Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Dark & Adult themes, light bad language

Authors Notes: This one is a little short, but the next chapter will be a better length, I promise.

Please Enjoy, and let me know what you think.

.........................................................................

Chapter Four: What John Rance Had to Tell

.........................................................................

Watson sat across from the eccentric man on the train while the other man's eyes darted this way and that across the other passengers. "So why do we need to speak to this constable, anyway? Can't you get access to the written report?"

"Hmm?" Holmes re-focused on him. Then he waved a dismissive hand. "Ah, the written police report. No finer work of absolute, dull fiction exists in the world. If policemen actually wrote accurate reports, I would scarcely have to move from my armchair to do my work."

Watson was tempted to ask just what that work was, because he hadn't quite figured that out yet. There was too much forensic flavour in his analyses for him to be just a profiler, and judging by the reactions of the people at the crime scene he wasn't actually on the police payroll. So what was it he specialized in, exactly? Watson suspected Holmes was trying to pique him into asking, and perversely decided not to give in.

"You're saying they lie?"

Holmes clicked his teeth. "Nothing nearly so intelligent," was the contemptuous response. "No, they just put in exactly what the dregs of intellectual purgatory that is the British court demand they put in – date, time, and number. Nothing else, no facts, no data, no details; they're so conventional it would be laughable if so many killers didn't keep getting away with it." Holmes's tone was bitterly frustrated. "All the details, all the answers, all laid out before them and they are interested in only the things that have no bearing on the solution."

A dark cloud seemed to settle over the man. Watson realized that he must lead a particularly irritating existence, having to point out things that to him seemed as clear as day to people's whose minds did not spark and seethe a fraction as vividly as the genius's mind must surely do. It must be, thought Watson, like watching able bodied men sometimes twice your age, outstrip you walking down the street, while you limped along with a cane.

"Yes, true. But then they have you," Watson offered softly, somewhat surprised by his sudden impulse to soothe. "You, who have turned problem solving and deduction into the finest art."

Holmes actually blinked. He seemed wrong sided by the praise. Then he snorted, his usual arrogance reinflating. "This is true. But I am but one man. I can only clean up after so much stupidity. Honestly, the police are fortunate indeed I've taken on their burdens. If I chose to turn to a life of crime, I would run the world within a week."

Watson laughed.

.........................................................................

Audley Court was a low income area; not quite a crime hot spot, but certainly not a five-star hotel area either. Neat but dull apartment buildings lined the streets, packed to capacity with families who counted every penny.

The pair walked up to one of the indistinguishable building blocks and risked a shaky elevator ride to of mid-level story. Doors of exactly the same colour stretched out with no discernable difference in character. Watson viewed the dull scenery gloomily. He suspected he was going to have to get used to a view like this, because this, most likely, was the only thing within his price range.

Holmes hammered imperiously on one door. From within came the sound of children running and playing, speaking of a large family in the small apartment.

The door opened a crack; a tall, rough stubbled man peered out, darting from Holmes to Watson with a police's automatic suspicion. "Can I 'elp you?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow at Watson, who dug for his ID.

"Constable John Rance?" Watson asked politely, flashing his card. "I am Dr John Watson, with the Medical Examiners office. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes," he indicated the other man. "We have a few questions regarding the body you found this morning."

Rance's brow cleared. "Lauriston Gardens?" There was a feminine voice calling behind him within the apartment, to which he turned. "It's something about me patrols this mornin', luv. I'll be back in a mo'."

He slipped out of the door. "Can we talk our 'ere? Me kids are pretty young for all the police stuff."
He lead the pair down to the end of the hall, where a grated spiral staircase butted up against a wide window with was jammed half open. The swarthy man took a seat on the stair and reached for a pack of cigarettes. "Mind if I smoke? My girl don't like me smoking in the house, drives her batty. What do you gents wanna know? It's all in my report."

Holmes sighed. "May I have a cigarette?" He held out a hand, a folded bank note resting in the palm. Rance extended the box, and the note was slid underneath it smoothly as Holmes extracted the cigarette. "For your trouble," was the man's sardonic comment. He accepted the offered lighter and took a drag while Watson politely declined the offer of one. "Can you describe the events exactly leading up to and just after the discovery of the body?"

Rance blew out a breath of smoke. "Not much t'tell really. I walk the beat early up through the area, and take a walk up and down the Garden a couple o' times. On me second round I saw a light in one o' the windows o' number three. I thought that a mite strange, seein' as how nobody lives there. I went up to investigate."

"You stopped at the front step and headed back to the gate. Why?" Holmes asked sharply.

