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The Adventure of the Dashboard Box
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Chapter 5: Little Red Riding Hood
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"But Sherlock, what in the world does this mean?"
Sherlock's brow darkened noticeably, and he looked away.
"It means the murderer received some helpful advice from someone, who is now having his fun."
John frowned in confusion, then felt his blood turn cold as realization dawned on him.
"You can't possibly mean..."
Sherlock nodded.
"He's come out to play again," he murmured. His eyes glinted. "Moriarty."
"So that frog and the golden ball..." John began tentatively.
"...mean that Simon might not have been just a hindrance and a liar, but in fact quite the treasure in what he told us."
They exchanged an uneasy look.
Still, Sherlock wasn't about to drop a case that had Moriarty's involvement, and so they went back to Sussex, at Mummy's. The tall woman greeted them with a wolfish smile.
"The keys are on your bedside table, darling," she told her son. Sherlock nodded absently, so she turned to John. "Oh, I see you've done some Christmas shopping!"
John didn't understand what she was talking about until he remembered he was holding the bags from Harrods. He blushed.
"Um, yes..."
He gave her a nervous grin and ran after Sherlock.
"Whose card did you use in the end?" he whispered, glancing back at the imposing figure.
"Let's go to the love nest tonight," Sherlock answered, completely ignoring the actual question.
"What?" John asked dumbly, blinking in disbelief.
Sherlock clicked his tongue in annoyance.
"The little cottage, John. Where Mrs. Holder and her husband used to spend some evenings and nights."
"But why do you want to go there? Are we going to break in?"
"We have the keys. Please do pay attention."
"Oh, so Mrs. Holder knows we're going to be staying there," John said, reassured.
"No," Sherlock deadpanned.
John stared.
"I don't get it."
"Obviously."
"You're not going to explain?"
"I'll explain in the car. Let's go," he replied, picking up the keys that were indeed on his bedside table.
"What about the Christmas party"
Sherlock glanced at him sideways as they walked down the stairs again.
"You really are excited to go," he remarked, and John heard the surprise in his voice. Evidently, Sherlock could not fathom why anyone would want to attend his family's party.
"No, that's not it. It's just..." Your mother scares the hell out of me, he thought. And perhaps Sherlock heard it, because he smirked, and made no further comment.
And so they went back to the car, with John grumbling that Sherlock could've said that they were spending the night elsewhere sooner so he wouldn't have had to carry their luggage back and forth.
"Why do we have to share the same suitcase?" he complained.
"Isn't it easier that way?"
"It is, but I always end up carrying it."
Sherlock didn't say anything, but John was certain he was thinking something along the lines of 'even if I had my own suitcase, I'd find a way to have you carry it anyway'.
"So who will be coming tomorrow to the party?" John asked. Sherlock stared, smirking pointedly. He added, "I'm just curious! And keep your eyes on the road, if you want to drive."
Sherlock scoffed, but probably thought it wise to comply.
"The Holders," he said, as if that was the most important, and the only reason he was going. Which was very likely the case, in fact.
"Except Hatty," John commented.
"She's not really a Holder, though. Hatty Doran—"
"Yes, but that's why Robert was so upset during his brother's game. She can't spend Christmas with him. Isn't he a bit too possessive, though? It's perfectly normal to spend Christmas with your own family at that age."
"Oh well, some people are."
"Are what?"
"Possessive."
John looked at his friend curiously.
"Would you be possessive of your girlfriend?"
Sherlock snickered.
"Why, would you want to share?"
"No, God no! But it's just... I don't know, I can't tell if you're really the possessive type or not. It's not that nothing belongs to you at the flat, but you mainly borrow my stuff anyway. You don't like it when Mrs. Hudson hides the skull, but–"
"Are you comparing my potential girlfriend to my skull, John?"
"What? No! Oh, forget it. You're just being annoying."
He turned away towards the window, sulking, and missed the indulgent, almost fond smile that graced the detective's lips for a moment. Soon, however, it became rather wistful.
"If you meet anyone at the party, I won't 'borrow' her, if that's what you mean."
The words made John turn to him again with a jolt.
"That's not what I meant."
"Well, I mean it, though."
John snorted.
