Hello! Apologies for the delay. My sister came home from studying abroad and I've been spending time with her. :)
Chapter 29, In Which Love is a Smooth Criminal
Lissie knows she is dreaming.
She's sore – her throat is dry and sticky – it feels a little like she's eaten a platter of peanut butter sandwiches, without jelly - and her limbs are stiff, and there is a painful sort of throbbing above her left eyebrow, and even though she remembers that you're not supposed to feel pain in dreams, she knows she is dreaming.
It probably has something to do with the fact that there's a Dalek chasing her.
Exterminate! Conjugate! Misallocate! It yells in its screeching mechanical voice. But whenever she looks at it over her shoulder – its face changes.
A handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes.
A pretty woman with laugh lines and an updo.
Her own face, distorted and grotesque.
It hadn't started out like this.
At first, she was at home. Not the home from the past several years – all magnificent and embroidered and fake – it was her childhood home.
The home from before they were rich.
Just the three of them – Mum and Dad and Lissie, in a little bungalow in the country, squat against a tiny patch of grass, with a long cement driveway and shrubbery beneath the windows.
It had been windy – very windy – but the sky was still blue and the clouds were puffy and white. She'd been six years old again, and wearing a white and yellow sundress – floaty and girly, but made casual by her bare legs and feet and the perpetual skinned knees of childhood.
She'd been running down the driveway, and jumping up at the end of it, and a gust of wind would catch under her dress, and puff it out like a parachute, and she would float in the air before lowering gently down to the cement again. That was when she first suspected she was dreaming.
She did it, over and over, and got better and better at it – she'd float higher and higher with every jump, and it would take longer and longer for her toes to reach the ground again.
Lissie, her parents had called, but the sound was distant and tinny – Lissie, stop! You'll float away! Lissie!
But she didn't listen. And then, a particularly strong gust of wind did carry her away, and the sky grew overcast, and then she was falling, falling.
How cliché, she remembered thinking, because the falling happened for a while.
She hit the ground hard, on her bum, and she was no longer six. She was twenty-five. She was wearing the outfit – the neat little A-line black dress - she'd worn when she met – who had she met, now?
Faces swam before her eyes, like an old-time projection reel of a silent film, and then everything went dark.
Everything was so, so dark.
She sat up, and stood, shakily – and saw lights, in the distance.
They were Daleks.
And so now she is running, always running, from the Dalek whose face keeps changing into handsome men and women and yelling things like Exterminate! and Allocate! and Investigate!
It's all wrong.
Halfway across the city of London, an unremarkable man in unremarkable clothing with an unremarkable bag hoisted on his shoulder took another drag on his cigarette.
He blew it out slowly through the side of his mouth, allowing the nicotine to course through his system.
He'd been there for a while.
He could have been waiting for a cab. But he wasn't.
He could have been having a quick smoke on break, before heading back inside to work. But he wasn't.
He could have been admiring the New Scotland Yard across the street, the way the sunlight glinted off of the windows and the way the people bustled around it like so many ants. But he wasn't.
He could have been waiting for someone.
And he was.
When he finished his cigarette, he dropped it to the sidewalk and crushed it below his heel, before entering St. Ermin's Hotel and heading back up to his room.
The television in his room had been tuned to news on the Felicity Carlson case nonstop all day.
"You're unbelievably lucky, you know." John said grumpily as he and Sherlock made their way to the Billings district, looking for 34 Child Street – the supposed home of Dr. and Mrs. Singer.
"I thought, as my friend, that you should at least attempt to be happy for me. Isn't that what people do? When their friends enter into a…a…"
"Relationship?" John filled in, amused. "Yeah, that's what they do. And I am happy for you. I'm just reminding you how blasted lucky you are."
"Luck has nothing to do with it," Sherlock dismissed casually.
John snorted. "So you're saying that you perfectly planned everything so that Molly would have to say yes to you?"
Sherlock stopped, eyeing the street signs, and frowned. "Not…in as many words," he admitted.
John rolled his eyes. "You didn't just say that. Mary will never hear that you said that. You are lucky. Lucky to have friends like us. And Molly."
Sherlock smirked in reply – the only confirmation John could hope to get, at the moment – and turned down Child Street.
He was lucky to have Molly, and he knew it.
