Chapter Two
"No." Sherlock spat irrately, turning to face the window just as Lestrade coyly poked his head through the door.
"Sherlock, please be sensible about this!" John groaned, rubbing his temples in exasperation.
Sherlock ignored him and continued to stroke his violin strings to one of Mendelssohn's tunes. "How long's he been at it?" Lestrade asked, leaning against the doorframe.
John covered his ears with a sound of utter anguish. "Since Bach... at about three in the morning..." he said vehemently, "...yesterday!" Lestrade chuckled and patted John's shoulder sympathetically. "I tried to get him to stop before any of the neighbors complained, but I think we're miles past that point."
"Well," Lestrade said to Sherlock, who still refused to turn away from the window. "I was going to ask for your help on a case, but if you're too busy..." Lestrade half-turned his body toward the door and cocked his head, threatening to leave.
"Stay right where you are, Lestrade." Sherlock growled, finally finishing his piece of musical torture with a grand flourish and turning to face the room. "I think I can manage to multi-task." He smirked at John.
"'Multi-task'...? No, Sherlock, I draw the line at playing violin at crime scenes!" John exclaimed, jumping up from his seat on the couch.
"The case, I'm guessing the serial ancient artifact thefts that have been plaguing the papers since Wednesday?" Sherlock murmured, ignoring John.
"The same." Lestrade admitted.
"Too obvious." Sherlock groaned, collapsing bonelessly into his seat. "Your investigation is stuck because all your suspects have rock solid alibis, if you'd care to just think outside the box once in a while, you'd see a pattern of lies." He placed his violin aside and clutched the Union Flag cushion to his chest. "The first fake alibi was given by the janitor, placing him with the stolen artifact's care-taker. They were supposedly in each other's company, outside smoking, when the theft occured. The second fake alibi placed the lecturer with the museum's CEO for afternoon tea, again, nobody to suspect for theft."
"But what about the security guard and the curator?" Lestrade asked.
"Why Lestrade!" Sherlock sent him the same patient look a parent would bestow on an exceptionally dull child. "You were the security guard's alibi, you were interrogating him while the third arifact went missing."
"And the curator?" Lestrade sighed.
"Stole the third artifact." Sherlock responded. "That's why he had to turn up dead the next morning. Scapegoat."
"Okay..." Lestrade shifted from one foot to the other. "So, who killed the curator?"
"The security guard." Sherlock replied. "You could easily speculate that a suspect could lie to you in his statements about where he was and when, but you wouldn't suspect someone who was in police custody when the theft occurred. Simple psychology, you thought the murderer was the same person as the thief and that the curator was simply silenced for being an unfortunate witness."
"Then who...?" Lestrade wondered aloud.
"You wern't exactly wrong, Lestrade." Sherlock told him, cutting him off. "Think! Why would the janitor fake an alibi for himself and the care-taker? Why would the lecturer fake an alibi for himself and the CEO?"
"And why didn't the curator find himself a fake alibi?" Lestrade added.
"Couldn't, Lestrade," Sherlock smirked indulgently at the DI. "couldn't."
"What does that mean?" John asked curiously.
"The first theft was carried out by the janitor and the care-taker, the second by the lecturer and the CEO, the third was to be the security guard and the curator..."
"...But I had the security guard in for questioning." Lestrade finished his sentence.
"The curator carried out the theft alone but had no alibi, and suddenly, one of the other accomplices has an epiphany! 'I know! We'll kill off the curator and blame all the thefts on him!'" Sherlock waved his arms dramatically. "And so, with the thief dead and gone, the police will never know where the artifacts are."
Lestrade blinked at the consulting detective. "You've been investigating this case since before you even knew it was mine, wern't you?"
"I was bored." Sherlock sniffed sardonically. "And bad telly is bad." John rolled his eyes.
"Since when did you start suspecting all six of them of the thefts?" Lestrade asked, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.
"Since I had a sneak peek at their bank savings. You couldn't scrape a penny out of those accounts." Sherlock sniffed again. "And then, when I dropped by their houses, I noted a few costly pieces of furnishings, namely a rather nice painting, an ancient China teapot, and a golden Egyptian burial flask."
