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: Adult Themes, light bad language
Authors Note: Best just to post this one; this is bit of plot tie-in and exposition, mostly. Remember, we are trying to solve a mystery here! Watson heavy, but worry not, Holmes is due to reappear soon.
Please ready & review!
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Chapter Eight – Baiting the Hook
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Watson's day off proved instructive. For one thing, he never knew his physical therapist - a tall, goliath of a man who hailed from the Caribbean - knew that many swear words in that many languages. He kept up an impressive flood of vitriol while Watson stretched, lifted, walked, twisted, rotated, crunched and rolled his way through a series of exercises, sweat poring off his face and into his impressive black eye. That was the only expression of pain he would allow himself, mostly because he could do nothing to prevent it.
When he was finished he lay exhausted and wet and gasping like a fish out of water while the therapist 'hummed' and 'harred' over his injuries and bruises, checking his progress against his record. After an eternal pause the big man growled that by some astronomical and deeply undeserved miracle Watson had not actually set himself back too far, just like the last time. He had added acidly that it would be a great help if Watson could, perhaps, if it wasn't too much trouble, keep from getting into street fights and muggings everywhere he went.
Watson just grinned at him, heaving himself up the get changed. The smile seemed to shock the therapist. Watson wondered if it was the first time the big man had actually seen him smile. Had he really smiled so little, or were they all so painfully false that they hadn't counted? Something to muse over.
Watson collected his cane (he hoped he could get his old one back soon, but the thing he was carrying now felt as much use as a feather), and headed to the police station. His report was written up and signed, questions were asked. The young officer taking the statement listened with awe to the point by point report.
"Has Holmes been here to make his report?" Watson asked as he rose to go.
The look of sheer, tortured, recalled agony on the young officer's face was all the answer Watson needed. He laughed all the way back to the hotel.
What was relevant about his day was the fact that Watson never thought to check his mobile phone. If he had, the day may have turned out very differently.
Watson in fact checked his phone midway through the afternoon on the day he came back to work, still annoyed over his stupid aluminium cane. He had slept late and rushed out the door to make it to work in time, forgoing breakfast, which never failed to put him in a bad mood, and jamming the mostly ignored phone into his pocket as he went for the door.
Once there he was writing up reports from the day before yesterday. He lingered on Drebber's, trying to see it the way Holmes must see it. He gave it up as futile. All he could tell from a medical standpoint was that Drebber was out of shape, a heavy drinker, he liked rich food and expensive suits and had died a vicious death.
Somewhere around lunchtime Watson realised his phone was buzzing on silent mode, and dug it out. A message popped up: 'Come if convenient, and if not come all the same. 14 Montague Street. SH.'
Watson sighed. Why was he surprised Holmes was just as demanding and arrogant in his missives than he was in person?
Then Watson frowned as the inbox of the phone appeared on the screen. 157 Messages.
One hundred and fifty seven messages? Watson scrolled through them, bewildered. Most of them had pictures, of women and of women's hands and fingers, all with rings. And the messages that coupled them...
I lost it a week ago, around that area...It's engraved with initials DP and GP...Is there any diamond on it...pls call me back on this number...this number...my number...this number...
Watson was still staring at his phone when it rang, and he nearly dropped it in the process. "Watson?" the greeting was half a question. He'd heard London was a strange place, but have a hundred and fifty seven women leave messages on a total stranger's phone?
"Doctor Watson? It's Evelyn Hudson." Was the polite introduction from the line.
"Mrs Hudson, hello," Watson hastily re-focused his priorities.
"I hope I haven't caught you at an inconvenient time, Doctor."
"On no, not at all," Watson assured, hitting print on the report he'd just finished. "It's my lunchtime here anyway." And he needed food before he gnawed his own leg off – the bad one first, of course.
"In regards to your bid to let the rooms, Doctor," Mrs Hudson began.
"I'm sorry my references were a little thin, Mrs Hudson. Most of the people who know me are still in another time zone and out of reach." Another time zone and in most cases a completely different plane of existence, his mind couldn't help but remind him.
"That was no trouble to me, Doctor. Doctor Stamford gave you a good review, that was really all I needed to know," Mrs Hudson reassured. "I'm happy to let you and Mr Holmes have the rooms, Doctor. Short term lease to start with, longer if it works out well."
