Chapter Three: Lacerations
"Do you really think it's necessary for me to be Watson's keeper," asked Sherlock, stepping into Chief Inspector Lastrade's office. The prematurely grayed man was looking out the window, his hands in his pockets; he wore the same outfit he did yesterday, except for a clean shirt. Obviously, he hadn't gone home last night. He didn't turn around. Sherlock stood beside him, taking in the sights of the city below busily going about the day, and said, "Samantha is unlikely as a flight risk. If she had anywhere else to go, I don't think she'd choose her brother's sofa to stay." Lastrade remained silent. "There's been no signs she was involved in the kidnapping. She's tough, she's secretive, but—"
"You're right, Sherlock. It's unnecessary for you to be watching over Samantha Watson. Your skills will be more useful elsewhere." The air already thick with the smell of past cigarettes, Lastrade took a pack out of his coat pocket and offered Sherlock one, which he took. Taking one for himself, he said, "Donavan can keep a respectful eye on her."
Waiting until his cigarette was lit and he'd savored the first drag and breathed out the curling smoke, Sherlock said, "I said Samantha was tough, not indestructable." Taking the seat behind Lastrade's desk because it was the more comfortable option, Sherlock absently scanned the mess of papers and such scattered across it. He looked back to the computer screen and spied WATSON, SAMANTHA K., typed big and bold over an unseen window's tab. A background check. His curious nature had his fingers twitching.
"Sally will keep a distance," Lestrade smiled, then brought the cigarette to his lips. "She's not so bad, you know. She's slower to pass judgment since you faked your death. I think she felt responsible."
"Donavan has a high opinion of herself." Sherlock paused. "I'll start the field work for the Kashuba case immediately after I take Watson home."
"Are you sure you want to be on this case," asked Lestrade. "You aren't really good with babies, are ya?"
It was true; Sherlock Holmes had very little to do with babies since he was four and his younger brother Sherrinford was a newborn.
"I doubt those particular domestic skills will be needed to solve this one," retorted Sherlock, taking in another breath of smoke. "It's not as if I'll be changing nappies and singing lullabies."
"Yeah, but murder is more of your cup of tea, isn't it?"
"Lastrade, what are you trying to make me do," Sherlock asked, annoyed at his friend trying to direct his thoughts and doing such a bad job of it, too.
Sighing, the older man flicked his cigarette over a maroon ashtray and moved to the far side of the room. "I'm taking you off the Kashuba case and the Goody kidnapping."
"Why?"
"Because you're too close," Lestrade answered. "You want to believe the best of the people you're close to—"
"Samantha and I are not close."
"—but you've proven to be unpredictable when your friends are in danger."
"I only met her yesterday," Sherlock pointed out.
"She's John's sister," said Lestrade. "Are you telling me you wouldn't take drastic action to protect her, even from the law?"
After a moment of thought, he said, "Absolutely." Sherlock had no reason to say otherwise. Samantha appeared to be a nice enough girl, but a girl with secrets nonetheless and that alone could be dangerous. "Being John's sister doesn't earn her any special consideration."
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. My mind is already made up," Lestrade returned to his window. "I'm sure a new case will come up soon."
"No doubt," said Sherlock annoyed, leaning back in the uncomfortable office chair and swiveling idly from side to side. "I'm sure you'll need my help… soon." He smiled humorlessly.
Sally Donavan, without a knock to herald her arrival, stepped into the silent office armed with her usual stiff white shirt and bristling demeanor. "The press is waiting."
"Hello, Sally," Sherlock greeted.
Sergeant Donavan crossed her arms, a defensive gesture. "You can tell John we'll take care of his baby sister," said Sally.
"I'll be right in, thanks," answered Lestrade. He ground his cigarette into the ashtray and Donavan promptly left the room, without the expected mumblings of 'freak'. "I'll keep Samantha out of it when I talk to them, so she won't have to worry on that score." When Sherlock remained silent, Lestrade added, "Moriarty is going to make his next move real soon. I can feel it."
"Yes, that should be fun," Sherlock stood and took one last drag of his cigarette before he too snuffed it out into the ashtray.
Shaking his head, Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and left, clearly expecting Sherlock to be exiting his office close behind him.
Instead, Sherlock took the few seconds allotted and opened the WATSON, SAMANTHA K file. The first thing he saw was a copy of her driving license. He scrolled down the page. There, he saw several images of a woman so beaten and bruised there was barely a resemblance to the Samantha he had met just a day ago. Lacerations along her hair line were created not by the slashing of a knife but the repeated, blunt force of a solid object.