Half an hour earlier, he'd said good-bye to her as they parted ways at her flat. It had occurred to him, during their short stay at Brighton's Scotland Yard facilities, that taking Molly to meet two kidnappers - potential murderers? -and into a scheme to draw out a vigilante sniper was a situation perhaps more dangerous than she was used to. More dangerous than he was used to her being in, Moriarty aside. Not that he was against her coming – or was he?
It wasn't that he didn't want her to come – because he did. He enjoyed having her around, and for some reason, her physical presence allowed him to think…faster. More clearly? It was strange – because she was distracting – but just distracting enough to help him focus. Sort of like the sound of a fan – white noise – that helps you drown out all of the other unimportant but sometimes highly distracting sounds in a house. But the idea of putting her into danger clouded his senses. He found it just a bit unnerving that he wasn't exactly sure what he wanted.
He was quiet as the three of them – ex-army doctor and detective, with a pathologist between them – slid into the cab. The driver raised his eyebrows expectantly at them in the rearview mirror after a few moments of silence.
"Well? Where to?" He asked good-naturedly.
John and Molly looked between themselves and then at Sherlock, who was frowning and thinking.
"Um…Sherlock?" Molly asked.
He glanced at her. Safe, he decided suddenly. He wanted her safe. He trusted her to keep herself safe. However, for as much as he trusted her – he didn't trust the criminals he was about to face. Not the Singers, so much – this case was an extraneous data point in the plot of their crimes. The 'Singers' – really one Henry Peters and Miranda Fraser - had never killed before. They usually lured the victim away from family and friends, conned the victim out of money or deeds or jewels, and then left them, disappearing into the night. Something must have gone wrong, for Ms. Carlson to have disappeared with them. And yet, the Singers didn't worry him.
No - it was this sniper he didn't trust. He didn't have enough data to predict his course of action, yet.
With me – a thought popped into his head again, arguing – he wanted her with him. Safe, and with him – but was that a possibility, right now?
"Are we going to Billings, then?" John interrupted his thoughts.
"You have to work tomorrow, Molly," Sherlock stated suddenly.
John and Molly shared another concerned glance. "Y-es," she agreed slowly. "I do."
"And the sun is already setting and you usually need at least six hours of sleep for your peak performance. Any less and your incisions aren't nearly as perfect." He wanted her safe…but he also wanted her to make the choice herself. Even if he was painfully obvious in guiding her to it.
John raised a curious, incredulous eyebrow at Sherlock, but Molly replied before he could say anything.
"Are you…suggesting I go home, then, Sherlock?" She asked, keeping the amused smile threatening to burst forth under control.
"If…that is what you want to do." He said evenly.
And Molly stared hard at him for a moment, and he swallowed. "If that is what I want to do," she repeated carefully – not accusing, not offended, just – trying to understand.
"To keep you at peak job performance," Sherlock reiterated, concentrating carefully on the stain on the carpet near his feet. Vomit stain, or urine? Vomit, most likely.
"Of course. Because you're concerned about my job performance but have no concern whatsoever taking me to meet world-famous con artists who've kidnapped their latest victim while attempting to draw out an ex-military man with a vendetta against kidnappers."
John sat back, looking mildly impressed.
Sherlock swallowed again, and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She wasn't angry, or even terribly irritated. She wasn't even stammering. If anything – she looked – amused? "No…" he drew out the answer. "And I wouldn't say they are world-famous. Just…notorious, in their particular line of work."
When she didn't answer, he added, begrudgingly, "I trust you."
She smiled, understanding. "I trust you, too. Which is why I've decided to take your advice and go home. Wouldn't want me at any less than my peak performance, tomorrow," she said. "And, of course, less chance at home of running into kidnapping con-artists or vigilante snipers. Much safer. You know."
He offered her a small smile and leaned back into the seat, allowing her to entwine her fingers with his for the remainder of the brief ride home.
When they reached Molly's flat, Sherlock exited to allow Molly to slide out from the middle of the seat. Molly offered John a brilliant smile. "Thank you, for everything," she said softly, "And don't let him get himself shot again tonight, all right?"
John gave her a small nod. "Right. Couldn't give me something easy, could you?" They smiled – hers slightly nervous, his reassuring. "We'll be fine. Take care, Molly. And you know, I can tell – he really cares for you."
She stopped and her smile became awkward and curious.
