Again, thanks to Snogandagrope for her timely betaing. I also had some essential cheerleading from MildredandBobbin when I momentarily lost confidence.
We're approaching the tail-end of the story, Dear Reader. I can't figure out if that's good news or bad! But I just want to say how very much I appreciate how involved you've all been, how your comments, follows and favorites feed my barren soul when I'm facing down writer's block, and how much joy it brings to me that you share my interest and my passion. Thank you!
Chapter 19: Harry at the Met
John dresses quickly, locating a tie to go with a plain blue button up. He knows he has to look sober and responsible if he is to bail Harry out. The more respectable the better. He spares a brief moment in jealousy of Sherlock, who can lounge about like a fucking courtesan in wispy fabric, gems and ink all day long, and yet, at a moment's notice, manage to look intimidatingly professional with no effort at all. He is, however, glad the man will be at his side in what promises to be an ordeal.
The female sergeant working the desk has them escorted to the cell where they have Harry. She is flung out on the cot but lunges up as soon as she realizes the footsteps are stopping at her door.
"Johnny!" she cries, rushing towards him. The holding cell in which she's locked is crisp and white and mercilessly lit. Harry looks like they've likely picked her up after leaving the other woman's house: hair unwashed and, as usual, without makeup. The unmistakable smell of pubs and clubs wafts from her clothes and her hair. A raging hangover is written in the lines of her face and the bags under her eyes, and her complexion is pallid and faintly green. She is dressed in last night's costume, uniform jacket rolled up on the cot for a pillow. The hand she thrusts through the bars towards her brother shakes continually, although John cannot discern whether it is a result of fear or alcohol poisoning.
He clasps her hand between his own, and looks at her with a conflicting blend of pity, protectiveness, anger and disappointment (he manages this combination well, as it's the predominant set of emotions he's experienced around his hedonistic sister since she started drinking and rebelling at the age of 14). "Harry," he says. "Oh, Harry. Tell me what happened."
Harry takes a shaken, shuddering breath, eyes swimming in tears that haven't fallen, and her nose reddens in front of John's eyes. "It's Melissa. They say that. Melissa is-"
"I know, Sis," John says, squeezing her hand. "I saw. Last night, I saw what happened."
"You saw it happen? Johnny-"
"No! No, I didn't witness it. I saw her afterward, Harry. They called me in-"
Harry doesn't follow that thought through to its logical conclusion, too absorbed in her own drama to consider its impact on John. "Melissa was murdered last night, Johnny. Murdered! And this morning, when I got home, they. This man. He arrested me. Said I did it. Said he had witnesses to a fight- assault..." The tears begin falling now, and Harry pulls back her hand to wipe them away, but Sherlock catches it before she can get it back through the bars. He examines it carefully, ignoring the angry, confused glare she gives him as he straightens her fingers and flips her wrist over to see her palm. He releases her without saying a word, and puts both hands behind his back, attitude one of disdainful patience.
Harry scowls. "You have to get me out of here, Johnny."
"Yeah. I'll try, Harry. But this isn't as simple as a drunk and disorderly, yeah? I don't think it's a matter of paying a fine and scheduling a court date."
Harry sneers at him a little. "I didn't do it, John," she whines. "You know I didn't. You have to fix it."
John tightens his jaw and looks over Harry's shoulder at the cold, white tile wall. Of course he has to fix it. He always has to fix all Harry's problems. Or else stand back and watch her crash and burn, which has also happened a lot in the past 20 years. He's intensely disgusted with his sister's self-absorption and self-pity. Her girlfriend has been brutally killed, for goodness' sake, and she doesn't appear to be thinking about that at all.
But then she says, sniffling, "Oh, Johnny. I feel so sick about it. I'm so-. She was a good person, you know? Better than me. I. I know I didn't treat her right, and she deserved better than me. And now she's dead, and I know. I just know that it was my fault," Harry looks up at him then, and her eyes are red and swollen, streaming trails of water and guilt. "I know I was an utter twat to her."
