock just had to find it.
The beginning. He had to start from the beginning.
We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name.
No. Fast forward.
Of course it was. Extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.
Fast forward.
Alright…do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.
Stop. Zoom in. Play.
I know it's fine.
Eyebrows raised, slight hint of smile at corners of lips. Shoulders pushed back. Direct eye contact.
So you've got a boyfriend?
No signs of dilation in pupils or accelerated respiration.
No.
Break of eye contact, followed by a nod.
Right. Okay.
Short laughing sigh. Barest touch of red coloring the tips of his ears.
You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.
And Sherlock remembered finding this strange. It was the sigh—the thought that birthed it was impossible to determine, and Sherlock didn't like things he couldn't deduce from observation. But it still wasn't enough. Fast forward.
Stop. We can't giggle. It's a crime scene. Stop it.
Fast forward.
Do you realize you do that?
Stop. Ah, yes. There it was. Zoom in. Play.
They were having dinner at Angelo's again, as had become their habit on nights such as this one—boring ones where Sherlock would keep his phone on the table and glance at it every twenty seconds in hope that he'd received a text from Lestrade with the details of another murder that his incompetent subordinates couldn't hope to solve. After all, he and John couldn't exactly afford to eat out often, and Angelo was always more than happy to provide a free meal. Sherlock even ordered something this time; a rarity and a tall tale sign that this night had been one of the good ones.
"I'm sure you're bound to like at least one of them," John said. He was talking about James Bond movies. Apparently Sherlock had unwittingly agreed to a marathon of them. "Really, Sherlock, didn't your mum and dad ever take you to the cinema?"
"Why would they have?"
John blinked at him. "Because that's what families do?"
Sherlock sighed and took a drink from his glass of water. "Sounds boring."
"I'm starting to think everything sounds boring to you."
Ignoring him, the detective picked up his phone and unlocked it. He pulled down the notification bar with his thumb, and stared irately at it. "Why do you think Lestrade hasn't texted? It's been weeks since the pink lady—surely someone has been murdered."
"So you're upset no one's been brutally killed by some crazed serial killer then?"
Sherlock glared at him. "If that's supposed to be sarcasm, I'm ignoring it. If not, I'm also ignoring it."
John didn't even flinch, which was odd. Most people could barely stand maintaining eye contact with him for this long, let alone smile while doing it. "Maybe the police are actually—you know—doing their job."
Sherlock shut off his phone and placed it back on the table. "If their job consists of mucking things up, then yes I think you're right."
John nodded, his mouth twisting up into that amused smirk that Sherlock was still getting used to. John's mouth wasn't derisive like most peoples' were. "Well, if that's the case, you can be rest assured they'll be calling after you soon, hm? Until then, a Bond marathon will have to suffice."
"Dull."
"You know, some of them are actually quite clev—" he cut off abruptly just as a young woman walked past their table. John's dark sea-blue eyes abandoned Sherlock's to lock onto the woman's backside, which—Sherlock noted with a glance—was mostly covered by a thick, cream-colored coat. He spared her of his normal deductions, favoring John's appreciation of her instead. Interesting.
"Do you realize you do that?" Sherlock asked.
The doctor's eyelids fluttered slightly before his attention refocused on Sherlock. "Do what?"
"Stare at women for prolonged periods of time." Obviously. What else would he have meant? Really, normal people could be so idiotic. Luckily though, John wasn't as annoying about it as most. He didn't go around waving his normalcy in the air like some great banner that others were expected to follow without dissent—he didn't look down on Sherlock for being…different. In fact, more often than not, he commended him for it, usually with luscious, complimentary words that the detective had always known were true but enjoyed hearing nevertheless. Sherlock couldn't deny that he had offhandedly taken to making needless observations just to hear those laudatory words spill over John's lips.
"Do you not stare at women?"
"Dead women, yes. Live women, rarely, and not if I can avoid it. Though in both cases I don't think I take the amount of time you seem to enjoy." Sherlock smirked ever so slightly, silently enjoying the way John's eyes narrowed.
John's mouth quirked. "You're about to tell me something crazy, aren't you?"