John grinned at her. "He never lets me off early just because I have to work the next day."
Her smile relaxed. "See you tomorrow," she replied as she laughed lightly and exited the cab.
She stood facing Sherlock for a moment, unsure of how to say good-bye, exactly, now that they were…together.
So as always, she settled on rambling a bit. "You know, I had a lovely day. Except – well, except for being arrested. But even that wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. And everything else - it was – everything – you – it was – just perfect. So thank you. And-" here his lips began to quirk upwards, and he blinked, as she continued full steam ahead. "- and you know that I wouldn't mind going with you to the…um…to Billings, I would go with you, but it seemed like you didn't want me to, which is…sort of understandable, I mean, I'm no ex-army doctor, just your everyday, run of the mill, deals-with-dead-people-on-a-daily-basis doctor, so I probably couldn't help much with renegade con-artists, and I appreciate you looking out for me, but you know I can and will come with you in the future-"
"Molly," he interrupted firmly, and she blushed, and stopped talking. "Thank you. I will…see you tomorrow."
"Right," she said.
He smirked at her. "One generally needs to move away from the doorway of a cab in order for someone else to enter it."
"Right!" She said again, and took a step away from the door. As he turned to return to the cab, she bit her lip. "Sherlock?"
And though he was impatient, now, to get to Billings and find the Singers and Ms. Carlson, he did remember his promise to try, and so, with as much patience as he could muster, he turned to face her again. "Yes?"
She smiled at him, and before he could react, stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his cheek in a quick, chaste kiss that mirrored the ones he had given her so often in the past. "Be safe."
Now it was Sherlock who stood for just a moment too long in the doorway of the cab, watching Molly Hooper's retreating form enter her flat. As the door closed behind her, his face became stone and he slid into the cab with nary a word to John.
Thoughts of Molly were tucked carefully away as Sherlock and John arrived on foot at 34 Child Street.
"So," John said, as Sherlock made to walk up the steps. "No disguise, this time? No 'punch me in the face'? No mascara mustache? Just…ring the doorbell and see what happens?"
Sherlock grinned at him. "Something like that."
The doorbell rang clear and pleasant through the flat.
Sherlock and John waited on the stoop, and soon enough, footsteps and the sound of a lock sliding gave way to a door opening to a woman, mid-thirties, in her dressing gown, with her hair still up and chic glasses framing her friendly eyes. "Hello," she said pleasantly. "May I help you?"
"Yes," Sherlock stated crisply. "I've come to collect Ms. Felicity Carlson."
Her eyes darkened just a bit, but her expression remained one of polite confusion. "Who?"
"Ms. Felicity Carlson. New money. Recently acquired inheritance. Last seen at the Hotel International, leaving for the Baden Towers in Ipswich with you, Mrs. Singer, and your husband, Dr. Singer. Or, to be entirely free of falsehood, Mr. Henry Peters and Ms. Miranda Fraser."
The woman stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed but face still professionally blank with uncertainty, before being rudely pushed out of the doorway by the man who stood on her doorstep.
"Sherlock!" John cried. His expression was still one of shock. He hadn't expected Sherlock to just come out and – lay all the cards on the table, as it were, and then force himself into the house. Which he was still doing.
"You saw her at Hotel International and made her as a target roughly two weeks ago. She was a partier, but was obviously had the desperate desire to…increase her social status, so you had to bide your time and make yourselves look appealing, socially. Once you lured her in with tickets to Don Giovanni – simple to look into, just had to ask the concierge where you'd been spending your time – it was simple to keep up the façade. You invited her to Baden Towers, where your husband – and more fittingly, your partner in crime - meant to pull your classic con – convincing her to invest in the origins of your 'success' - something ridiculous, like platinum mines in Budapest or growing rice with orphans in Mongolia." His voice carried from room to room as he stalked through the flat, moving things and pacing.
Closet – empty – no false panel – piano – real – rug – knock on the wall – extra room? No – not there - some sort of receipt, large sum to ship something - here? No, pre-disappearance - signs of another location to hold Ms. Carlson? Not yet – not yet -
"Oh! Leave! At once! Ridiculous allegations! Leave. Or – I'll be forced to call the police!" The woman scowled and pointed emphatically at the door.
"Please do. It would save John the trouble of calling them himself." Sherlock's voice was a bit more distant, now.