Watson blew out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Really? That's fantastic! Thank you Mrs Hudson, I can't tell you how grateful I am."
He could hear a smile in the woman's voice as she replied. "You are welcome to move in any time. Do you have a day in mind?"
Watson considered this. "I'll have to consult with Holmes, but I will call you and let you know."
"Oh yes, Mr Holmes," was the lady's dark reply. "Well, you seem a good sort doctor, so I suppose I can take a leap of faith if you can." Mrs Hudson gave a sniff. "There is no account for taste, of course."
Watson covered his eyes with his hand. "Thank you Mrs Hudson. I'll contact you again very soon."
"Good day, Doctor."
"Goodbye."
Watson shut off the phone, face still burning.
"Doctor Watson?"
Watson turned to see a young constable looking through the door of the shared office. "Yes?"
"Come with me please, sir," the constable replied. "The Inspectors want a word with you."
Puzzled, Watson followed the man, pocketing his phone as he did so.
As they were walking up to the main area of the CID, Watson tried to find out why he was being asked for.
The constable shrugged. "Can't say, guv. Inspector Gregson seemed a mite riled, though."
Watson accepted this in puzzlement. He had no idea why they would need to see him personally. He was lead into the Homicide division, past the busy bull pen with murder boards crisscrossing the space around desks and chairs. Detectives of various ranks were all working and talking busily around the room. Watson was directed toward a small side office which contained an overflowing desk, behind which Inspector Lestrade sat, having a heated argument with Inspector Gregson who towered over the desk with both fists resting on it.
"You labour under your deficiencies with grace, Lestrade, but don't pretend for a moment that you actually have the brains for this. Who cares who the man was travelling with? We need to trace Drebber's steps, not some hitherto unknown travelling companion!"
"If we can trace his companion, Gregson, we can trace Drebber. We might also find out if the man had any enemies," Lestrade growled. "It's that little thing we call 'police work'."
"Ah, and he we come to the crux of this little quandary," Gregson sneered. "You are agreeing with that infuriating amateur's psychological profile about this being a revenge killing? It's a sad thing to see a man having to rely on someone else to do his thinking for him!"
Lestrade's knuckles were white over the edge of the desk. "I'm not agreeing over anything. Good grief man, look at the statistics! People are more likely to be murdered by people they know! If Strangerson didn't kill Drebber, why hasn't he contacted the police to find his missing companion? And even if he is not involved, he can still give us information on Drebber's life!"
"Statistics," Gregson dismissed. "Statistics didn't give us the man's boarding house address, and they won't give us the man's killer. It's perfectly clear – writing literally on the wall - this is a ritual killing, and most likely home grown; that's what our people are saying. We need to find the lunatic and drop him before he takes it into his head to kill again. Stop subcontracting you're mental powers out to consulting lunatics and start being an actual detective, will you?"
Lestrade was on his feet, almost at the moment Watson's cane slammed down onto the desk, making both men jump.
Watson drew himself to attention. "Do you wish to speak to me now, Inspectors, or would you rather drop your pants while I get out the yardstick?" he barked in his best Major voice. "Do let me know." He added acidly.
The Inspectors both stared at him, Lestrade surprised and Gregson with a gimlet eye. Watson, taught to give orders to trained killers, stared them both down. A trick he'd taken from Afghanistan, along with his scars. Watson hadn't fought a war to let co-workers come to blows before him.
Tension was released from the atmosphere, and both men apparently cooled their tempers in the face of an irritated and hungry army-trained Medical Examiner. Lestrade settled back behind his desk and gestured to a spare chair. "My apologies, Doctor. The American consulate is, to put it mildly, ever so slightly displeased to find out a prominent citizen is coming home in a coffin, so we're all," he shot a dark glare at his fellow Inspector. "A little overworked at the moment." Lestrade twisted around to grab a pot of tea off an element which had been stuck on top of a filing cabinet and offered Gregson a cup as a sort of peace offering.
Watson settled into the chair. "Fair enough, though you could try not to be overworked at the top of your lungs." Watson grimaced. "I don't know how things work in a police department, but fights between superiors killed morale while I was in the service."