Before him were pictures of a victim, not the stubborn, standing hazard she'd proved to be since their meeting.
'What mess did you get yourself into, Watson?'
Sherlock turned the page to read a none-too-descriptive police report written in German, events categorized as a domestic dispute which victim was admitted to the hospital with multiple lacerations and her left wrist both broken and badly cut. Charges were not pressed despite legal counsel.
Slowly, he closed the file, downloading this new information.
Did John know about this, he wondered. Doubtful.
He exited Lestrade's office without notice, almost. Pale and with wet eyes, Samantha watched him come closer. Obviously, Officer Wick had Samantha relive her recent attack and the toll was showing. His eyes zeroed in on her bruised, split bottom lip and the image of her cheek swollen, black and blue flashed in his mind.
"Are you finished," he asked, a moment before reaching her.
"What's wrong," she asked.
"I'll tell you later." He helped himself to a biscuit, a dry, crumbly biscuit Samantha was right to leave untouched. Since it was all he had eaten that day, he swallowed the awful lump. He repeated, "Are you finished?"
"Um…" She turned to Officer Wick for that answer.
"I believe so," said Officer Wick, a clever enough middle-aged bird if not for her obvious denial regarding her sister and husband's 'close friendship'. "The descriptions she gave me will be very helpful. She'll need some rest. Take her home and make sure she gets some."
The probability of anyone a part of the John Watson household getting a wink of sleep was slim, especially if one were exiled to the sofa, had a broken wrist and an obviously troubled past… and present. It was clear his friend had no room for Samantha in his home.
Standing, Samantha shook the officer's hand and said, "Thank you for your time."
"Take care, Miss Watson," said Officer Wick, who hadn't bothered to get up.
Samantha struggled getting her coat on for the cast was a touch big for the sleeve. Not willing to wait for her to accomplish the simple task on her own, Sherlock took the pink patchwork handbag out of her hands, slung it over his shoulder and jerked the wool garment up Samantha's arms and over her shoulders, buttoning the top button to keep the cursed thing on her.
Looking into her eyes, he was again struck by the knowledge this woman was his best friend's sister. She had brown eyes, like John, but it wasn't the same brown.
Physically, Sherlock directed Samantha toward the lift, his hand on the small of her back to prompt her to keep up with his quick walking pace. It only took a raised eyebrow from Samantha's reflection in the chrome walls of the small cubicle to remind England's greatest detective such a gesture was considered inappropriate. The trip to the lobby was made in silence.
When they left the front doors of Scotland Yard behind them, Sherlock's hand inadvertently returned to Samantha's back. She turned to face him, forcing his hand to slide to her hip.
"What's wrong," she asked.
As if burned, Sherlock took his hand off her. What was wrong with him? He took a step back, ready to apologize for making her feel uncomfortable when two things occurred to him. Her question was 'what was wrong', a question she had asked before, not what was wrong with him. It was a rare occasion he cared if someone was feeling uncomfortable, even rarer to apologize for it.
"I'm off the case," he said, irritation in his tone as he hailed a cab.
"Mine?" A chilled gust disturbed briefly Samantha's overgrown fringe to reveal a crinkled brow and thin, silver scars along her hairline. "Why?"
Opening the door to the back of the black, generic cab, Sherlock climbed in and said, "Lestrade is under the impression I'll succumb to sentiment if you were to be, improbable as it were, prosecuted."
Samantha nearly smiled, hindered by her split lip, as she took her place next to him. "I don't think you're in any danger of that happening."
"Because you're innocent?"
"Yeah," she said, slamming the passenger door shut with a grimace. "Where do you want to eat?" She adjusted and smoothed her grey dress which had tightened across her lap and bunched under her.
"I don't eat while I'm on a case," Sherlock informed. "Digestion slows me down."
"You just said Greg let you go," reminded Samantha, finally taking back her handbag Sherlock forgot he was still holding.
The faceless cabby sighed, impatient. "What's it to be, hmm?"
"Even machines need fuel," Samantha quipped. She gave the cabby the address for a small restaurant famous for its fish and chips, infamous for its poor location—a cellar pub set just on the inside of London. When the taxi jerked into motion, she asked, "What? No argument?"
Sherlock shrugged. "A clever man never stands between a Watson and food."
Her gaze dropped to her boots and she made an accepting grunt.
