Chapter Two: The Report
Disclaimer: No money made here. This is done for love.
Sherlock Holmes sits hunkered over on the drab worn sofa of the conference room at the precinct headquarters. Joan sits beside him, close enough to feel the sofa shift when he moves.
Which he has been doing a lot since they arrived 20 minutes ago, summoned by Capt. Gregson's promise that they can see the toxicology report on Mrs. Jefferson.
She darts a look in Sherlock's direction. He's staring straight ahead, a deliberate choice not to make eye contact.
"You didn't have to come, you know," he says.
He's quoting her words from the reunion back to her—she knows that, and she knows he knows that she knows. It's something he does often, though whether to illustrate his powers of recall or for her amusement, she isn't sure.
"I know what you're doing," she says, "but I'm fine. I mean, yes, it's upsetting, but if someone killed Mrs. Jefferson, I want to know."
"Someone did kill Mrs. Jefferson," Sherlock says, "which I expect the toxicology report to confirm. Suggesting that you do not have to be here is not kindness on my part, Watson. I simply meant that it might be a more efficient use of your time to wait until the full autopsy. I can look over the toxicology report and relay the information to you."
Joan isn't fooled. It's actually a generous offer, letting her take a pass on reading a report that is bound to be upsetting, no matter what it shows.
"No, really," she says, "I'm okay. I'm just having trouble getting my head around why anyone would want to kill her."
The sofa wiggles as Sherlock scoots forward, his right hand going to his chin, like an unshaven version of Rodin's The Thinker.
"A waste of time, really," he says, "to worry about motive before we have information on the how of the murder."
"What do you mean? I thought motive was key in narrowing down suspects."
"Narrowing them, yes, when your pool is half a dozen. But with a teacher, someone in the public eye as Mrs. Jefferson was, the suspects are legion."
He sits back up and turns to look at her for the first time since they sat down.
"For instance, Watson, Mrs. Jefferson was murdered at a class reunion—a reunion where she was scheduled to receive an award that had been announced in advance. Every member of the Class of 1993 is a potential suspect, including you."
Joan starts to protest but Sherlock holds up his palm to stop her.
"Hypothetically, of course, Watson. You know what I mean. Now, if the toxicology report shows that Mrs. Jefferson was killed with a fast-acting poison—a nerve agent such as sarin or potassium cyanide—you might want to avoid spending time with your former classmates, as one of them is most likely the murderer."
"Because fast-acting means it must have been administered at the reunion."
"Precisely," he says, giving her a short nod of approval. "On the other hand, a slow-acting poison like thallium sulfate takes a week or more to be fatal, causing symptoms that are easily confused with normal illnesses."
Joan closes her eyes for a moment to call up the image of Mrs. Jefferson during the reunion. Pale and pasty, her face looking almost doughy—why hadn't she paid more attention to the signs that her teacher was truly ill?
"She looked unwell, but she said she was just getting old," Joan says, a note of self-recrimination in her voice.
"And she may have been right," Sherlock says quickly. "Until we have the data, we don't know what killed her or what the symptoms, if any, were. Once we do know, however, the motive will be clearer. If Mrs. Jefferson was poisoned some time before the reunion, her murderer may have been someone she knew well and spent time with—a family member, for instance, or a disenchanted colleague. Even one of her current students could have been dosing her with arsenic, say. Can't you image a disgruntled teenager offering to get her a cup of coffee—then slipping in a granule of ricin—"
The image is so disturbing that Joan inhales sharply.
"No," she says. "No, I can't. You saw how everyone loved her."
"I heard a single member of the reunion committee give a canned and not very inspired account of his experiences with her in high school. Presumably others shared his positive feelings about Mrs. Jefferson since they voted to take up money for a gift for her. That does not, Watson, mean that everyone loved her."
His mockery rankles her. Of course she doesn't mean it literally. She tells him so.
Sherlock rubs his hand along the edge of his jaw and says, "Another possibility, Watson, is that Mrs. Jefferson, well beloved by everyone, may have died by her own hand—"
Again Joan starts to protest, and again he raises his palm to stop her.
"—and the toxicology report may show lethal levels of cocaine or heroin or even prescription medication in her blood, administered accidentally or intentionally. She did not seem the type to abuse illegal drugs, however—my experience as an addict giving me a modicum of intuition about fellow abusers, Watson—nor do I think she overdosed on pain medications. My money is on murder, and as difficult as it is to imagine someone killing such a beloved teacher, the reality is that the human psyche is a dark thing—and anyone is capable of murder. Even you, Watson. Given the right circumstances, the right motivation, the availability of a weapon."
Sherlock's unblinking gaze is almost fevered. Not that his pessimism is unwarranted or untrue, but it feels at that moment like a slippery slope, a philosophical dead end that she needs to redirect him away from.
"But even so," she adds, trying to sound reasonable, "people who didn't like Mrs. Jefferson's class still liked her. Oren, for one. He took Mrs. Jefferson's class twice, the second time because he failed it the first time, and he was just as shocked and sad as I am when I told him she had died."
When she mentions Oren's name, something flickers across Sherlock's expression.
"Your brother failed his English class in high school?"
"Lots of people fail classes, Sherlock. That doesn't make them murderers."