John looked at the woman, his face a strange mixture of embarrassment and suspicion. "Do…do you mind if I come in?" He asked.
The woman glared at him. "I do. But if you can get him out of here, be my guest."
John hesitated for a moment, and when he heard the sound of something crashing further in the flat, he entered.
"What are you doing?!" The woman shrieked, racing into the bedroom, where Sherlock had dumped the contents of her jewelry box.
Sherlock was frowning. "Not here. They're not here. Felicity Carlson's fortune was in jewels, and the sapphire broach she sold and the ruby necklace she gave her friend are evidence that she had at least some of them in her possession at the hotel with you. But where are they? And where is she?"
He began opening drawers and tapping on walls and floors again, and the woman changed tactics and began screaming loudly. "Help! Oh, help! Burglar! Robber! Call the police! Someone-"
"Oh, do shut up," Sherlock snapped irritably, and paused in the middle of the room, frowning. "I know who you are, and I know what you've done. I also know you're not a killer. Neither you nor Mr. Peters are, Ms. Fraser. You're also not kidnappers. You trick people into giving you what you want. Lies and deceit, words and appearances - those are your weapons, not knives or guns. But something must have gone wrong, very wrong. Was Lissie smarter than she first appeared? Did she catch on to your scheme, confront you? Did someone recognize you too soon? Could you not flee when you wanted, and so you had to take her with you – or did she catch you fleeing? Whatever the reason, you took her, and it was unexpected. She's here, or somewhere nearby – no hotel rooms booked in any of your aliases, so she's here – where is she?"
"You're a madman," the woman said confidently, glaring at him. "Who on earth would believe a word you say?"
In a few short strides, he was standing in front of her, glowering down at her in disdain. "There are quite a few people who would be more than happy to believe my testimony against you."
"Your testimony? You have no proof of anything you say. My husband – David Singer – and I – we did meet Ms. Carlson at Hotel International, and invited her with us to Ipswich. But she never arrived. You can check with the staff at the Towers."
Sherlock ignored her. "Yes…your husband. Where is your husband?" He asked, after a moment.
The woman sniffed indignantly. "He had an errand to run. He'll be home any moment. And then you'll be sorry. We'll - we'll sue you for defamation of character."
Sherlock snorted and leveled her with a steady gaze. "Empty threats mean nothing to me, Miranda Fraser. I know for a fact you could never take anyone to court. Your pretty concocted identity would fall apart under the scrutiny of the legal system." His mind was working even as he was talking, and his eyes lit up knowingly as he scanned the floor, the contents of her jewelry box strewn about.
"He's pawning her jewelry, isn't he? Selling it? Many of the pieces in her collection weren't well known – some were even relatively common; gold pins, Tiffany necklaces – nothing terribly difficult to sell without proof of ownership. Oh, you think you're clever-"
"Hello? Hello in there? Everything all right?" An unfamiliar voice cut through Sherlock's cold assessment. She'd left the front door open.
After a moment of silence, the woman met Sherlock's icy glare with one of her own.
And then she turned on the waterworks.
Real tears, thought John, disgusted. Real tears.
"Oh! Thank goodness you've arrived! These – these men just – just – burst in through my front door and began ransacking my house for jewelry – they – they-" and she ran into the entryway, where a member of the Scotland Yard, making his regular rounds, noticed the door ajar and had come forward. He had a hand on his holster and a nervously suspicious look on his face.
"Oi! Come – come out of there, you! Hands up high, where I can see 'em!" The man commanded, drawing his gun.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John hissed at him. "Not again. Sherlock, I swear-"
The two of them exited the bedroom with hands held up in surrender. "Don't shoot!" John said. "I was just coming after him myself. He's a bit mad, you know. We weren't stealing anything." A glare - directed at Sherlock.
Sherlock scoffed, disdainful. "I am not mad. You should be arresting her…Lieutenant…Nelson," he said, peering at the man's name badge. "She's wanted for the kidnapping of Felicity Carlson, among other things."
The woman gasped in faux shock and a wave of fresh tears flowed forth. "Oh, how could – Officer – Lieutenant…"
The lieutenant shook his head, eyes still locked intently on the men in front of him. "Now, now, ma'am…don't you worry. We'll take care of this."