The restaurant, imaginatively called The Cellar, was a surprisingly popular spot for lunch and that day was no exception. A large party of gregarious, classic literature book club members, judging by the fact each one carried out a different copy of Alexandre Dumas' 'The Forty-Five Guardsmen Vol. I', so Sherlock and Samantha were seated after only a reasonable delay. The tantalizing smell of chips just out of bubbling oil caused Sherlock's stomach to give an interested growl. Their waiter was a spot-ridden, twenty year old son of a prestigious family who was trying to prove to himself and the female pouring drinks behind the bar he was not, by any means, posh. The designer trousers, with perfectly straight creases down the front and back of the legs, was a dead giveaway. He dropped the menus on the wood floor while ogling the blonde bartender, made a weak apology and clumsily fixed the mistake, the third attempt doing the trick. The young man slumped away, leaving the threat of his return to take their order.
Samantha one-handedly struggled out of her coat and slung it over the back of her chair. "It feels like forever since I've had some good, English fish and chips."
"I know the feeling," said Sherlock, recalling his two years away from home and all the things that made him feel homesick, food being the more surprising one.
Scratching just inside her cast, Samantha twisted around in her chair, searching for the lovelorn server.
Her behavior, appearing normal to anybody who didn't know any better, struck Sherlock as odd. He would never claim to be an expert on women, emotion or appropriate reaction, but wasn't Samantha supposed to be locked up in a dark room, swaddled in an oversized jumper, crying her eyes out? Sherlock wondered how Samantha could act so nonchalant just a day after being attacked on the street.
He leaned back while she tried to involve him in small talk. What did he think of the name Prue? Was Mary seriously considering saddling a loved one with such a saccharine moniker?
The waiter made good on his threat. "What can I get for you two?" He gave Samantha a nervous smile.
Samantha smiled back warmly. "I would love your fish and chips."
"And for you, sir?" The waiter asked Sherlock.
"Tea." Sherlock loosened his scarf and put it over the back of their table's unoccupied chair; his Belstaf followed.
"He'll have the fish and chips as well," said Samantha, apparently confident Sherlock would eat if the food was in front of him. His mother had the same false assumptions for most of his childhood, finally giving up after telling him he couldn't leave the table until he finished the baked cucumbers and pink turnips on his plate. He fell asleep and was carried to his bed, winning the four hour standoff.
"Very good, ma'am," said the waiter before heading back to the kitchen.
Samantha sighed. "I wonder if John has figured out the crib yet."
"I was wondering about those scars on your forehead," said Sherlock, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, his fingers forming a steeple. "How did you get them?"
Samantha looked away, silent.
Sherlock waited.
Her eyes, shining brown orbs ready to destroy, met his. She said nothing.
"Has John noticed?" Sherlock continued, pushing the issue. "Of course, he hasn't. That man hasn't noticed a thing that wasn't right in front of him since his wedding."
"I… was thrown from a horse… one weekend in Switzerland," Samantha supplied, shifting nervously as if she may flee the scene. But she had nowhere to go. They both knew it.
"Liar," Sherlock challenged. Even if he hadn't seen her background check, the lie was obvious. "Unless, you were stupid enough to get back on that pony again and again, the pattern of your scars aren't consistent with your story."
"How dare you," Samantha hissed, rising to her feet. Her chair tipped over due to the abrupt movement.
"No, Ms. Watson," said Sherlock. "How dare you not press charges? How dare you, Ms. Watson, to allow that man to find another victim."
He saw the punch coming, but was caught off guard by Samantha putting her full weight of 126 pounds behind it. If she had used her casted left hand, his cheekbone would undoubtedly be broken instead of throbbing rhythmically.
"I am not a victim," Samantha proclaimed, stabbing his chest with her index finger. "I am not your friend, so don't pretend to know me."
She was right. Samantha Watson was no victim, anymore.
"You're the one that wanted to have lunch together," Sherlock reminded, touching his cheek, surprised there wasn't a little blood trickling.
"A mistake, clearly," said Samantha, though she righted her chair and sat down.
"John needs to know." Sherlock eyed the Watson sitting across from him with a small amount of admiration; she knew how to throw a punch.
"No, he doesn't," her chin wobbled, but her voice sounded assured, "and you aren't going to tell him either."
"Sorry, but since we're not friends, I don't owe you my silence." He smiled, actually enjoying the to and fro of their conversation. "John is my friend, however, and I believe, if somebody was smacking Mycroft around, John would tell me."
"Alright! Who's hungry?" Their waiter was back with their food and, judging by his stupid grin and even giddier disposition, the blonde had just acknowledged his existence.
