AN: Hi! This chapter isn't the most interesting as far as chapters go, I realize, but don't worry. Action is coming soon! And this was important. you'll see. ;)
As always thank you for reading, and for your kind review! (otherwise I don't know you exist- which would be sad. D: )
John wakes up, managing to roll out of bed, shower, and dress before he looks at his phone, noticing Sherlock's goodnight text and getting a sharp jolt of a reality check. Sherlock accused of murder. Beatrice cheating. That dead man.
It's a little past eight in the morning so he heads out onto the street, shrugging on a jacket over his sweater-vest. It's cold out, probably below freezing. He takes the tube again. It feels a little weird, instead of his usual cab, but Sherlock has proven that it's faster. John realizes he hasn't texted Sherlock yet, and pulls out his phone.
I'm on the tube, just so you know. Anything new?
JW
John, did you check the flies? You'll call your ex-girlfriend at three in the morning for me, but glancing at the jar of houseflies whilst you reach for the milk is too much to ask?
SH
Oh, damn. I forgot. Wasn't even in the kitchen this morning. Sorry. And so you know, Beatrice and I did have a talk. It wasn't just for the info.
JW
Of course. You are the epitome of subtlety and wit. Donovan's brought doughnuts in this morning, should be some in the break room. You're not your best when you skip breakfast.
SH
I'll consider it.
JW
John always gets a little ruffled when Sherlock reads him like that, but he finds it more interesting and less disturbing than the next person. Soon he's walking through the station's doors. Lestrade appears to have just arrived back at the station, and he is behind the check-in desk looking through what are presumably files on what has happened while he has been off of work, sleeping. He gives John a small nod.
"Good morning. I thought you'd probably be here soon. I can let you in to see Sherlock?"
"Yes, please." John answers, letting himself be led down the hallways by a younger officer whom Lestrade dispatches. He sees dreaded Anderson along the way, at a desk, and they have a short moment of eye contact before both break away. It isn't certain who gave in first.
Sherlock hasn't slept. He rarely does. He looks none-the-worse for it, even if he is behind bars. He's on what passes for a bed, his head hanging over the side and his legs up the wall, crossed casually at the ankle. He's texting upside-down, and his eyes tick up over his phone when the footsteps arrive.
"Someone get him coffee, at least," Sherlock says to the room.
John looks over at the officer who brought him here, and the man nods with an understanding smile, turning to (presumably) come back with some.
"So how was the night, uneventful?" John looks momentarily amused, thinking of what other sorts of people could have been brought in during the night.
Sherlock finishes the text and send it off, placing the phone on the bed beside him and folding his hands on his chest, not moving from his position. "Boring. Even deducing the life-stories of all of my guards was over in twenty minutes, tops. Every one of them, supremely dull."
He sighs, flicks his eyes over John, then returns to staring at the ceiling. "I've spoken to Mycroft, but Wallace Rice didn't show for work this morning. My case is looking better and better."
"Mycroft? About what, getting you out of here?" John glances around the cell, adjusting his weight. "I don't really think that makes your case any better as far as Lestrade is concerned..."
Sherlock makes a catlike move from the bed and hops to, crossing to the bars quickly to stare John down.
"Mycroft is looking for Wallace Rice, a tall, dark-haired man who had motive for killing Kenneth McCallister and whose schedule was gloriously free at the time of the murder. He hasn't shown for work, which shows that he either knows that he could be suspect or that he's plagued with too much guilt to get through the front door. Lestrade will have someone going through surveillance at Baker Street, I'll be out of here before lunch."
He grips the bars from the inside and smirks behind them.
"I was thinking tikka masala."
John narrows his eyes slightly. "Yes, but what is his motive? He knew about Beatrice...?" There is a long pause. "And how is it Moriarty if this man had his own motive?"
Sherlock's smile falls away, not quite into a frown. "I never rule out Moriarty's involvement. Not until I have every reason to." He gives a light sigh, looks away as if in impatience. "I assume that just as easily as I could find out about Beatrice's involvement with other men, so could anyone else with a cerebral cortex." For a moment the grin is back. "No offense, John."
John breathes out through his nose, his eyes drop away from Sherlock's. "Of course."
Just then, Lestrade makes his entrance, trailing the officer that John had almost forgotten about sending for coffee. John takes the coffee with thanks, as the anonymous officer moves to unlock Sherlock. Lestrade nods to the pair.
"Sherlock, if you wish you can have a witness in the room while I interview you about your version of events." He is all business, though the weary look in his eyes points to him knowing that the worst is yet to come.
Sherlock perks up instantly. "Yes, of course. If John doesn't mind?" He's already stepped out of the cell, having fetched his coat and phone, and looking down his nose at John.
It would take an idiot not to notice John's mood change, and Sherlock frowns slightly.
"All right?"
"What?" John seems to have been dazed out of his own thoughts, taking a second to catch up. "Oh, right, sure. Witness." Lestrade speaks up before John or Sherlock can talk again, perhaps sensing the tension but perhaps just trying to expediently get things done.
"Okay, come on. We'll be right down the hall." The way he gestures is back where John came from, and John starts to wonder who else will be in the room. This could go very badly, or.. well, decently alright.
Sherlock follows wordlessly, coat slung over his arm and gesturing for John to follow. Thankfully, Anderson isn't waiting in hiding for them to emerge, but their presence from lockup certainly doesn't go unnoticed. A few whispers of "that bloke in the photo" are loud enough to hear, and Sherlock either doesn't notice or doesn't really care.
"Did you get a call from my brother, by any chance, Lestrade?" Sherlock asks.
"Yes, Mycroft Holmes, isn't it? He said you had something to say about some sort of... secondary lover, to the woman whose boyfriend was killed."