"Of course you mean it. You're not going to bother flirting with my girlfriends, since by just being yourself you make them dump me."
The doctor's tone was meant to be playful and teasing, but somehow his voice came out harsher than he intended and he caught the flash of hurt on Sherlock's face. He regretted his comment instantly.
"John, I'm sorry if I–"
"No, it's not... I'm not blaming you or anything. It's not like you're doing it on purpose." God, that sounded even worse, John berated himself.
They fell quiet, and the air in the car got heavier with tension. Outside, the rain started pouring, and John was glad they were inside the car.
"Hum... So, why are we going to the cottage?"
Sherlock smiled crookedly.
"To expose the adulteress!" he exclaimed excitedly.
"What? You're saying... Mrs. Holder is the murderer?!"
"You'll see."
"Or Arthur? God, he really was her lover?!"
"You'll see."
John pouted.
"Why don't you tell me?"
"Because it's more fun this way."
"You're impossible."
They took the path into the woods, and John looked around with wonder.
"Is all of this their property?"
"Oh yes."
"Rich people really do live in a different world..."
"Dull," Sherlock simply commented. Suddenly he took a turn, leaving the main road to go deeper into the woods, and John frowned.
"Why are you leaving the road?"
"Because if someone comes tonight – and they will – they'll see our car parked in front of the house, and it's unlikely that they'll stop then."
"But where are we going to park?"
"In the woods," Sherlock replied most seriously.
"What? We're going to get lost, Sherlock!"
The consulting detective smirked, and sent John an amused look that made the poor doctor avert his gaze. Sherlock's looks just held amazing power over him, and he hated their effect on his nerves.
¤ oOo ¤
They did eventually park the car in the middle of the woods, in a very small natural clearing. The lane they'd taken was barely passable, and this was a dead end. For some reason, John couldn't help shivering. Probably because of the horrible weather, he thought grimly as he looked out of the window. The rain had stopped pouring but it was still drizzling, and the wind must have been especially strong, for the trees were creaking and their branches were swaying. Sherlock got out of the car.
"Are we going to walk there?" John inquired with incredulity.
"Of course. That was the whole point."
The ex-soldier groaned and got out of the car into the rain as well.
"Come on, John, you've been to war. Surely some water won't hurt you."
"That's not the problem! I can't even bring my laptop or anything: we're going to get drenched."
"It's not that far," Sherlock protested.
He was right, but they still got drenched to the bone. When finally the cottage came into view, they were both dripping, cold and shivering, their shoes and the bottom of their trousers covered with mud and dead leaves.
"We should have brought an umbrella," John muttered as they made their way to the house.
"In the woods and with that wind?" Sherlock retorted. He didn't seem to care much about the rain, but he was still shaking. How could he not be? It was so cold, and when they finally got to the door of the cottage, they were both chilled to the bones.
"God, I hope they have a shower and some dry towels in there," John murmured, his teeth chattering.
He got rid of his shoes and jacket in the hallway and turned to Sherlock.
"Where is the bathroom?"
"I'll show you."
Once they got there, however, John threw a towel at him, and ordered:
"Strip."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Take off your clothes, Sherlock," John said in growing irritation.
The consulting detective stepped back, utterly bewildered, and mumbled:
"But why?"
John stared, and then realized why his friend was being so difficult. He turned crimson.
"Hypothermia, you idiot. What were you thinking?"
"Nothing," Sherlock grumbled. "I'm fine, though."
"No you're not. For God's sake, Sherlock, it's the twenty-fourth of December!"
His own words made him freeze. "Oh. It's Christmas Eve," he remarked in a daze. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Yes, John, perfectly accurate conclusion." He tried to slip away from the bathroom, but John held him back with a death grip, and glared.
"Sherlock, take your clothes off right now."
Sherlock blinked. He was oddly reminded of Mycroft in Buckingham Palace, demanding that he put some clothes on. Hearing someone being so adamant on having him naked, however, was quite new.
"But what am I going to change into?" he whined, jumping back when John got tired of it and started stripping down to his boxers. Sherlock wondered how in the world he had ended up on Christmas Eve trapped in a bathroom with a half-naked John drying himself with the Holders' towels. Mummy, he thought darkly.