"Yeah, Sis. I know," John reaches through the bars and awkwardly pats her shoulder. Whether he's agreeing to her personal assessment or her sorrow for Melissa he's not too sure. A neat, pressed linen square appears by his arm, held in graceful, hennaed fingers, and John smiles a little as he takes Sherlock's proffered handkerchief and passes it to Harry. "Here. Harry. I know, ok? I'll go see your arresting officer and... arrange bail. I don't know. See what I can do. You just. Wait here..." he trails off a little lamely, as he recognizes the irony of asking her to wait. Like she'd be able to wander off if she wanted to. "Right. We'll be back shortly. Buck up, then."
Harry blows her nose hard and wipes off her face. She looks over John's shoulder at Sherlock, tall and remote. She grimaces in embarrassment and nods faintly. "Yeah, alright." She keeps the hanky.
They sit in an uncomfortable waiting room for twenty minutes, surrounded by dull plastic chairs and angry, upset or dejected people. There are well-thumbed and very dull magazines in a rack on the wall, and a sludge-dispensing coffee machine next to that. John sits military straight, readying himself for battle, and Sherlock lounges next to him, long legs stretched outwards, defining a personal territory that no one cares to breach. His arm is laid over the back of the chair next to him, also claiming his space. John smirks a little at the body language, and it amuses him to see the crowds of people unconsciously obeying Sherlock's directive, glancing at the empty seat and then turning away to find some other place to settle.
Eventually, John's name is called, and the pair follows another officer to an elevator and thence up three floors. They are guided through a busy bullpen area and shown to a desk. The man who looks up is familiar.
"Detective Inspector Dimmock," Sherlock greets.
The little man stands up. He does not look surprised, but he does seem a bit apprehensive. He runs a fussy hand through thin, receding hair. "Er, yes. I thought I might see you this morning. Er. Go ahead and sit down, will you?"
There is only one chair in front of his desk, so John gestures to an empty one nearby. "May I?" he asks politely.
"Ahem. Yes. Of course. Sorry."
John suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. This man is so self-effacing... a rather unappealing characteristic in someone of his position. It could work to John's advantage, however, so he makes no comment, simply swings the chair around and places it next to the other. He and Sherlock sit after Dimmock does.
"Would you mind telling me why you've arrested my sister?" John says. He's careful to keep the belligerence out of his tone, because he doesn't want to alienate the man. He is still, however, commanding and sharp, the voice he uses with subordinates who have committed an infraction.
Dimmock, predictably, shuffles nervously in his seat before inflating himself with false bravado. "Well, obviously, Mr. Watson, it's because I believe your sister did it."
"That's Doctor Watson," Sherlock corrects mildly. Dimmock sneaks a startled look at him, and then focuses on John again. He doesn't acknowledge the correction. "I inspected the club last night, sir, and interviewed the bartender there. Your sister was seen in a physical altercation with the deceased, yelling, pushing and hitting. In addition to battery, she was overheard provoking and denigrating the victim. After the argument, after you sent..." he checks his notes, "Melissa DeRoma... outside, your sister disappeared. As a matter of fact, you disappeared as well." He stares at them suspiciously, "Perhaps you were accessories."
Sherlock scoffs. "Were your eyes open at all when we were with you last night, Detective? John was quite clearly distressed about news of his sister's death-" there is a wealth of sarcasm and disdain at Dimmock's shoddy detection there, "and utterly shocked when the body was revealed to be Melissa. He is patently not a part of the murder.
"In addition," Sherlock pops up and begins to pace back and forth in the tight space behind his and John's chairs. His hands fly out gracefully as he talks, and his voice is loud enough to attract the attention of most of the bullpen in their quadrant. Slowly, the noise level drops, until all the officers are staring at him. Sherlock ignores this.
"Your deductive technique is demonstrably shoddy. Last night, during my admittedly cursory examination of the body, several things were immediately conspicuous. The most important of which (and one would really hope your own training would prepare you to notice such a prominent feature of a murder, and not find it necessary to leave that to your pathologist), is the angle of the fatal cut. Melissa's throat was slit, obviously by a very sharp, very thin blade which made a clean cut, no tears in the skin. The incision was steeply slanted upwards, indicating an assailant who was a minimum of 6 inches taller than the victim, measured from her shoulder. The person who grabbed Melissa was right-handed, you can see fingertip bruising on the right side of her jaw: the assailant stood behind her, grabbed her chin to turn her neck, and sliced quickly, from left to right, and very deep. The left tendon was severed. There were no marks on the body to indicate a struggle."
