Chapter Eight
Well, that was exciting last chapter. How 'bout this?
"So, where are we going?" asked John.
"Victim's flat," William answered shortly.
"Wait, Greg just handed over the information?" asked John, stunned. "He just let a private individual in on a police case?"
"He trusts me," said William.
"Why? He's only known you for five days."
William gave a shrug. "Perhaps he's a good judge of character."
"Get on people's good side often?" ribbed John.
"Not typically, no," William answered.
It was true; Michael was the only angel that could stand to be around William. The others found his behavior and scathing comments a bother to be around.
"What about your friends?" asked John.
"I don't have any friends," William answered.
John did a double-take. "You don't?"
William cocked his head to the side for a moment. "Well, no, that's not true. There's you and Molly and Greg."
John frowned. "That's it? Just us three? We're the only people you hang out with?"
"Well, there's Michael, but I don't think he counts. We don't get on very well."
"So, other than your brother, the closest thing you have to friends is Greg, Molly and I?"
William paused for a moment, coming to a stop on the pavement. "You're the only people I've talked to in a…very long time."
"Why? What's different about us?"
William looked John in the eye, smiling slightly. "You're not boring."
John cocked his head to the side in thought.
"You don't understand how rare that is for me, John," said William, sharing an amiable look with him before continuing on.
John stayed behind for a moment before catching up to walk alongside him. "Guess I never really thought about that."
"About what?"
"What that must be like," mused John, staring down at his feet in thought. "For Sherlock's mind to be so far above everyone else's that he can't stand to be around other people."
William gave a smirk. "Now, you're thinking of me as Sherlock."
"Well, come on, the similarities…" said John.
"Who wrote those stories?" asked William.
"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle," John answered quickly.
"Where might I find him?"
John looked at him with a frown. "Why?"
William shrugged. "I'm curious."
John stared at him for a moment before looking away. "No clue."
"Well, the stories have only been published within the last ten years, yes?"
"Yeah."
"So, there must be a way to find him."
"I guess."
"I'll start with his publisher."
"You probably won't get much out of them," John suggested. "Confidentiality agreements and whatnot. Perhaps the guy likes his privacy."
"Perhaps," said William. "When was the last time he published one of the stories?"
"Two years," John answered.
"Hmm," William nodded. "He's probably due for another one."
"Actually, The Adventure of Schoscombe Old Place was the last one," John told him. "He's done."
"Done?" William frowned. "But there was no overall ending. It was just another case solved."
John gave a smirk. "So, you've read them."
"I wanted to see what all the fuss was about."
"And?"
"The resemblance is striking, the behavior remarkably familiar and the brainwork surprisingly proficient."
John did a double take. "Wait, was that a complement? From you?"
"Don't get used to it," grumbled William.
John chuckled. "I'll have to find this Doyle fellow and congratulate him."
"Please don't," William replied shortly. "Here we are."
They had arrived in front of a brick two-story building, its windows full of potted plants.
"Interesting…" muttered William as they continued on towards the front door.
"What is?" asked John.
"The plants," William answered as he rang the buzzer by the door for the correct flat.
"What about them?" asked John.
The building's intercom sprang to life before he could answer. "Hello?"
"Yes, my name is William Scott. I need to ask you some questions."
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm a detective, investigating your case. May I come in?"
"Oh…yes. Just a moment."
The front door buzzed, and William reached forward to pull the door open. He and John headed to the first door on the right on the ground floor, labeled "A." William knocked, and the door was pulled open.
The middle-aged woman glanced between the two of them. "Hello, um…come on in." She stepped aside to welcome them into the flat.
William's eyes swept over her lack of red, tired eyes; her neat, un-rumpled blouse and jeans; her polished nails and her steaming cup of tea on the coffee table as he stepped past her.
"This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson," William introduced as he stepped over to the windows to examine the plants.
"Pleasure," nodded John as William turned back to face the room. "Sorry about the break-in. Are you doing all right?"
The woman sniffed and put on a brave face. "I'll survive."
"Indeed," muttered William. "Ms. Newcome, the police statement said you claimed the thief tried to hit you with that fire extinguisher."
John and Ms. Newcome both glanced into the kitchen, where the small fire extinguisher hung on the wall close to the stove.
"Yes," said Ms. Newcome as she looked back at him.
"And yet he climbed through that window," said William, pointing to his right.
"Yes," said Ms. Newcome, sounding confused.
"So, upon finding you in the sitting room, he journeyed all the way to the kitchen to find a weapon?" speculated William, his eyes narrowed menacingly at her.
John took a quick look around the room before moving his gaze suspiciously towards the woman.
Ms. Newcome gestured around the sitting room. "Well, there's really no weapon in here, is there?" Her tone sounded slightly annoyed.
William pointed over his shoulder at the clay pots on the windowsill. "Those look heavy enough."
Ms. Newcome's eyes moved down to the plants, her expression frozen in realization on her face. (Oh, crap…)
"Now, why would a thief avoid these plants to go out of his way for a weapon?" William posed. "It's highly unlikely he held them in the same regard as you do, unless you are him."