"Here," John said, interrupting his musing and handing him dry towels, "just strip and warm yourself up. I'll go find some clothes."
"They'll never be my size," Sherlock whimpered. John rolled his eyes, a smile on his face, and closed the bathroom's door behind him. Sherlock stood there for a moment, staring at the white towel in his hand, and sighed when he realized that the only Holder who might have clothes that would fit him was Robert, the very tall and lanky teenage boy. He moped, but did as John had said.
"I am not wearing jeans," he declared when John was back with Robert's clothes, as expected.
"Don't be silly, Sherlock. You have to wear something."
"But not a sweatshirt and a pair of blue jeans!"
"I'm the only one who'll see you wearing it!"
"You're forgetting our visitors tonight."
"Oh, don't be such a child. You're going to catch pneumonia if you just walk around wrapped in fluffy white towels." He chuckled. That would be quite a sight, though.
Sherlock scowled, and took the clothes.
¤ oOo ¤
Sherlock agreed to wear the jeans in the end, and even let John blow hot air on his head to dry his black curls. John had asked him to dry his hair with a towel, and since Sherlock refused to bother with it, he'd had to take care of it himself.
"Is it too hot?"
"It's fine."
"Tell me if I'm burning you."
"I said it's fine, John. Stop fussing."
"I'm not fuss–"
"All right, all right."
"You really are insufferable, you know that?"
"Yes."
They exchanged an amused, knowing smile in the mirror.
Once the both of them were dry and warm, they moved to the bedroom since the windows there were on the garden and not on the front of the house.
"We still can't use the lights," Sherlock said, "but I'm sure they have candles somewhere."
"Candles? Why?"
Sherlock stared.
"Love-nest, remember?"
"Oh. Right."
It only took them a minute to find candles and to light them up with matches they had found in the kitchen. John went to put them back, and as he walked through the living-room again, stopped in front of the bookshelves.
"They have quite a lot of books, here!" he commented, speaking loudly so Sherlock would hear him in the next room.
"Yes," said a voice right next to his ear. John let out a small cry as he jumped in surprise, only to see Sherlock's ghost-like face even more phantasmal in the dim light of the candle he was holding.
"Don't startle me like that!" he groaned.
"Sorry, I didn't know talking to you could scare you, John."
"You didn't scare me," the ex-soldier grumbled. Suddenly his eyes widened. He took the book that had caught his attention from the bookshelf, and showed it to Sherlock.
"Look. The Grimm Brothers' Fairy Tales."
"I can read, thank you very much."
"Oh, stop being such a twat."
"Because it's Christmas?"
"Because I found something useful, for once. If you could memorize more fairy tales, you might get clues that I can't get even if I do know the tales."
"But that's because..."
"I'm an idiot, I know." John sighed. Sherlock frowned.
"I was going to say, that's because you don't think like Moriarty." John arched an eyebrow. "And that's perfectly fine," Sherlock added, just to be sure John wouldn't get even more upset.
So they went back to the bedroom and, since there weren't any chairs, they both sat on the bed, Sherlock holding the candle, and John opening the book. He began to read out loud.
"Cinderella. The wife of a rich man fell sick, and as she felt that her end was drawing near, she called her only daughter to her bedside and said, "Dear child, be good and pious, and then the good God will always protect thee, and I will look down on thee from heaven and be near thee." Thereupon she closed her eyes and departed. Every day the maiden went out to her mother's grave, and wept, and she remained pious and good. When winter came the snow spread a white sheet over the grave, and when the spring sun had drawn it off again, the man had taken another wife.
The woman had brought two daughters into the house with her, who were beautiful and fair of face, but vile and black of heart. Now began a bad time for the poor step-child. "Is the stupid goose to sit in the parlour with us?" said they. "He who wants to eat bread must earn it; out with the kitchen-wench." They took her pretty clothes away from her, put an old grey bed gown on her, and gave her wooden shoes. "Just look at the proud princess, how decked out she is!" they cried, and laughed, and led her into the kitchen. There she had to do hard work from morning till night, get up before daybreak, carry water, light fires, cook and wash. Besides this, the sisters did her every imaginable injury – they mocked her and emptied her peas and lentils into the ashes, so that she was forced to sit and pick them out again. In the evening when she had worked till she was weary she had no bed to go to, but had to sleep by the fireside in the ashes. And as on that account she always looked dusty and dirty, they called her Cinderella."