Sherlock speeds up, each sentence is so rapid it is hard for John keep up. His delivery is staccato with emphatic, posh diction. John stifles a laugh, watching while Dimmock seems to shrink in his seat as if each revelation is hammering him down. His soft dark eyes dart frantically from Sherlock to the other officers around him who do not pretend to do anything but listen.
Sherlock continues, brutally relentless, "Harry Watson is left-handed, like her brother, something I'm sure you can ascertain in less than one minute by handing her a pen. Also, Harry hasn't showered since leaving the club last night: she still reeks of it and is wearing the same clothes. Slitting an artery is a messy business, no matter how professional you are. Blood sprays everywhere, and yet, Harry is clean and so are her clothes.
"From the marks on Melissa's upper arms, one may assume that she was moved, using her arms, following the murder. The bruising is deeper and more delineated at the bottom of each mark, which shows that she was lifted, presumably to toss her into the skip where you found her.
"You will also notice, if you actually take the time to observe, that Harry is a petite woman, standing at 5'3". Melissa was 5 inches taller than her, and outweighed her by almost 4 stone. Even if Harry could have lifted that dead weight, she would have used the center of gravity of females (their hips). When someone is clasped at that distance above the ground, you may assume that they're being stabilized against a chest: men's center of gravity is their chest, and it is therefore obvious that Melissa was braced at the chest-height of a man who is likely around 6'2 or '3, going by the spread and intensity of her bruises.
"That is a full-size skip, judging from the photo there," Sherlock points at the file in front of Dimmock. "To access the opening in that skip, the body would have had to be lifted over a 5 foot wall. Also, Melissa was... quite solid... I'd say around 11 stone: the man who could toss her corpse up and over a 5 foot skip wall would have been well-built: heavily muscled, frequent workouts with weights, thick neck and possibly steroids."
Sherlock stops and leans on the back of John's chair. John looks up, catching the sharp line of his jaw, and Sherlock looks down at him and smirks. He is glowing, vibrant and innervated on his own brilliance. John raises his eyebrows in an unspoken encouragement for more.
Sherlock obliges him. "One of the reasons Harry was dating Melissa is because of their size discrepancy: it made Harry feel powerful to have implicitly-given control over someone who could have physically dominated her at any given time, if the permission had been revoked. Melissa was a member of the armed forces. She was not naive, active military, deployed at least once, and had been trained, one must assume, in combat. There is no way that she could have been attacked by such a smaller woman without the job having been, if successful at all, tremendously messier."
Sherlock indicates the file on the desk in front of a very uncomfortable Dimmock and says, "I'm sure it notes in your report that the fingers that turned Melissa's jaw broke her skin; there are crescent marks there from fingernails. Only half hour ago I looked carefully at Harry's hands, and there appears to be no blood or skin residue under her nails. It is possible you can check for DNA? Some modern test? But mental comparisons drawn from memory show that the nail marks in Melissa's skin are less curved and broader: again, likely a man.
"As a matter of fact, the neatness and rapidity with which this murder was carried out indicates a high level of experience. A contracted killer, perhaps, or another member of the military. It is most certainly not the work of an emotionally compromised alcoholic secretary."
Sherlock stops, and swings around to glare disdainfully at Dimmock, who has shrunk more and more as the speech continued. Sherlock leans over his desk and taps smartly at the opened folder with photos of Melissa's body in situ. "Your case will go faster, Detective, if you'll take my word as gospel."
There's a short, gurgling laugh quickly stifled behind them, and John turns around to see the silver-haired man who had been present at the morgue when they'd been there with Mike Stamford. "Dimmock. Hand me that file. I'll take these gentleman into my office."
Dimmock's face flames, and he looks stubborn and defensive both. "But, Lestrade, I've-"
"Dimmock. Just do it."
With poor grace, Dimmock hands over the file, and Lestrade laughingly gestures towards an office near the center of the bullpen, enclosed in glass walls. "Step in my office, won't you?" He leads the way, opening the door. "Coffee? No? Don't blame you, it's rubbish. Alright. I didn't expect to see you so soon. Actually, I didn't expect to see you again at all, but I certainly remember you from the morgue." He stares up at Sherlock with a grin. "I believe I told you then that this could be a career for you. You want a job, you just let me know."