"I'd say that heavily depends on your definition of crazy. Do you want to hear it?"
"No." A beat of silence followed by an aggravated sigh. "Alright, fine. Yes."
"The average straight male takes approximately 3.2 seconds to assess and appreciate a notable female passerby. Roughly 1.3 seconds for the face, 1 second for the breasts and/or backside, and the remaining to the general symmetry and proportion of the body. You, however, take an average of 5.9 seconds to make the same deductions—nearly double the time though you are neither slow of wit nor socially dysfunctional. So why then? Why the prolonged stare? Perhaps a trait learned from your father? No—facial muscle contraction and frequency of blinking suggest that this is not a habit you gained subconsciously. This is something you're aware of, at least on some level. So there was a point when you felt you had to adopt this idiosyncrasy, probably to sate some social dictation of a group of men that you valued the opinion of. A mannerism most likely learned in the army then. So there was a time during your service when you felt you had to do more than just look at women, you had to make a point of looking at women." Sherlock hummed and leaned over the table. "Fascinating. Tell me why."
John just stared at him with large, dark eyes, his mouth falling open and snapping shut several times before he actually got a word out. "I—that's not—" But that was all he was able to utter before Angelo arrived at their table, food in hand.
He set down their plates of pasta, laughing that deep gravelly laugh that sometimes made Sherlock wish he hadn't gotten the man off his murder accusation. This was one of those times. "You alright there, John? You look like your feathers got a bit ruffled." His eyes shifted between the two men. "Sherlock hasn't gone off and said something stupid again has he?"
"Again?" Sherlock glared up at the long-haired man.
"You'd best be careful, Sherlock," Angelo continued affably, pointedly ignoring the glare. "Or John here will up and leave you flat on your bum. And then where would you be?"
Sherlock huffed, picking up his fork and stabbing at the pasta Angelo had placed in front of him. "Hardly. John's not going anywhere, are you John." He didn't bother phrasing it as a question. It wasn't one.
"No, Sherlock," John answered softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Whoop, I forgot the candle!" Angelo bustled off, but Sherlock and John hardly noticed. For the most part, John had all but given up on telling Angelo that he wasn't the detective's date—it was like trying to tell Anderson that he was a floundering, know-nothing twit: useless, and mostly a waste of breath, but still fun on occasion.
"So, about the staring—"
"Drop it, Sherlock."
Something in John's tone made him look up. It was an emotion he hadn't encountered in the doctor before. Not annoyance. Not anger. No…it was something else.
"You know that I'll figure it out for myself eventually," Sherlock said.
John glanced up at him then, and there it was. The look.
Pause. Zoom in.
Brow tightened but not quite furrowed. Blue eyes misted. Mouth pulled down slightly at the edges. Skin flushed, but not overly so. Respiration: normal. Pupils: normal. Flaring of nostrils: normal. Where was it? Sherlock gazed at John's face desperately. It was nothing! It was just a look! But there had to be something. So, what? Why couldn't Sherlock see it?
Play. Slow motion.
"I don't think you will, Sherlock. Not this time."
"We're here, sir," the cabbie's high-pitched, nasally voice broke through Sherlock's veil of thoughts. With an acidic scowl, Sherlock pulled some cash from his pocket and handed it to the cabbie. He pulled on the door handle and exited the car without bothering to wait for change. The cabbie didn't seem to mind, however, and sped off not a second later.
It had grown rather dark over the duration of the cab ride, and though it was still June, there was a stinging chill whipping through the air. Sherlock found himself strangely thankful that his prosthetic beard was thick enough to keep his face warm. It was itchy as hell though. Scratching at his chin, the detective took in his surroundings. The neighborhood itself didn't look particularly drab, though it certainly felt quite desolate. It was only seven thirty and yet there wasn't a soul to be found on the street. He was standing outside a blue wooden duplex—most likely built in the mid 80's judging from the architecture and state of the foundation.