"She's an idiot. Do you realize all the different types of ashes she could've studied?"
"Don't interrupt me!" John chided. Sherlock scoffed, but kept quiet.
"It happened that the father was once going to the fair, and he asked his two step-daughters what he should bring back for them. "Beautiful dresses," said one, "Pearls and jewels," said the second. "And thou, Cinderella," said he, "what wilt thou have?" "Father, break off for me the first branch which knocks against your hat on your way home." So he bought beautiful dresses, pearls and jewels for his two step-daughters, and on his way home, as he was riding through a green thicket, a hazel twig brushed against him and knocked off his hat. Then he broke off the branch and took it with him. When he reached home he gave his step-daughters the things which they had wished for, and to Cinderella he gave the branch from the hazel-bush. Cinderella thanked him, went to her mother's grave and planted the branch on it, and wept so much that the tears fell down on it and watered it. And it grew, however, and became a handsome tree. Thrice a day Cinderella went and sat beneath it, and wept and prayed, and a little white bird always came on the tree, and if Cinderella expressed a wish, the bird threw down to her what she had wished for."
"That's preposterous."
"It's a fairy tale, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, exasperated. As Sherlock stretched on the bed and just lay there sheepishly, John took a deep breath and resumed his reading.
"It happened, however, that the King appointed a festival which was to last three days, and to which all the beautiful young girls in the country were invited, in order that his son might choose himself a bride. When the two step-sisters heard that they too were to appear among the number, they were delighted, called Cinderella and said, "Comb our hair for us, brush our shoes and fasten our buckles, for we are going to the festival at the King's palace." Cinderella obeyed, but wept, because she too would have liked to go with them to the dance, and begged her step-mother to allow her to do so. "Thou go, Cinderella!" said she; "Thou art dusty and dirty and wouldst go to the festival? Thou hast no clothes and shoes, and yet wouldst dance!" As, however, Cinderella went on asking, the step-mother at last said, "I have emptied a dish of lentils into the ashes for thee, if thou hast picked them out again in two hours, thou shalt go with us." The maiden went through the back-door into the garden, and called, "You tame pigeons, you turtle-doves, and all you birds beneath the sky, come and help me to pick...
The good into the pot,
the bad into the crop."
"She's a bit like you. Desperate to go to a stupid ball."
"Sherlock..." John warned threateningly.
"Fine, fine. I'll shut up now."
John smiled, and continued.
And so they read and read, fairy tale after fairy tale, and Sherlock couldn't help but cut John off every once in a while because some snide comment or some whine escaped his lips; but that was just like him, and by the end of the fifth tale ('The Valiant Little Tailor'), John had got used to it.
"Would you like me to read?" Sherlock suddenly offered. "If you're getting tired of it."
John was so startled by the considerate offer that he was rendered speechless for a second.
"John?"
"Yes. Sure. Here, I'll take the candle."
Their hands brushed as John grabbed the stick, and he shivered. Sherlock was staring him right in the eye.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. I'm good, it's just..."
A door was slammed somewhere in the house and they both froze, their gazes locked. It was obviously the front door. Sherlock quickly blew out the candle and moved surreptitiously to the door, which they had left open.
"Are you sure no one is in?" they heard. It was a young male voice, but not a familiar one.
"Yes," whispered back another one, quite familiar this time. "I'm sure. Robbie never comes here by himself, and now that his father is... Oh God, Francis, what are we going to do?" Her voice broke and it was obvious that she was crying. John sent Sherlock a confused look.
"Hatty?" he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Hatty Doran?"
Sherlock brought a finger to his lips, and nodded.
"I don't know, baby, I... This is just so fucked up, I have no idea what to do anymore."
"Maybe we should go to the police," she said in a small voice.
"No! They'll pull me in for murder, you know they will!"
"But you didn't do it, surely they'll–"
"Look, Hatty, I know the cops, all right? They'll be too happy to have the perfect type of the guilty guy, and they won't look any further."