Sherlock stares back, impassive, but his eyes are luminous, fingers twitching behind his back. John can tell that he's high on deductions and electrified with it. Feeling considerably more relaxed now, John smiles to see Sherlock in his element.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade, is that correct?" Sherlock's deep voice flows out, and settles richly into the room. "You may remember that I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson."
Lestrade's eyes flick over to John, and he grins at him with the same weary delight he'd shown in the bullpen.
"Dr. Watson, good to see you again." He casually indicates the chairs on one side of his desk. "Have a seat, gentlemen. If I understood what I overheard correctly, then, Dimmock is holding your... wife?... responsible for this?" and he lays the file on his desk as he lowers himself into the chair with a sigh.
"My sister," John quickly corrects. Lestrade's eyes dart to his ringless left hand and then back to the file.
"He's an idiot," Sherlock says suavely. He fiddles with the scarf loosely draped around his neck and looks carefully at Lestrade. "Do those... CCTV... cameras cover the nightclub?"
Lestrade holds up his hand, requesting silence, and thumbs through the report for a few minutes, familiarizing himself with the case, and then looks at him sharply. "Only the front of it, unfortunately. We did check. Nothing unusual there."
"Ah." Sherlock leans back in the squeaky chair and picks at a tear in the plastic upholstery. "Very well. Did his bumbling investigation turn up anything else?"
"Not that the report mentions," Lestrade says. "I think your contribution out there in the pen was a lot more detailed than what I've got in here. Could I please have you go over it again, while I take notes?" He gives a tired smile and scrubs his hands over his face. "That's the second time I've seen you dismantle evidence so quickly and thoroughly. And you say you're an amateur?"
Sherlock says, offended, "I have spent my entire life cultivating the art of observation. I would by no means qualify myself as an amateur. Most people see, but they don't observe, and what they see are the most superficial of details. As a matter of fact, the impenetrable ineptitude of your average man is so overwhelming that he often doesn't even note that. He typically sees what he wants to, even when all evidence is against it. It really is a remarkable feat of denial and fantasy. I, on the other hand, am a scientist, and am interested in gathering the facts, and only the facts, before I try to formulate a theory to explain them."
"Ah, you're a scientist." Lestrade leans back as well, and pulls a mug of coffee off the desk. He takes a swig and grimaces violently. "Oh, hell, that was piss." His face drawn into an expression of disgust, he works his jaw a few times as if that'll disperse the taste of old, cold coffee from his tongue. Sherlock and John wait, John trying to smother a grin. He likes the detective, with his warm, interested eyes, and they way he's so impressed with Sherlock. Anyone who's impressed by Sherlock is a friend of John's. "What kind of scientist?" Lestrade asks.
There is a pause, as Sherlock considers. John waits, too, curious. Surely Sherlock can't say Alchemy. "Chemistry," he replies. "But I have been reading up lately on forensics and crime analysis."
Lestrade shakes his head. "We really could use you. You want the paperwork for a job, you just let me know."
Sherlock looks disdainfully out into the bullpen area. "I am certain I could not tolerate working among all these cretins. But if you'd ever like to consult with me, you are welcome to give me a call."
"Great. Give me your number, then."
Sherlock darts a panicked look at John, who recalls that Sherlock doesn't really know anything about using his phone. He finds where Sherlock's number is stored and reads it to Lestrade, who looks curious, but doesn't comment on the fact that Sherlock doesn't seem to know his own phone number. John takes Lestrade's card and slowly types his information into Sherlock's list of contacts.
They're even, now, he muses. Both with three contacts apiece, and John wonders how sad is his life that he's only got as many contacts as a man who has been trapped in a lamp for over 200 years and only been out in the modern world, filled with strangers and danger, for a week. He sucks on the inside of one cheek and decides to let that thought go, as it will benefit no one.
Lestrade lets them leave an hour later, after Sherlock has walked him through all the deductions, using the photos in the folder, both from the morgue and from the crime scene, to support the observations he'd made from memory alone. Lestrade shakes his head in bewildered admiration a lot, as one after another of Sherlock's deductions is supported by the recorded evidence.