The Inspectors had the grace to look a little chagrined, and Watson hoped and prayed they didn't realise that they were being talked down to by someone whom they themselves technically outranked. Watson couldn't help it – he hated rows with a passion, they made his stripped nerves itch.
"You wanted to see me?" Watson prompted.
Gregson looked grim and annoyed. "Doctor, we realise you are new here but we would appreciate it if you would educate yourself on proper procedures and evidence collection." He took the tea from Lestrade and fixed the Doctor with a hard look. "Where is the ring from Lauriston Gardens? I don't need to tell you that if you have taken evidence from the scene of a crime, the consequences will be absolutely dire."
Watson blanked mentally. "What? What ring? You mean the one found under the body?"
"The other one, Doctor," Lestrade replied. "From out on the street. If you have it, best speak up now. You may have picked it up without realising the space of the perimeter, which is fine, but we need it and we need you to tell us where you found it."
Watson looked from one unyielding face to the other, completely lost. "What ring? What are talking abo..." Watson stopped, the hundred and fifty seven messages flashing up from his memory.
"You don't know?" Lestrade questioned seriously.
"Know what?" Watson demanded. "I know we found one wedding ring, belonging to a woman, under the deceased man. I never found a second one, anywhere. If I had I would have told you," he held up empty palms. "I have no second ring, I found no second ring. Why do you think I did?"
Lestrade leaned back and shared a glance with the blonde Inspector. Gregson nodded back. "So, I'm guessing you didn't have anything to do with this." He held up a section of paper with a black circle marked across it.
Watson took the page and read while his jaw dropped open. FOUND – ONE WOMAN'S WEDDING RING ON THE ROADWAY BETWEEN HARTLAND TAVERN AND HOLLAND GROVE. PLEASE SEND A TEXT MESSAGE AND PHOTO OF RING IF POSSIBLE TO THE FOLLOWING NUMBER, AND CONTACT WILL BE MADE IF MATCH FOUND. APPLY TO JOHN H WATSON.
"I didn't..." Watson trailed off, thinking about baits and hooks. "I think Holmes did this." And he was dead meat the minute Watson could get out of here, the insufferable cad. He was just lucky the Inspectors had decided to actually talk to him first, instead of dismissing him on the spot.
Lestrade groaned. "I thought so. It sounds like something he'd do. I've already received a ten minute lecture and a monograph on police reporting and procedures from the man yesterday while I was trying to get my money back for your dinners," he shot Watson an irritated glare, but it was a glare focused at one remove.
"He told you about Rance?" Watson asked.
Lestrade offered tea to Watson, before receiving a decline and pouring his own. "Oh yes, in great detail. And because misery loves company, Rance is currently wishing he'd never been born."
Watson frowned. "I hope he hasn't been penalised too harshly; he did what a lot of men would do in that situation."
Lestrade took a scalding swallow. "Nothing too harsh. Some docked pay and a desk assignment for a week. Why your interest?"
"He has a family," Watson shrugged.
Lestrade snorted. "Relax, Doctor. If every officer Holmes thought was incompetent was sacked, we wouldn't have a police force. Rance will learn something about proper procedures for next time, and in the meantime we have a vague description and a timeline to work with." He gave a disheartened sigh.
"What is the state of the case?" Watson asked curiously.
To this Gregson replied. "A shambles, mostly. Drebber entered the country about three weeks or so ago, on a lecture tour for some religious organisation."
"He was a priest?" Watson asked in some surprise.
Lestrade shook his head. "Some sort of religious elder, attached to a splinter group of the Mormon belief system. The Salt Lake City police called it a fundamentalist church, which is just what we needed. A buffet of fervent believers with a rulebook from centuries past that makes any common sense police officer break out in a cold sweat – everything from blood sacrifice to overbearing righteousness in putting words in the mouth of God," Lestrade rubbed his temples. "Chauvinism and polygamy seem to be the big ones for this particular group."
"Polygamy?" Watson's eyebrows rose. "Multiple wives and so forth like the age of Arabian Nights? People still do that?"
"There's not a single past-expiry-date practice that you can't find in some religious organisation, somewhere," Lestrade snorted. "This particular church, the locals tell me, is not popular among the modern feminist mindset which no doubt stymies the wife-count somewhat. One of the reasons we're still waiting on information about Drebber is the fact that the church he's affiliated with is very reluctant to part with information about him."