Sherlock studied it for a long moment, starting at the roof and slowly letting his eyes drift down. They didn't find much until he reached the lawn. There was a narrow cement pathway leading up to the steps to the porch. The grass on either side was short, trimmed, and overall meticulously kept, but about halfway up the walkway there was a small indention. Sherlock approached it slowly. It wasn't large—probably only a couple inches in size—but the rounded edge suggested the heel of a boot, and the width and depth of the depression suggested that its owner was male. A fairly sizable male at that. There were other curious markings as well, odd and off balance. The man had been carrying something. Sherlock glanced back up at the house, momentarily wishing John was next to him. John's hand would've probably been on the grip of his pistol right about now—he didn't much care for dark deserted streets.
Shaking the feeling off, Sherlock strode purposefully up to the base of the house and climbed the steps to the porch two at a time. One glance down at the front door's lock told him that the bolt had been broken with a large, blunt object—most likely a crowbar. He reached out and pushed the door open, the screeching of unoiled hinges breaking through the still air He was beginning to feel it now—that all too familiar rush of adrenaline that sang like a nightingale in his blood. The air fell silent once more, and Sherlock stood motionless as a statue, his ears straining to hear a sound beyond the dark. But there was nothing.
With a deep breath, Sherlock stepped inside. He slunk into a shaded corner, allowing time for his eyes to adjust to the dim surroundings and keeping his breaths as soft as possible. There was a stairwell immediately in front of him, a small sitting room off to his left, and a kitchen somewhere beyond that. His gaze swept across the room, and immediately honed in on the bottom step of the stairwell. There, muddying the faded pink carpet was the same heel-print. There was one on the step above as well…and they were both backwards. So the man had walked up the stairs backwards, which meant whatever he'd been carrying into the house was heavy enough that he'd had to drag it up the stairs. Sherlock's mind immediately shot back to the journal—three bodies…three days. So there really was a body waiting for him.
No longer taking precaution into consideration, Sherlock bounded up the steps. The stairwell opened up into a large empty room, and lying there in the middle, sprawled out on a large plastic tarp was the dead body of a woman. Sherlock's eyes hastily swept over the rest of the room, but the man who dragged her here was nowhere in sight. Hopefully by now he was long gone.
Sherlock marched up to the body and kneeled down next to it, soaking in the vision before him. The light coming from the lone window was faint, but he made do. The woman was lying on her back, her arms and legs spread out like a Da Vinci drawing, and her large brown eyes open and staring blankly up at the ceiling. A twinge of familiarity skittered down Sherlock's spine, but he ignored it. The exposed skin on her face, neck, and arms was badly bruised, but it was obvious that she had died from a bullet wound. Her white coat—a lab coat, Sherlock noted—was drenched with blood. The bullet had passed through her chest cavity to the left of her sternum just above her breast. Sherlock lifted the coat. Judging from the size of the entry wound, the bullet had come from a sniper rifle, which had been fired from a good distance away—at least 300 metres. A crack shot. She'd been dead for approximately—Sherlock eyed the skin of her jawline—two—and then picked up her wrist—no, three days, and her body had obviously been transported and carried around a good deal in the meantime.
Sherlock continued through his other normal observations. No license or form of identification, but obviously in her twilight years. Married. Small delicate hands but well cared for and moisturized often. Hints of deep cuts and—doctor. Doctor! This woman was a doctor! And she was familiar—he'd seen her before. She'd worked at St. Bart's.
Heart suddenly pounding, Sherlock jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the prepaid cell phone he'd allowed himself for emergencies. His thumb began moving along the keys, dialing the number he'd forced himself not to delete from his memory. He pressed the phone to his ear and listened to it ring once. Twice. Three times. Four.
"Hello?" a tired voice answered.
"Yes, Molly?"
"I—" there was a prolonged moment of silence. "Who is this?"
"It's Sherlock."
"My God. Sherlock…I—I'm so glad to hear from you. You'd said—"
"Yes, yes," Sherlock interrupted impatiently. "I know what I said, but this is important. I've just found a woman's body. She's been shot dead." There was an audible gasp on the other side of the line. "And I think she worked with you. I'm going to need—"
"That's fine. Of course. I'll meet you at the morgue in fifteen."
Sherlock hung up the phone without another word.