Sherlock smirked. "Indeed we will. And by 'we', I primarily mean 'I'. Sherlock Holmes. This is Dr. John Watson. Perhaps you've heard of us?" He remarked drily.
The man peered at him. "'Course I have. Everyone has. And…I suppose you do…look like them. A lot, actually." He reluctantly put his gun back into his holster. "And, we did receive a call from D.I. Lestrade…good man. Told us you'd be in the area on the Carlson case."
Sherlock lowered his hands and adjusted his coat and shirtsleeves. "Well, then you should arrest this woman," he said, nodding in her direction. She was a bit paler, now.
"You – you can't! I've done nothing wrong!" She protested, still teary-eyed.
"Now, now, ma'am," the officer patted her gently on the shoulder. "Of course I won't arrest you. Not unless Mr. Holmes has evidence, of course," he said. "Do you have any evidence, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably where he stood. "The jewelry is missing."
"Could you be more specific?"
"The jewelry – Ms. Carlson's jewels – are not here. They're being sold or pawned by Dr. Singer, who is also Henry Peters. He's got a jagged left earlobe from a bar fight years ago in Melbourne. Australia," he clarified. "And this is not Mrs. Singer. Her real name is Miranda Fraser."
The officer paused, looking between the woman and the two men. "Did you…see them here before? The jewels?"
"No."
"Do you know where Dr. Singer is…selling them?"
"Not…at the moment, though if you-"
"Have you seen signs that Ms. Carlson has been here?"
Silence, as Sherlock pieced together his argument.
"Lieutenant Nelson, I think it's obvious there's been a mistake. The only evidence he has is that the jewels aren't here? Of course they're not here! I – we – we didn't take them! And we certainly didn't kidnap anyone." The woman pouted prettily.
The lieutenant sighed. "You're absolutely right, ma'am."
Sherlock began to scowl. "A young woman has been kidnapped and I know she's here somewhere-"
"Now, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson-" he nodded at the men, respectively – "I'll send out a message to search the pawn shops and local businesses for jewelry sold to them by a Dr. Singer or Mr. Henry Peters with a jagged left earlobe. And I can put in for a description, history, and last known whereabouts of – Henry Peters and – Miranda Fraser, was it? But that's the best we can do, for now. If we find anything there, we can come arrest them, but we have no evidence. Now, Mrs. Singer, if you'd like to press charges, I can file a report-"
"-that won't be necessary, Leiutenant," she replied sweetly, drying her eyes. "I'm sure they just made a mistake. It could happen to anyone. I want that poor girl found as much as anyone."
The lieutenant looked at her, and nodded, but Sherlock was mildly, grudgingly appreciative that he did not completely fall for her deception. "Apologies for the inconvenience, ma'am. All the same, Sherlock Holmes hasn't been known to make too many mistakes. You may not have kidnapped the girl, but if you're involved in this, you will be prosecuted. We will be looking into Henry Peters and Miranda Fraser."
She nodded. "Of course. And I'm sure you'll find them and that justice will be served. But we didn't do anything wrong." She insisted again.
He nodded brusquely at her. "Now, gentleman, if you'll lead the way out, we can leave Mrs. Singer in peace for the remainder of the evening. I'll make sure you get home safely."
Before he exited, Sherlock turned coldly to the woman, who'd followed them to the door. "A word of warning to you, Mrs. Singer. In case you're unaware, kidnappers have been becoming sniper victims as of late. I have reason to believe you're in his sights. A reliable source has determined that you have the highest probability of becoming the next victim. The only way to save yourself is to free Ms. Carlson. Even then – you're still in danger. It would be safer for you to turn yourself in and come with us now."
She smiled prettily at him, and told him in no uncertain terms what exactly he could do with his advice, and slammed the door in his face.
As they exited, John thanked the officer profusely for being understanding.
"You're just lucky Greg Lestrade phoned in that alert. I could have easily arrested you for forced entry and destruction of private property. As it is, we'll be on the lookout for Henry Peters or Dr. Singer, and check the local legal and black market places for activity. I'll report it to D.I. Lestrade and post an officer on Child Street for the remainder of the evening. It's up to him where to go from there." His meaning was clear. Lieutenant Nelson was not interested in giving them any more information.