"So we don't know anything about him yet?" Watson questioned, looking from one man to the other.
"Nothing yet. The religious foundation in the UK," Lestrade checked his notes. "Heart of Souls told us they'd never actually met the man before, except through an international religious posting board – they'd asked for speakers from around the world to talk about the everyday faith and so on and so forth. They did say," here he shot a dark look at Gregson. "That the arrangements for the lectures were made by Drebber's secretary, a man named Joseph Strangerson. They went all over Europe, Spain, France, Sweden, Switzerland; their last stop was Copenhagen. There was a J. Strangerson listed on all the same flights as Drebber, so they were travelling together. Strangerson however, is currently in the wind. The foundation branch in Britain, specifically Liverpool, wasn't expecting the pair for another week. We have no idea where they were staying in London, or what they were up to when they got here."
"You have no idea where they were staying," Gregson's muttered stab was just above audible.
Lestrade glared at him before turning to the Doctor. "Anything extra to add into the report?"
Watson shook his head. "Not much more that wasn't already known. The poison was a hemotoxin, the lab is still identifying the possible sources. Stomach contents turned up a steak dinner with roast potatoes, string beans, stuffed mushrooms, carrots and a lot of alcohol; mostly red wine and brandy, indicating he ate within a few hours of death. His blood alcohol was point two-five. The really interesting thing? One partially dissolved capsule, the kind you'd find in any common cold and flu remedy. "
Gregson snorted. "Why is that interesting?"
Watson shot him a look. "The interesting thing is that it was only partially dissolved. These things don't last long in the stomach. He would have to have taken it less than a quarter of an hour before death, most likely sooner. Since there was no injection sites this, Inspector, might have been the method of poisoning."
Gregson sat back. "Fair enough. I suppose in his state it would have been easy enough to force him to swallow."
"Other than that, no marks of violence, ligatures or abuse, save a peri-mortem bruise from a fall of three to five feet on one bicep – consistent with him hitting the floor hard," Watson finished.
"No indications or traces left by the killer?" Gregson demanded.
"None, save the bloody nose," Watson stated firmly.
Gregson waved this detail off irritably. "Send us your report, doctor, as detailed as is practicable. The Yanks want everything in triplicate."
Watson sensed this was a dismissal of a busy man, and rose to go. Lestrade looked up from his gloomy survey of his notes, and asked. "Before you go, may I ask exactly what you and Holmes were doing wandering the streets in the early night and getting mugged? The suspects all pled out for assault, by the way."
"Business," Watson said shortly, tapping his useless cane against the ground. "Does that mean I can get my cane back?"
"I'll see what I can do," Lestrade nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Business?"
"We were flat-hunting. Holmes and I are going to split rooms."
Lestrade wasn't quick enough to avoid the spray of high velocity lukewarm tea that was fired from Gregson's position, and Watson looked back and forth from the two men as they choked and spluttered, amused and horrified.
"R-r-rooms? A flat," Gregson coughed virulently, going crimson. "Go-going to share?"
"You and Holmes?" Lestrade asked far more clearly than his counterpart, scrubbing his face in a vexed way. He shot Watson an incredulous look over the top of his handkerchief. "Doctor, you can't possibly be that desperate."
"You haven't gone house hunting in this city for a while, have you?" Watson replied sardonically. "Besides, it's fine. Between us we can afford a fantastic place on Baker Street."
"Monetary concerns are not the key issue with sharing a room with Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade was wide eyed. "How can you stand the man for longer than ten minutes? You have to threaten him with grievous bodily harm to even get him to admit there is such a thing as a social code of conduct. What did you do, blackmail him? Not that I mind that, crime or not. Not where Holmes in concerned."
Watson blinked, and tried to see what they were fussed about. "Er...I speak softly and carry a big gun?" he essayed tentatively. "I don't have any problems with him or his personality," Watson repeated, and then added in the face of their thousand pound stares. "Well, not insurmountable ones, anyway."
Lestrade shook his head. "You're a far braver man than I, Doctor."
Watson wondered if the looks of shock and pity that he was receiving should be telling him something – or if they would be become commonplace around him.
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End Chapter Eight