"But we can explain–"
"Who would believe our story?" Francis snorted.
"I would," Sherlock said as he stepped into the room and walked up to them dramatically.
Hatty cried out in horror while the young man she'd called Francis stepped in front of her protectively, grabbing a vase.
"I would put that down immediately, if I were you," Sherlock recommended calmly. Watching, John found it hilarious to see him acting with his usual cool while dressed in green sweater and jeans.
"Who are you?" Francis asked.
"And why are you wearing Robert's clothes?" Hatty exclaimed. Then, as John stepped closer, she recognized them, and paled considerably. "Oh God, it's them."
"Them?"
"The detective guys I told you about."
"Oh."
"Oh, indeed," Sherlock confirmed with a grin, and his face looked so scary John thought it was high time he said something.
"We overheard you," he intervened. "If you're not guilty of anything, why don't you want to go to the police?"
"That's none of your business, shrimp."
"Sh... Shrimp?" John repeated, indignant. Sherlock actually had the nerve to chuckle. He did, however, step in front of John to look down on Francis with contempt.
"I'm afraid it is. And believe me, you really don't want to make your case worse than it is already."
"Shrimp..." John repeated again to himself. Sherlock ignored him.
"He's right, Francis," Hatty insisted, grabbing his arm. "We did nothing wrong. We should talk to them."
"You're forgetting the diamond," Francis said grimly.
"But we didn't steal it!" the poor girl cried in outrage.
"Well. Why don't you start from the beginning?" Sherlock suggested. "Let's take a seat."
They did, spreading themselves out on the couch and chairs. Shrimp? John continued to muse.
"About three months ago, Francis came over from San Francisco, and–"
"Wait, wait. Full name?"
"Francis Moulton," the young man muttered, gritting his teeth.
"Good. Go on," Sherlock added with a perfunctory smile.
Hatty coughed a little, fidgeting, and continued.
"About three months ago, Francis came here and... well, we were together before I moved to England, so..."
"You got back together, but you didn't break up with Robert Holder," Sherlock finished for her. Hatty glowered at him.
"Don't judge me. We weren't married or anything, so this isn't a crime."
"Indeed, it isn't. Let's move on to the interesting part."
Hatty was quite offended at the comment, but their situation was too serious for her to be picky. She went on.
"We started dating again. Then, a month ago or so, Francis received a diamond."
"He received it?" Sherlock asked, disbelieving.
"If you stopped interrupting me, maybe we could get somewhere with this!" she snapped.
Sherlock shrugged and let her go on. But she was so unnerved that Francis took over their story for her.
"I received it with a threat letter: if I didn't find a perfect hiding place for the diamond, or if I went to the police, I would be killed within the day."
John gaped, and started paying closer attention to the conversation.
"At first I thought it was a joke, probably not a real diamond or anything, so I didn't even mention it to anyone. But the next day, precisely twenty-four hours after I had received the package, I found some hooded guy in my flat and he almost cut my throat right then."
"He called me and came to me right away," Hatty continued the story. "So I could help him find the perfect hiding place. Otherwise, he would be killed..." Her eyes filled with tears, and Francis took her hand. "Robert was always bragging about his father's car, and since my dad was the one who made the little black box, I knew how to open it and hide something inside without anyone noticing that something was wrong – without it ceasing to work, you see." She sobbed. "I knew that a diamond had been stolen from the Holders', but we couldn't tell anyone or go to the police because it was just... We would've been killed. But then Mr. Holder was murdered and the little black box disappeared and it's all my fault for choosing such a stupid hiding place and–"
"All right, I see, you can stop there," Sherlock interrupted, obviously annoyed at the girl's snivelling. "Now tell me: do you often visit this house?"
"Robert made me a copy of the keys," Hatty murmured, her face still damp with tears.
"So that's what you meant by spending Christmas dinner with your family?" John said, stunned. He felt quite bad for Robert Holder, who seemed completely obsessed with the girl.
"Why didn't you go to the police when Alexander Holder was killed?" Sherlock inquired.
"Because we thought we would surely get killed by whoever took the diamond! Or get framed for the murder!"