The ride back to Baker Street was quiet. Sherlock was brooding, sulking slightly at his failure to find a better clue as to the whereabouts Lissie Carlson at the house, although his plan to put pressure on the Singers had gone off well - and John was texting Mary with tales from the day's adventure.
As they approached Sherlock's flat, he spoke quietly to Lieutenant Nelson. "When you arrest them – and you will – they are becoming desperate to leave the country, and they'll have sold some of Ms. Carlson's jewelry to pay for it – when you arrest them, be sure to put them in separate vehicles for transport. Preferably bullet-proof, but definitely separate. And take them on separate routes, as an added precaution."
Lieutenant Nelson nodded, and turned to look at him. "You really think the sniper will go after them? That they're really the kidnappers?"
Sherlock nodded. "I have no doubt, although I understand that the courts need more evidence than the absence of jewelry and a left ear lobe. I also know Ms. Carlson is still alive, if only because the probability leans in her favor. Arresting the Singers will have the added benefit of drawing out this mysterious sniper. However, if this sniper kills both of the Singers, Ms. Carlson's location will be much more difficult to determine, and her chances of survival will become very slim."
Unfortunately for John, the evening was not yet over. Sherlock received another long text from Sarah Conners detailing the top three locations the sniper was most likely to strike from, and Sherlock relayed the information to his homeless network, with the instructions that anything out of the ordinary was to be reported back to him. They were on their way back to 34 Child Street to do a bit of surveillance of their own when Sherlock received a call from Lestrade.
A short conversation later, and Sherlock was fuming. "Ruin the prosecution? Ruin the prosecution! Ninety-nine percent of the time, the evidence I compile is the prosecution."
"And you're going to let his restraining order stop you from doing your…thing?" John asked incredulously as they walked briskly down a side street, close to their destination.
"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "But the insinuation that I would ruin the prosecution? Ridiculous. At least I managed to convey the importance of separate transport and separate routes for Peters and Fraser when they are arrested."
"Uh…Sherlock?" John asked, stopping abruptly.
"Yes?"
John gestured to 34 Child Street – ablaze with flashing lights and crime-scene tape and camera crews from the top news networks. "They've already been arrested."
For once, the Scotland Yard had done an extremely impressive job. They'd found the jewelry Henry Peters, alias David Singer, had sold, tracked the items through multiple hands, and had compared the items with a list of known jewelry from the bank deposit box of Felicity Carlson. Three of the five items he had sold matched the list. One of them was unique only to Ms. Carlson.
Not enough to convict of kidnapping, but it was enough to bring them in for questioning, since the jewelry in question had been withdrawn by Felicity after leaving the Hotel International. All this, in under two hours. Impressive.
Their victory was short lived.
Carefully, very carefully, an unremarkable man lit another cigarette. His third of the day. He'd have to be careful, or he'd become an addict.
He smirked sadly as he assembled his rifle and took aim. Not that it mattered if he became an addict, now.
The news blared in the background, stating that the most current suspects in the disappearance of Ms. Felicity Carlson were now in custody.
Sherlock swore, loud and low, at the sight before him. "They're gone. Already arrested. John – cab. Now."
And he was off, running, contemplating the location of the nearest cab, in this part of London, at this time of night.
They found one less than three minutes later, and Sherlock gave the cabbie the destination – New Scotland Yard – and punched in text after text to Lestrade.
Separate vehicles.
Separate transport.
Separate routes.
Did you separate them?
Sniper will be targeting them.
He scowled when there was no reply.
An ambulance passed them as they neared New Scotland Yard.
Then another.
Sherlock swore again, and the muscles in his face tightened.
John clenched his jaw. "Too late?" He asked, voice strained.
Sherlock didn't answer. Traffic was crawling, blocked by emergency vehicles. "Close enough," he spat, and sprinted out the door before the cabbie had even come to a complete stop, leaving John to pay the fare and apologize for his friend's behavior.
Lestrade was there, as were a sea of other officers, and he was nodding grimly as one, wrapped in an orange emergency blanket, explained his version of events.
"Separate transport!" Sherlock bellowed as he ducked beneath the crime scene tape – "My one instruction was for separate transport and you couldn't even manage that! Two fatalities?" He asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.
Lestrade looked at him with tired eyes. "Yeah. Husband and wife. Sat 'em next to each other. Handcuffed. Didn't stand a chance." His voice was heavy with regret. "I told them, Sherlock," he said gruffly. "I told them to separate them. Lieutenant Nelson told them to separate them. The arresting officer will hear about this, believe me. There will be consequences."
