Here's Chapter 1, like I promised! This story is basically following the progression of Sherlock and John's relationship from friends to lovers as I see fit to write it, so if that's not your cup of tea, turn back now. :)
Happy reading!
Chapter 1 - Skeletal Tribulations
"I think if you were to locate his daughter, she might be able to shed some light into your cavernous brains," Sherlock says, straightening and shoving his hands into the pockets of his long Belstaff coat.
"Daughter…?" a silver-haired man you know as Lestrade asks, a look of annoyed satisfaction on his face. "He doesn't have a daughter."
"I think you'll find that he does. Can't you tell?" The lean man begins dashing about the body as he examines every detail once more for the sake of Scotland Yard. In rapid-fire speech, he begins. "Judging by the state of his attire, he dressed himself. Obviously, there was no one to tell him the outfit didn't coordinate and that he missed a spot while shaving. His clothes are slightly ragged, implying either insufficient funds or lack of desire for new clothing items. Going by the highly expensive watch on his wrist, a gift from his boss of twenty years, and the meticulous state of his hair and nails, he makes good pay and has for quite some time. With an employer giving away such items, he would have to be making enough money to support himself comfortably. How come his clothing doesn't fit with the profile? He had someone else buying clothes for him for quite some time. Mother? Unlikely at his age. Sister? Possible, but still doubtful. Wife? Yes. There's the matter of the left ring finger, which bears no band at the present, but the slight indentation and tan line suggests there was for a while—come now, you all should know this!—and wasn't removed until recently. When I say recently…approximately a year, judging the state of his apparel. However, what was the cause for the removal? Not a death, since this type of man, devoted for so long, would have left it on or moved the ring to the right ring finger to symbolize his widower status. Divorce or separation then. Probably divorce.
"The cause of this is obvious by the pictures in his wallet. Sentiment. It can get the best of us. And by us, I mean anyone bar myself." The detective pulls out the dead man's wallet as he speaks, opening it. "The rather alarming amount of photographs in this man's wallet is practically an autobiography in itself. However, no pictures of the wife, so who could these be? Too young to be a girlfriend, as she's barely out of college. I suppose it would be possible, however, it is highly unlikely. His type? Her looks? She wouldn't go for a man like him. Daughter, then, judging by the resemblance in the nose and mouth. But she's too old to have been our deceased and his wife's daughter, since she's clearly around twenty-four and they've only been married for approximately twenty. This extra family member was found out by the wife—and possibly the husband, not sure—in the past year. Look at the state of the photographs. Very few dog-eared edges and printed on new paper. He didn't have these until the breakup. Which means he probably found out about the girl at the same time as the wife." Jumping over the body, he leans closer and motions to Lestrade. "Smell his jacket. Seem familiar? No? Of course not. It's the light fragrance of a younger woman, not the heavy, musky smell a woman of his age uses. This perfume belonged to his daughter. And I know who you're looking for, as we passed her on our way in. I recognized the scent."
"Sherlock! Why didn't you say so?" Lestrade blurts, frustrated and tired from an obviously sleepless night. Sherlock probably knows the reason for that.
"Would you have gone and tracked her down without any evidence at all?"
"We still don't have any evidence."
"Then what is this, exactly?" Sherlock asks, holding up a small bracelet between his gloved fingers that matches the bracelet seen in a couple of the photos in the man's wallet. "Come, John. We have other matters to tend to," Sherlock says, beginning to walk away.
I look sheepishly to Lestrade. "Sorry. Call us if you need anything."
Greg nods as he bags the bracelet Sherlock has discovered. He's used to Sherlock's abrupt exits by now.
I jog to catch up, nearly missing the cab Sherlock had hailed, and enter. "You know, sometimes it might be nice if you waited."
Sherlock hums, intently tapping away at his mobile.
I release a sigh. "Was there really anything else to tend to? Or was that just an excuse—"
"Really, John, you should know me well enough by now."
There wasn't anything, then.
The cab pulls up to the curb outside 221 Baker Street and we exit. Mrs. Hudson is just inside the door, waiting. "Sherlock, you have a guest."
I watch Sherlock deducing who it is by Mrs. Hudson's appearance. If the face he is making is any indication, the company will be unpleasant.