Both Rance and Watson's eyebrows rose. Rance replied. "I got a bad feelin'. Thought maybe there might be a pack o' junkies or squatters in there, so it might be better if I 'ad a second man there. I went back t'see if Murcher – my partner – was nearby. He an' I have to work a ways apart in some of the beats we walk. We were due to meet up again nearby, so I went up to the fence t'see if he was nearby. He wasn't, but I thought since he was probably on his way I could safely do a check. I found the door was open, so I went up to the room where the light was on..."

"Where you walked several times around the room, knelt beside the body to take a pulse, went downstairs and tried the kitchen door and the side door before heading out of the house again," Holmes made an impatient rotation of his hand. "Then?"

Rance scowled. "How is it you know so much, sir? Seems to me you 'ad to have been there to know that – an' if you were, well then, you'd need to come with me to the station!"

Holmes handed the man a business card. "Don't go around arresting me for the murder," he bridled impatiently. "Speak to Inspector Gregson or Lestrade if you are determined to have me vouched for. What happened next?"

Rance settled back. "No' much else. I radioed Murcher and requested back up an' the detectives from Homicide." He took another drag and knocked ash on the window sill.

Holmes leaned forward. "And there was no one else on the street?" He asked intently.

"No one, until the rest arrived. 'Least, no one as could have been any help."

Holmes eyes narrowed. "There was someone else."

Rance shrugged. "Some fallin' down sot staggered up while Murcher and me were waiting for the rest. He stank o' rotgut and was beltin' out a song 'bout empty skies, crying like a little kid. We 'ad enough to deal what with the dead man, so we didn't bother takin' him in. We escorted him down the lane, stuck 'im in a taxi parked down that way."

Holmes made a sound in the back of his throat. "You didn't think to keep him for questioning?"

"An' ask what? He appeared afterwards, and he was drunk as a poet. His hands weren't beat up, his clothes and boots were all clean enough. No blood," Rance retorted defensively.

"His appearance?" Holmes demanded.

"Tall, thirty five or forty, red face, long leather jacket an' jeans, hiking boots, and a scarf wrapped around 'is mouth and neck..." Rance rattled off waspishly.

"Yes, yes, thank you," Holmes butted out the last of his smoke. "I have to say, Constable, I don't have high hopes for your career, considering the fact you're carrying a ten pound ornament on your neck. If you had actually thought to hang on to the viable suspect that dropped neatly into your hands, you might have earned your Sergeants stripes. Instead, you let him go. An independent company taxi using an older model car than the standard was most likely the taxi you stuffed him into. It was? I thought so. Good evening!"

Holmes stalked off towards the elevator, and Watson followed silently, feeling Rance's angry eyes on his back.

Holmes muttered to himself in cursing tones under his breath. Watson recognized the elegant accents of French somewhere in the black monologue. He instinctively didn't break in to his companion's mutterings however. He felt that Holmes dealt with his disappointments in a solitary way.

He said not a word as they made their way back to station, loftily ignoring the dramatic, frustrated occasional flailing of an arm as Holmes language continued through Italian, German, Russian and Watson thought there was some Chinese in there somewhere. They made it through the turnstiles on Greek and went back to French as the train departed the station. Watson certainly wasn't the least bit surprised the man had an affinity for languages. Holmes, he had realised quite quickly, was a man with few limits.

Eventually the muttered tirade petered and Holmes stared gloomily out into the dark tunnels instead, one hand propping his chin in a disaffected manner. Watson watched him with interest as the other man's eyes and mind travelled back to the here and now.

Watson sensed it was now safe to talk. "Vous étiez extrêmement durs avec l'Agent Rance," he murmured.

Holmes raised an engaged eyebrow. "Il a mérité l'insulte," he retorted. "The man had the key to this whole problem in the palm of his hand, Watson. He not only didn't think to question the man, but he assisted his escape. Asinine! He probably didn't even mention the incident in the situation report. No one would have even asked him about it. I shudder to think how many criminals have evaded the law in this great cesspool because of police like Rance."

Watson conceded to this rather cynical assessment. "I wonder why the man came back."

Holmes threw up his hands. "The ring, man, the ring! When he was in that room with Drebber – before the poison was administered – the murderer walked up and down those dusty floorboards. His stride got longer the more excited he became, culminating in the nose bleed and the poisoning. He had the ring, he dropped it during the course of events and did not realise it in his frenzy. Drebber convulsed his way on top of it. The murderer didn't even know until after he'd fled, and came back. In the same taxi, which is odd. It suggests an accomplice, which is unlikely as the motive is clearly personal." The gloom streamed off Holmes like water, leaving only vivid energy. Watson watched the change with fascination. "Still, that the man felt compelled to come back for the ring is intriguing. It may make an excellent bait to hook this particular catch."

.........................................................................

End Chapter Four