Shaking his head like someone bothered by a fly, Sherlock says, "You misunderstand me. I'm not referring to the murder. When I met your brother, I was under the impression that he is, so to speak, the golden child of the family, the son who can do no wrong. Your mother deferred to him in conversation, treated him like the adult he is, spoke admiringly of his work. You, on the other hand, must work hard even now to win praise from your mother—you, who successfully navigated medical school, presumably after being a top-notch student before that."
Feeling her face flush, Joan struggles not to give herself away. As he often is, Sherlock is blunt about things that other people would prefer to ignore.
No, not blunt. Direct. There's a difference.
"Well—" she says slowly, but Sherlock tilts his head slightly like someone listening to a distant noise and says, "I find it commendable that you maintain such an open and affectionate relationship with your brother, despite your mother's unjust preference. I do know how it feels to live in the shadow of the golden child of the family—"
She hardly has time to process what he is saying when Capt. Gregson opens the door and comes in. The room is not large but feels larger because the walls are glass from waist high. In addition to the tatty sofa, the furniture consists of a large table and uncomfortable wooden chairs ringing it. The captain steps to the table and drops a manila folder on top.
"Holmes. Ms. Watson," he says by way of greeting. "The report won't be finalized for several weeks, but here's the preliminary."
He steps back from the table and crosses his arms. At her side Joan feels rather than sees Sherlock looking at her, and when she turns, he is, indeed, giving her the kind of intense scrutiny he usually reserves for crime evidence.
"What?" she says.
"Once you know something, Watson, you cannot unknow it."
"What do you mean?"
"Your fondness for Mrs. Jefferson is not in doubt. The two of you shared a history that gives you much pleasure and comfort to recall. This report could, conceivably, alter how you feel about her. If, for instance, she died from a self-administered illegal substance—"
"Sherlock," she says, cutting him off. "I understand what you're doing. But nothing is going to change how I feel about Mrs. Jefferson. She was my teacher and my friend, and I don't give up on my friends if they…fall down."
She looks up then and catches his eye. Something unnamed passes between them—some question asked and answer given—and he says, "Very well."
He places his hands on his thighs and pushes himself up. Joan follows, and they pull out chairs side by side at the table and settle into them. Capt. Gregson continues to stand, though Joan senses him moving around so that he can look over her shoulder.
With a flick of his wrist, Sherlock opens the folder and pulls out the only thing inside, three separate sheets of paper.
"You recognize this, Watson," he says, tapping the first sheet of paper.
Leaning closer to the table, Joan says, "The basic urine and blood screening."
"Correct," Sherlock says, sounding like a teacher giving a quiz. "You notice that the first test for alcohol, amphetamines, barbiturates, and marijuana showed nothing untoward."
He flips the paper back into the folder and slides the second one closer to her.
"And this?"
"The more detailed immunoassay."
"Which works how?"
"It uses specific antibodies to detect various substances," she says, falling back into the role of student with a zest that abashes her when she stops for a moment to think.
This is Mrs. Jefferson's toxicology report. She shouldn't be feeling energized by looking at it. What does that say about her as a human being—someone who can set aside her feelings during the thrill of discovery.
With a start she looks at Sherlock.
"Bravo, Watson," he says, unaware of her mental gymnastics. "I see you haven't forgotten your medical school chemistry."
"Uh, no," she says, blinking once and then looking more closely at the paper on the table."
"See this," Sherlock says, placing his finger near one of the columns. "Traces of clostridium botulinum."
"Botulism," Joan says. "Lethal in less than a day."
"Eight to 36 hours," Sherlock amends.
"So it wasn't someone at the reunion," Joan says.
"It might not have been anyone at all," Capt. Gregson chimes in. "I've seen hundreds of toxicology reports that show traces of this stuff."
"The captain is right," Sherlock says. "The man-made form of the botulin toxin is fairly routine in medicine."
"When muscle paralysis is beneficial," Joan says, remembering her rotation on an eye ward when she was a resident. Botulin toxin could correct drooping eyelids that interfered with a patient's vision, for instance.
"Just so. And it is also routinely used for cosmetic purposes. Trace amounts would show up on autopsy."
"So she might not have been murdered after all," Gregson says. Joan looks up just as Sherlock pulls out the third paper.
"I might be inclined to agree with you," he says, "except that the dose measured in Mrs. Jefferson's tissue sample is far higher than what is prescribed for therapeutic use. And then there's this."
He places his finger on a graph at the top of the page. The heading on the graph reads Indicators of Nerve Agents.
Nerve gas. Fast-acting, almost instantaneous death.
Joan gives an involuntary shiver.
"It says inconclusive," she says, feeling a wash of relief.
"In this case," Sherlock says, "inconclusive simply means that the agent can't be identified. It might be sarin, it might be VX, but it is something. The possibility of a false positive can't be completely ruled out, though I suspect that the more sensitive tests will tell us what triggered this result."
"I'm confused," Gregson says as Sherlock hands the manila folder back to him. "Why would two different lethal agents show up in the toxicology report?"
Sherlock takes a breath before he answers.
"There are two possibilities," he says slowly. "Either more than one person was trying to kill Mrs. Jefferson, or someone really wanted to make sure she was dead."
A/N: The first chapter was from Holmes' point of view, but Joan wanted to tell this one. I hope it didn't confuse anyone to switch it up. I tend to go back and forth this way in stories, mostly because I like exploring the different ways the characters see the world. Let me know if that works!
Thanks so much to everyone who reads and leaves a review. Your notes help me become a better writer and keep me going!