"Not I," said Samantha, looking as if she had indeed lost her appetite. Sherlock had crossed the line. "I'm sorry, but could we get these wrapped up for takeaway."
The waiter eyed Sherlock suspiciously, definitely drawing his own conclusions. He leaned in towards Samantha. "Is this man bothering you?"
Sighing, she lied, "No."
Hesitating, the waiter adjusted the weight of his tray and said, "I'll be back shortly."
Just then, from the depths of the inside of Sherlock's jacket pocket, his phone chirped. He retrieved it easily and read the text. It was from Lestrade, an address all that was written. "Looks like I have a case after all." Lestrade had said something would come up soon, surely to make Sherlock feel better about getting kicked off the Goody/Kashuba investigations, but even Sherlock was pleasantly surprised 'soon' turned out to be only an hour later. "Hopefully, it'll be something good, like a murder."
"You really are an asshole, ya know that," said Samantha.
"So I've been told." Taking out his wallet, he threw down enough money to fit the bill and a little extra, generous of him to do so since they weren't eating and his tea had not arrived either. "Ready to go?"
"What about—"
Donning his coat and scarf, Sherlock strode toward the stairs. "Come along, Watson."
He left her, knowing she would follow cursing his name, but after such a fine example of the lady's capabilities, Samantha was fit to put on her own damn coat.
"Did you just pay for a meal we're leaving behind," she asked him, only just behind, stomping her boots up the steps. He could feel her close proximity, though she wasn't touching him; he could smell her cherry almond body wash.
"I gave that poor sap an opportunity," said Sherlock, not slowing his stride. If the young man was clever, the waiter could take the abandoned food and invite the blonde bartender to take her lunch with him. "Besides, you said you weren't hungry."
Though midday the sky had gone gray and the wind was biting harder. A single snowflake floated down, in a moment of stillness, before Sherlock's eyes and finally landed on the pavement.
Samantha gave up the battle she was having with her coat and held it close to her instead.
This cab ride was accomplished with near perfect silence. Sherlock could see Samantha was very angry with him; her face turned away and her body as far away from him as possible. It was just as well. However, when the cab stopped in front of the Watson's residence, instead of jumping out of the vehicle immediately like he suspected, Samantha, still not looking at him, said,
"Don't tell John."
"Why?"
"It doesn't do anyone any good knowing now, does it? It's in the past. It'd only make him upset," Samantha said, her hand on the handle. "Give me your word."
"Would it be good enough for you if I did?"
"My brother thinks you're a man of honor."
Without another word or waiting for one from Sherlock, Samantha got out of the car and hurried toward the front door, her boots keeping rhythm, pausing briefly to greet John who had just stepped out the home. The door was shut behind her without a second glance.
John climbed in, zipping his coat up to his chin. "So, how did that go? What the hell happened to you?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Your sister punched me."
John's eyes widened. "She did that? I would ask why, but I'm sure it's because you were just being yourself."
True enough.
Soon, the duo arrived at their destination, a disheveled flat eight floors up with no lift, cautionary yellow tape marking the place nicely. Chief Inspector Lestrade greeted them just outside the door, but Sherlock moved past him easily, not wanting his introduction or interpretation of the crime he'd come to investigate.
The door was ajar, the jamb showing long splinters jutting out, a blatant sign of forced entry. Slowly, Sherlock eased the red door open as to not disturb the scene behind it. He stepped over the threshold. A drop of blood, as red as the door, lay on the floor. Its ilk led Sherlock to the body. The victim, a tall, slim redheaded female of approximately eighteen years, was spread-eagle over her sofa, a gaping wound in her chest from a single blow. Dried mascara veins ran down her cheeks—she had pled for her life. Dull green eyes stared through him, unseeing. Her lips were caked with dried blood. The victim's feet were bare, fresh scrapes on her right foot—grazed by the door going over it earlier.
Familiar officers were rummaging through cabinets, bookshelves and mail, contaminating potential evidence.
Phillip Anderson, Scotland Yard's poor choice for medical forensic specialist, was examining the wound to his best, if limited, ability. Swabbing for a DNA sample, he said, "Stabbed in the heart—"
"A half inch to the right of the heart," Sherlock corrected. "John, what can you make of it?"
With his sample, Anderson backed away a respectful distance to watch, bumping into a blue and yellow swing made for an infant.
John Watson examined the wound in the victim's chest closely. "It happened this morning." He lifted the woman's hand, looking under the fingernails. "She fought back."