John is tuning out the conversation, or trying to. He shoots looks at the whisperers, daring them to be more bold about their identification of Sherlock. The mini-convoy is at the door of the room, and John slips in last. It is a rather drab affair, whitish grey paint merging with similar floors and ceiling. One table in the middle, two chairs on each side. John assumes he'll be expected to sit next to Sherlock. But who would be with Lestrade, then? He brushes the thought away, trying to pay attention again. Not that anyone is likely to have noticed his lack of participation.
A body appears behind John, accompanied by Donovan's familiar voice. "Budge up, there, Doctor Watson," she says rather kindly. Not maliciously, anyhow. She scoots by him through the door to join Lestrade across the table, looking thoroughly smug when she stares at Sherlock.
"Got your big brother to call in for you? I knew we shouldn't'a let him keep his mobile."
"I'd have hung myself from boredom," Sherlock intones darkly, dropping into his seat unceremoniously.
"Oh, sorry," John says almost inaudibly. She has already passed, of course, and probably doesn't hear it. He joins the others in his seat.
Lestrade briefly acknowledges Donovan, nodding. "Good morning. So, down to business?" There is a brief pause as he arranges his papers and takes out a pen. "Mr. Holmes, could you please share with me what you were doing between half seven and eight in the evening, last night, and who you were with?"
"We already know that I have no one who can confirm my innocence, but," Sherlock smirks condescendingly, "I was on the tube home. To hide the tea from John because I was cross."
Donovan scowls, eyes flicking between the two men across from her, and finally curls her lip as if at her own sick joke. "That's domestic abuse we could get him on, too, sir."
John interrupts, ruffled. "Domestic abuse? I don't think that that's really applicable."
Lestrade is writing it down anyway. "You say you were cross at the time? Where else did you go on your way home- just the station?" Lestrade notes how many blocks there are between the connecting platform that Sherlock would have used, and the place where the body was found. Two.
Sherlock frowns. "I waited on the platform. I was harassed by a homeless man attempting to shove Big Issue down my throat. There were three schoolgirls on the platform who wouldn't cease their giggling, and one was dared to attempt to speak to me, which she didn't. Six businessmen, all of them occupied with the newspaper or their shoes, one of which was returning home after a tryst with his secretary—his male secretary, going by the stain on his lapel—"
"Does he ever stop?" Donovan asks John, interrupting incredulously.
Lestrade interrupts at the same time. "I'll just put that you have clear memories of the train platform. You say that you did not go anywhere else but the platform area?" He's trying to keep this on track, John can see, so he keeps his mouth shut.
"No. I didn't want to miss the train. If I did, John would have been home before me and all plans to hamstring his tea would have been fruitless." He taps his fingers on the table, not looking over at John.
"Doctor Watson," Donovan cuts in, looking at her papers, "when can you confirm seeing Mister Holmes at Baker Street?"
"Er.. I can't say I was particularly looking at the time, but probably at about eight. Not much later than that. We were.. inside the apartment. He had been there for a little while already." John is remembering the evening and realizing that he really, really doesn't want to have to go into it with these police officers. They.. wouldn't understand.
Lestrade gives John and Sherlock a look. "And Mr. Watson, what were you doing between half seven and eight?"
"I was in the cab from here to our flat." He answers simply, glancing at Sherlock.
Donovan is still looking at John, and leans in confidentially as if Sherlock isn't there. "D'you reckon he did it, Watson? He was in here for cracking that man real good in the jaw just an hour before he ends up dead. In fact, it was your girlfriend's other man what got murdered, how d'we know you didn't ask the Freak to do it for you?"
"Donovan," Sherlock growls harshly through his teeth, and his fingers are clamped on the edge of the table to keep them from perhaps hitting her too.
John answers very stiffly, staring her down. "No, Donovan, I don't think that Sherlock did anything. Or that he would do anything like that. No matter how much you seem to think it's just a matter of time." John doesn't want to cause an incident, and he tries to reassure Sherlock with a look, through a long and pointed silence. "Anyway?"
Lestrade looks a little suspiciously between John and Sherlock. He isn't sure anymore about this case.
Sherlock loosens his rage at Donovan just long enough to fix John with a tweak of a thankful smirk, and then it's gone as he turns back to the officers.
Donovan sighs through her nose, shuffles through the papers. "All right, says your brother's secretary put a call in this morning about a possible second suspect. What d'you two know about this Wallace Rice?"
John blinks. "Well, I didn't even know that he existed until last night. Well.. this morning."
Lestrade looks interested. "Go on."
"Beatrice told me that he was tall, dark hair, and was the manager of... some sandwich shop. Pret, I think it was? And apparently he was.. is.. one of her other.." he manages to cough out the word. "Lovers."
"Sod," Sherlock can't help from blurting angrily, and to cover it up, he sinks lower in his chair and crosses his arms. "I think you'll find that I'm not the only man over six feet in London, officers."
Donovan sneers, but she's clearly the underling in this operation, and so she keeps her mouth shut. She heard what had happened to Anderson.
Lestrade might be smirking. "Yes, thank you. Well, I think we might be done here now, though of course there could be further questioning as the situation progresses." He's back into police-speak, glancing at his watch. John sits up a little straighter.
"Let's leave now, shall we?" Sherlock asks, turning to John. "You haven't eaten, and you'll be irratable and generally insufferable until you get something in your system. Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson's making us a 'proper breakfast'." He smiles a bit wistfully, looking away to the door. "And we can finish that film. Come on, John!" And he's already out the door, walking briskly.
"It's gonna be you, next," Donovan warns seriously, shaking her head.