While Sherlock talks, John goes downstairs with another officer, who has been told to let Harry go. Harry isn't best pleased with the news, which is odd, John thinks, because there's really not much negative to be found in You're no longer a person of interest in the murder we're investigating.
He takes her out front and gives her some of their precious reserve of cash, waving over a cab. They wait, both shivering in the biting cold. "You shouldn't go home, Harry," John says slowly. He tries to think of a good reason, without saying, There's a murderer after me and Sherlock, and you might get caught in his web. There is no need to panic her, she's already distraught. "I know you and Clara broke up, but how about you go stay with her for a couple days? I think she'll be good for you. You must be shocky, and you shouldn't have to deal with this on your own. And, Harry. You need to... you need to sober up. This is a very serious thing you're caught up in, Sis. Let Clara help you."
Harry looks like she's about say something flippant, or bitchy, but visibly suppresses it. She's still for a moment, then leans forward to hug her little brother. "Oh, Johnny," she chokes into his coat collar. "Do you think she'll see me? I want to. I need her so much, but..."
John stands stiffly in her arms, thinking how odd it is that he can melt in Sherlock's embrace and yet when it's family, he's rigid and can't wait to step away. He smooths his hand over her hair. "I think you won't know until you try, Harry. This is certainly a good opportunity for you to... try to change your life and dry out for a while. And that's all Clara ever wanted from you. I'm glad we could get you out of jail, but, god, it would be really nice if you could learn a lesson from this."
"I'm gonna try. I swear, I'll really try."
"Good, Harry. That's. That would be so good. Maybe you can clean your life up, for Melissa, for Clara, for yourself, even." He presses a kiss on her forehead and pushes her back a little, the cabbie staring impatiently at them out of the window. "I think you can do it. And I love you, too." This is not something they say aloud to each other, and they both stare at the cracks in the pavement. "Call me whenever you need to, yeah?"
Harry gives a jerky nod and doesn't say anything else, climbing into the cab; but John feels a bit hopeful as they pull out into the street. He stands there for a minute longer, fingering lint in his pockets and blinking snow out of his eyelashes before swinging around and hurrying back into the warmth and bustle of New Scotland Yard.
Sherlock meets him in the lobby, pulling him around again and heading towards the cab queue outside.
"All done then?" John asks stolidly, easily adapting to the new direction.
"Indeed. Lestrade is... tolerable."
"That's great that he wants to offer you a job," John says cautiously. "But Sherlock, you don't have any... papers or anything. No ID. You couldn't work anywhere officially."
Sherlock shrugs, "I am not concerned about that."
"Well, you should be concerned about that, you great git. Once we get your lamp back, and... and you're stabilized... you're going to want a life. If we're to stay in Baker Street or, if you want to move somewhere else," not an option he wants to mention, but he feels obligated, "you'll need some kind of income. I'm going to look for locum work, but I'm not sure-"
Sherlock interrupts him, turning incredulously to stare at him through the mist of falling snow. "Why would I want to move out?"
"Uh, I'm just saying-"
Sherlock flaps a gloved hand at John. "Income won't be a problem. Mycroft evidenced that my family is clearly doing just as well as, if not better than, it was in my own time. Plenty of discretionary funds." He tips his head up and squints at the gray sky, blinking as snow pelts his face. His breath is like a tiny metaphor for London fog, and he shakes his head at last, looking back at John. White sticks to his eyebrows and eyelashes, and decorates his curls as the jewels had done before. He frowns a bit and remonstrates, "But John, I hope you know better than to make plans for the future. The odds that we'll recover the lamp, and that you'll be able to keep it even if we do, are extremely low." This is said briskly, with Sherlock looking away, into the street.
"No-"
"Hrmph." Sherlock pulls open the door of a cab and swiftly disappears inside. John follows, brushing snow off his shoulders and ruffling it out of his hair. The cloudlike puff of his breath fades into nothing as he pulls the door closed behind him.
"Sherlock-"
"Shhh," Sherlock puts his hand over John's on the seat, squeezing once and then letting go. "Let me think."
And they both stare out the windows into the white-shrouded streets of London as they return to their flat.
John chews over how uncertain the future is, and how desperately he wants a future with this man, and swears he'll figure out something. With he and Sherlock, and presumably Mycroft Holmes, all working on it, surely they can come up with a way to make it work.