Looking back at the door, Sherlock said, "She expected the attack. She locked the door, but stood there… What, or who, was she guarding?" An idea of just who Ms. Clove had been protecting was forming rapidly.
"Her home," supplied Donavan, indignant with female pride.
A soft, tired cry reached Sherlock's ears.
"The knife punctured her lung," said John, though the fact was quite blatant with the blood on the woman's unmarred lips.
"Who is she," asked Sherlock.
Lestrade answered. "We haven't been able to find any identification, but her neighbors say her name was Kate Clove."
The small voice coughed and then whimpered.
"Was she alone," asked Sherlock, eyeing a fuzzy yellow toy duck nuzzled under one of the victim's foot.
"She was when our guys arrived," said Lestrade.
"Where's the baby," asked Sherlock.
The gray-haired man scratched his head. "I don't know. We have men around asking questions."
Sherlock nodded. "Right. Sorry, why am I here?"
"The murder," Lestrade gestured toward the woman being placed into a black body bag. "I thought it might cheer you up."
"This isn't just a murder," Sherlock said, his clasped behind his back as he paced. "She was at the door when her attacker broke in this flat. Most people knowing somebody was breaking in would hide and call the police. But, instead, she stood her ground. Why would she do that if she wasn't protecting someone?"
"I am not going to say this is Kashuba's doing until I get more evidence," said Lestrade, showing a serious lack in cognitive structures. For a detective, the man could do with some dot-to-dot activities.
"She lives by herself, right," John finally joined in, his bushy brows furrowed in deep thought. "This place isn't too cheap, so—"
"Right!" Sherlock exclaimed. "By the look of it, she works with her hands; her hands were chapped from water and cleanser with dirt under her fingernails from gardening. Do you know of any maids or gardeners that could afford a flat by themselves? Maybe, Lestrade, you think she's an heiress with a meager monthly allowance and a love for horticulture."
Lestrade coughed, straightening a yellow, geometric printed rug that got wrinkled in the scuffle.
"Do you think her attacker was an unsatisfied customer," John asked Sherlock.
"John, unless she found a body in the rose garden or did more than in the bedroom than fluff the pillows, I doubt a customer would go to such extremes," Sherlock said, retracing the drops of blood back to the door. The trail ended at the threshold. "The killer put his weapon inside its sheath before he left." He stepped back inside the residence, crossing the living room. "Ms. Clove was murdered standing in front of her sofa while she pled for mercy. The indentation toward the right side of the wound suggests her sternum is broken. Her attacker was strong and, judging by the angle of the wound, large in stature; a man most likely."
Another sorrowful cry reached Sherlock's ears. "Does anyone else hear that," he asked.
"A Mrs. Hunter across the hall has a little one," said Anderson, his tidbit of information not the least helpful.
The sound was not coming from across the hall or outside the flat for that matter. Ms. Clove's hallway was carpeted in soft blue and crushed by the many pairs of feet that had trekked over it that day, which was really too bad. Sherlock would have liked to have found a useful shoeprint. Opening the first door he came to, Sherlock discovered the loo, decorated in red and gray and smelling like jasmine. The second door revealed a stacked washer and dryer fit snugly in a closet. The third door, the only remained, stood at the end of the hall. Written across the top in black block letters; Live, Laugh, Love. The victim's room had been trashed either by the killer or the handiwork of Scotland Yard's top cops. The pristine condition Sherlock had found the bathroom and kitchen told him Kate Clove was compulsively neat.
A white cradle stood between a queen-sized bed and the wall, papered in a yellow and red flowered print. It was empty except for a purple scarf draped over the edge. One the other side of the room, by an oak chest of drawers, was another door with slats through the top and bottom. Pushing this door open, Sherlock walked inside the wardrobe, racks of clothes and shelves of shoes and various boxes on his right and left. He could smell ammonia.
A desperate cry came from the corner of the large closet. The floor clear, Sherlock carefully took down a red suitcase, kept ajar by a wadded up jumper stuck in the corner, and set it on the floor.
Flipping it open, Sherlock stared at the weak infant inside it and got another whiff of ammonia; the poor thing had likely been in a soiled nappy for hours. The little one's blue eyes blinked. Its mouth moved, but no sound came out this time.
Seeing the baby's clothes and blanket soaked through, Sherlock chose to not to pick it up but to pick up the suitcase and all, carrying it back to the living room and Chief Inspector Lestrade.
Seeing Sherlock's smug grin, Lestrade asked, "What did you find?"
"The motive."