Sherlock mounts the stairs steadily, not rushing up as he often does. I notice, and am a bit wary. The taller man pushes the door open and steps inside.
"What is it, Mycroft?"
I study Sherlock's still form. He's been like this for the past day, unmoving and unseeing. It is now a familiar posture for me to observe, but I worry about my flatmate. Where a usually passive expression resides on Sherlock's face, it is a slightly distressed one there now. A worry line creates a crease on his smooth forehead.
Sherlock blinks suddenly, eyes snapping to mine. The movement startles me, and I jump slightly. Getting up with a flourish, Sherlock crosses the room in two long strides to where his violin rests. Picking it up, he begins playing a tune I haven't heard in a while.
"What did Mycroft come to tell you, Sherlock?" I ask quietly after several minutes of passionate playing. I had been excused from the conversation between the brothers two days prior.
Sherlock finishes playing with an angry pull of the bow, making a discordant shriek clamor out of the instrument.
"Nothing of significance."
I give him one of my disbelieving smiles. "No, Sherlock. Don't do this. Not to me. He obviously said something that upset you."
"This has nothing to do with Mycroft," he snaps. He had been looking out of the window dejectedly, but quickly sets down the violin and whirls, perching in his chair in a squatting position, as he often does.
"Could you speak plainly for once?" I say, voice rising in pitch.
"It's gone missing, John." He scrubs a frustrated hand down his face.
"What?" I glance around the room. "The new head in the fridge?"
Sherlock gives me a strange look. "What? Of course not." He gets back up and starts away, then turns back and gives me an accusatory glare. "Why would it be?"
"I…don't know." I had rather hoped it would just…disappear during the night.
Eyes narrowed, Sherlock begins pacing, dismissing the brief interrogation. "It's the skull that's missing. Isn't it obvious?"
"Very," I say sarcastically, looking towards the mantle, which, in fact, is missing its usual resident.
He stops again and gives me a scrupulous look. He never can quite get the knack of sarcasm.
What he's said suddenly sinks in for me and I find the whole thing ridiculously amusing. I can't stop the laughter that bubbles up.
As expected, he shoots a volatile glare in my direction. "What is it?"
I try to pull some air into my lungs as the laughter fades. Motioning in his direction, I say, "You're just so worked up. I thought there was a death, or Moriarty was back, or something equally as bad." I chuckle again, a hideous sound that's entirely too girly for my liking. "And it's all over your…your…friend of a skull!"
He plops down on the couch. "It's an important skull, John!"
The grin on my face won't go away. "Sherlock, are you getting sentimental over a dead person's head?"
"Absolutely not." He turns over in a huff and faces the back of the sofa, curling in on himself in an obvious form of pouting.
Still chuckling slightly, I get up and go over to him, placing a hand on his stiff shoulder. "Come, now. I'll bet Mrs. Hudson took it away somewhere. Maybe even Mycroft hid it before we arrived the other day. You know how those two are about that thing."
Sherlock mumbles something I can't understand as he's said it straight into the cushions.
"What's that?"
He turns his head slightly so his mouth is unobstructed. "I said, I already checked all the usual places Mrs. Hudson's hid it before. And Mycroft knows better."
I sigh a little. This has actually gotten him into a schoolboy huff. It could be days before he pulls himself out of it if he doesn't get a case soon.
Belatedly, I realize my hand still rests on his shoulder and quickly pull it away. It's a little surprising he hadn't said anything about it, since he's mostly adverse to human contact.
I try to ignore the slight tingling in my fingers or the warmth spreading up my arm.
He does that to people. He affects almost anyone he comes in contact with. The man has fangirls, for god's sake. I tell myself that every time I get that fluttery feeling in my stomach around him.
Add to that the fact that I am not gay.
I prefer women, thank you very much, and any strange attraction to Sherlock is simply a fluke. Perhaps it's a natural reaction to being around Sherlock Holmes. I'm fairly certain even Donovan has a thing for him, despite the fact she calls him names every time she sees him. And Irene Adler, who was gay, most definitely had a thing for him. He's the kind of man that makes anyone question his or her sexual orientation.
I'm still telling myself this as I make tea and Sherlock continues to pout over his missing skull.
Reviews appreciated. :) -C