Lestrade groaned. "Sherlock, I keep telling you 'you can't keep witholding evidence'!"
Sherlock reached under the coffee table and whipped out the stolen artifacts in question. "I'm handing them over now, arn't I?"
"And if I didn't come to you for help?" Lestrade couldn't resist asking.
"You?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Not come to me for help? Impossible! You would've never found out about the alibi tricks alone." He sniffed, turning his nose up just an inch. "That's the problem with you Lestrade, you take a witness's statement as gospel."
"Well, they're not supposed to lie!" Lestrade defended himself.
"When humans don't lie... Oh, that'll be the day." Sherlock scoffed back cynically.
"Sherlock," John called out suddenly, interrupting their conversation. "your brother's here."
"Really?" Sherlock looked to the door. "I hadn't noticed."
"You'll only get yourself killed if you're not careful." Mycroft reprimanded him from the doorway.
"Oh, sod off, I'm alive now, arn't I?" Sherlock retorted.
"And your flatmate had to announce that I just showed up on your doorstep." Mycroft pointed out haughtily. "If I was any more blatant in my approach, you'd have to be blind, deaf, and very, very dumb not to notice."
"Oh, your sardonic witticisms never cease!" Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.
"Okaay." Lestrade raised his hands in an abortive movement. "I'm just going to get back to the station now." He kept his hands raised on his way out despite the fragile artifacts in his arms and John had to wonder if his hands were raised more for defense against the sheer Holmesian madness that threatened to overpower the atmosphere whenever the two siblings entered a room together.
Not that he could blame him, of course.
"What are you here for, then? And make it quick." Sherlock demanded once the DI had left.
"It's about the recent... incident." Mycroft said, sending John a pointed look.
"I'm gonna-... I'm just going to leave then." John jumped up.
"John, you will do no such thing." Sherlock said in such a tone that froze the doctor in his steps, wondering who to comply with. Sherlock turned to look Mycroft in the eye. "I'm sure that whatever Mycroft wants to say would inevitably concern you as well."
Mycroft shrugged his shoulders. "Well, have it your way." He rested a hip on the armrest of an unoccupied seat. "The investigation hasn't closed yet."
Sherlock dropped his head back onto his headrest and groaned. "Why, why, why! You government agents, you're all incompetent!" he boldly declared. "I hope you're not going to suggest for us to move into one of your safehouses, are you?"
"If that's what needs to be done." Mycroft spoke firmly, in a voice that solicited no arguement.
Sherlock merely picked up his violin again. "No." he disaproved with a very mild-mannered defiance.
"Don't be childish." Mycroft sighed.
"Don't try to rule my life." Sherlock retorted.
"Your flatmate and your landlady could be put into considerable danger, Sherlock, is that something you want to risk?" Mycroft said like he had completely forgotton John's presence in the room.
"If there was any opportune moment to consider disowning me, Mycroft." Sherlock rested his violin snug against his cheek. "This is it."
Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows mildly. "If that's what your choice is..." he sighed mockingly and left the flat.
Sherlock and John would be bundled off to Geneva by Mycroft's men, on a very riveting case involving fingers than didn't belong to the victims, the moment Mycroft left the flat, the plans had already been set.
"Sorry, yeah, could you get forensics on standby?" Lestrade spoke into his radio. "I've got the artifacts with me, just need to get prints off it and make sure it's the real deal." He pulled up in the New Scotland Yard's parking lot and stepped out of the vehicle.
That was when he heard a sharp whizz-thuk and his torso twisted nintey degrees in a jerky motion, all air being knocked out of him before he pitched backward and fell against the hard surface of his car before sliding helplessly to the ground.
What the-...? He gasped a wheezy breath of air into his lungs and tried to move, see what's going on.
He looked down and his blood ran cold. There was a bullet-hole in the breast of his coat. Funny, it didn't hurt. It was just-... sort of numb.
"Oh God-...!" Lestrade choked, feeling himself begin to panic and hyperventilate.
Then the darkness came to claim him.