Sherlock blinked. "Show me the bodies."
"Can't. Already on their way to the morgue. Molly – she can take a look at them in the morning. But same thing – shot through the heart. Well – the wife was. She was first hit. It went through her heart, and her, and into her husband. Nicked a few key veins and a lung; embedded in his chest. It…wasn't fast, for him. But he's gone, now."
Sherlock shook his head. "Call Molly now. And show me the vehicle, then," he snapped.
Lestrade sighed. "Donovan – let Holmes see the vehicle. Don't touch anything," he warned Sherlock.
Sally Donovan nodded, and led him to the police car. She may have protested, but she knew they'd gotten everything they could from the car, and really – she'd heard something very interesting from Lestrade earlier.
The cruiser doors were all open, and blood smeared the back doors, as well as the seats and floors. She watched him as he worked, her arms folded smugly across her chest.
"So…" she said.
Pattern of blood spatter and distance car traveled after point of impact indicates the shot originated…
"…you and that morgue Molly. Are together. Never thought the freak would..." And though Sherlock was no expert in human nature, he knew the next words out of Sally Donovan's mouth were going to be some crude play on the word 'freak', and he stepped out of the car with such speed that Sally stepped back, involuntarily, and her words froze on her tongue.
He smiled down at her. "I have never had a problem with your antagonist remarks towards me and my work. When they are directed at me, I find them childish and petty, at their worst. However, if you begin including Molly Hooper in your juvenile display of insults, I will be happy to return the favor, and include your…partners…in mine. I know you still enjoy brief flings with Anderson, although I'm sure he'd be interested to learn about your brief flings with the young academy graduate – Wilson? Is it? And you certainly don't need me broadcasting your private, unrequited feelings for Gary, now do you?"
"Gary?" She blinked.
"Lestrade."
She blinked again, and her face twisted into a scowl, before she took a deep breath and forced a neutral expression on her face. "Any information for the Yard from the crime scene, Freak?"
He smirked. "Much better, though I must deduce points for lack of originality. Have some of your officers look for a room, recently abandoned by a middle-aged, single man, at St. Ermin's somewhere on the third or fourth floors, facing New Scotland Yard," he nodded across the street. "When you've found it, let me know. I'm not quite done here, yet."
Sally Donovan shook her head as she relayed orders to search the hotel across the street.
Molly cringed as she heard the unmistakable sound of shattering glass from somewhere up above her.
"Oh, thank goodness," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, ushering her into 221 Baker Street. "Congratulations, by the way, dear," she said distractedly, as another something broke up above them. "Although I was certain that he…and John…well. Never mind. No matter. As long as you're all happy, that's what counts, in the end, right? Well. He's been in a right state since he came home this morning, round – ten o'clock, was it? - moaning about failures and screeching on his violin and now he's – well-" crash – "doing that. And if he's breaking his dishes, I'm not cleaning it up and I'm not buying him new ones."
Molly sighed and made her way up the steps. She'd gotten a call from Greg last night, around midnight, asking that she come in to take a look at the bodies of Henry Peters and Miranda Fraser. She did, if not for any other reason than to see Sherlock again and revel in the knowledge that he was hers, and she was his, now. He was polite, but intently focused on the case, and she didn't mind, but she left soon after for home and bed.
She made it halfway through her shift that day before John called, and told her she should go console Sherlock, because he'd been up all night and needed to go home and get some sleep, but the big nancy needed some looking after because they'd been around the hotel room and around the Singer's flat, but had found very little that could lead them to either Lissie or the sniper.
So she took a long lunch (Mike wouldn't mind…) and she made her way carefully up the steps, and knocked loudly on the door.
"Sherlock," she called, "It's Molly. Please don't throw anything at me when I come in."
Silence.
Well. At least it wasn't breaking glass.
Taking a deep breath – not sure what to expect – she pushed open the door.
Thank you for reading! Only a few chapters left. :)
Hopefully the Lissie mystery is starting to come together for you. That particular one will be cleared up in the next chapter. I always like the idea of John and/or Molly helping Sherlock /see/ something that he can't because he's too busy /observing/ stuff all the time.
Please review. :)