"Did you tell anyone, the 'hooded guy' for instance, where you hid the diamond?"
"No. I didn't see the guy after that first night, and at that time I had no idea where we would put the diamond," Francis answered, looking more exhausted by the second – much older, too. The whole affair was obviously wearing him down. To be fair, it would've been enough to wear anyone down, John thought.
"And didn't you find it strange that someone would go through all the trouble of sending you a diamond, only to take it back and kill someone in the process?"
"I don't know, it could've been an accomplice. Maybe it wasn't the same person who contacted me or who got the diamond in the end."
"But how could that person have known, in any case? If only the both of you knew where the diamond was–"
"Are you saying we killed him?" Francis asked, standing, fury in his eyes.
"I am saying no such thing, Mr. Moulton. Sit down."
"Who are you to be ordering me around?!"
Sherlock smiled thinly.
"The only one who can prove your innocence."
Francis did not stop trembling, but fell back into the couch in defeat.
"So, just to make sure... Only the two of you knew where the diamond was hidden."
"Right."
"And no one else knew about the diamond in the first place."
"No, just us."
"Good. Well, since the storm is still raging outside, I guess it is a better idea if you spend the night here after all." John blinked, dumbfounded. Was Sherlock actually being nice? This was far too suspicious.
"We should really go," Hatty said, "it's barely raining anymore."
"You're not gonna call the cops, are you?" Francis asked distrustfully.
Sherlock smirked.
"We don't want to disturb them on Christmas, now, do we?"
For the first time, a true smile graced Hatty's lips. She sent Sherlock a grateful look. John pinched his lips, and then stood.
"I'm going to go get my laptop in the car. Get some air."
Sherlock, who suddenly seemed to remember his friend's presence, looked at him with surprise.
"But it's still drizzling."
"I'll be fine. I saw an anorak in the hall, I'll just borrow that."
Sherlock stood as well and followed him to the door. There was, indeed, a red anorak with a hood, quite handy presently.
"Is something wrong?" Sherlock inquired, observing his flatmate closely.
"No, there's nothing wrong."
"Was it the shrimp comment?"
"I said there's nothing wrong, Sherlock! I'm just going to get my laptop and I'll be back."
"Good."
"Good."
They stared at each other for a second, and then John turned, opened the door, and was gone. Sherlock didn't know why, but he had a bad feeling about this. He opened the door abruptly and called out:
"Are you sure you're not going to get lost?"
"Of course not! Sherlock, you said it yourself: it's not that far."
And then he was gone into the night. Sherlock closed the door after him pensively and went back to the living-room. Hatty and Francis were still on the couch, now snuggling. Sherlock snorted, and they jumped.
"We'll be in the bedroom, if anything happens during the night. I expect you to be gone tomorrow morning and to leave no trace. And I really advise you stop smoking anywhere near this house, Mr. Moulton." He started walking towards the room, then stopped in his tracks. He turned to them again and added: "Oh, and please don't run off to America tomorrow. Or anywhere else, for that matter. It is essential that you remain here, so your testimony can be taken."
"So you are going to go to the police!" Francis exclaimed. Sherlock grinned crookedly.
"Not before I have exposed the murderer myself, Mr. Moulton. Good night."
And with those words, he was gone. This time, he turned on the light in the bedroom, and saw the book of fairy tales still lying open on the bed where they had left it. He wondered whether John would want to keep reading when he was back. Then he realized there was only one bed, and berated himself for having been so kind and stupid, inviting the silly couple to stay here and to take the couch.
I'm an idiot. His eyes fell on the next tale in the book, the one he had been about to read out loud when they were interrupted by Francis and Hatty coming in. 'Little Red Riding Hood', Sherlock read. What a weird title, he mused. As his gaze scanned the text, however, his face fell. He paled. Dashing out of the room, he burst in on the teenagers, who were now doing somewhat more than just cuddling. Completely ignoring their position, he demanded:
"Do you know whose red coat it was?"
"What? What red coat?" Francis said, completely bewildered, while Hatty was trying to hide her chest.
"The one my colleague just went out wearing."
"We don't have a red coat. I don't think Robert has any either," she said.
Panic flashed in Sherlock's eyes.
"John."
TBC
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~o~