John stared between them with dawning realization and admiration.
"Insurance fraud," grunted William. "Boring." He turned and strode to the door, leaving a shocked and angry Ms. Newcome behind.
John looked after William before nodding sheepishly at the woman and hurrying through the door after him. Once they were out on the pavement again, John looked up at him.
"It was the plants and her appearance, wasn't it?"
"Sorry?" asked William, looking at him.
"It wasn't just that her plants weren't smashed," explained John. "It was the fact that there was water on them, so she watered them this morning. If she was robbed last night, she wouldn't really be worried about the plants. She also looks like she got a good night's sleep. If I'd been robbed, I wouldn't be able to sleep, which brings up the most obvious point: why is she still staying in the place she was just robbed in? Any other person would have stayed at least one night with a friend or at a hotel."
William came to a stop, staring at him in amazement. "I thought you weren't a detective."
"I'm not," agreed John as he stopped as well. "But I know a thing or two, remember? Now, true, I didn't solve it, but once I had the answer, I could see how you had gotten there."
William paused for a moment and then nodded. "Bravo, John." He began walking again. "Now, phone Lestrade."
John pulled out his mobile, dialing away. "Why can't you call him?"
"Didn't bring my phone," William lied easily enough.
John huffed out a laugh as he rolled his eyes and put the phone to his ear.
William watched Mary Morstan closely as she moved about the room, studying portraits and sculptures. She was a complete mystery to him. Her appearance, behavior, personality and demeanor told him one story while her mind told him another. It was as though she kept telling herself how to act, how to talk, what to do, almost as though she were playing a part in a play. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pick up anything but this act she was playing. She had trained herself to be this way. That suggested she was a professional.
A professional what?
A tap on his shoulder caused him to jump a little and glance over at John, who was staring at him with a concerned expression.
"You all right?" asked John.
"Why wouldn't I be?" asked William.
"You're staring at Mary," John pointed out. "I would expect that kind of treatment for Molly."
William glanced over as Molly joined Mary at one of the paintings. He hesitated a moment before turning to John. "Do you notice anything off about Mary?"
John frowned and glanced at Mary. "Like what?"
William looked back at Mary. "I don't know." He could feel John's gaze returning to him in question. "She's hiding something."
John blinked in surprise, taking an unconscious step away from him.
"I'm not saying she isn't trustworthy or a good person," William amended quickly to reassure him. "I'm just saying that there's something about her…something in her past…that I don't know. And I don't like not knowing."
"Well, maybe it's something private," John suggested. "Something tragic that she doesn't want to think about."
"No, it's something else," said William. "She's playing a part." He looked over after a moment to see John staring uncertainly at Mary. "I shouldn't have said anything." He mentally kicked himself in the head.
"No, no," John brushed off quickly. "I'm…" he sighed, tearing his eyes away from Mary, "I'm not about to cast her off or anything, but I'm definitely going to ask her about it."
William smiled, giving a nod. "Good." He glanced over at the two women chatting away. "It'd be a shame to lose your soul mate."
John frowned as he looked at him. "So, you believe in soul mates? You? Mr. I-don't-have-much-experience-with-emotions?"
William's gaze had shifted to Molly, a smile gracing his face. "People change, John."
Molly glanced back at them, meeting William's gaze and giving him a smile and a small wave. William's smile widened as he returned the gesture.
John glanced between the two, smiling in satisfaction.
After the double date—because, honestly, it was a double date—the four of them had gone back to John's flat at Baker Street. John had made them all tea, handing the cups out in the sitting room (William's, of course, would remain untouched). John had angled the two armchairs in front of the fireplace so that they were closer to the coffee table and facing the sofa. William had unconsciously taken the far seat, an elegant black leather chair.
Hmm, nice… William thought, getting himself comfortable.
"So, this was nice," Molly commented.
"Yeah, honestly, I would've expected a movie or something," said Mary. "It's nice to come across a well-rounded guy." She smiled at John.
John pretended to look offended. "I do have tastes."
"What about you, Will?" asked Mary. "What are your tastes?"
"It's William," he answered, taking a breath to answer.
"Ooh, William, my apologies," said Mary, giving the other two a sour look, to which John and Molly laughed.
William gave a smile at her good-natured teasing. "I enjoy music—" that the earth plays when the sun rises. "I read detective stories—" by listening to people's thoughts at the library. "I observe autopsies—" with my super power of invisibility. "And I solve crimes," because I've been spying on Scotland Yard since 1888.
It sounded like the life of a crazy person when you spelled it all out. Luckily, telling only a partial truth was easy enough. Just keep to your rule: as close to the truth as you can get.
"And you haven't worked as a detective until now?" asked Mary in disbelief.
William answered as truthfully as he could. "Haven't thought about it before."
Mary nodded, accepting that answer. "Are you two opening your own private detective agency, then?"
John shook his head. "Consulting detective, like Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh!" said Mary. "Is that so?" She looked over at William. "Think you can pull it off?"
"Apparently, I am ideally suited to do so," said William.
"Well, good luck," said Molly, giving him another smile.
Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to knock on the door of the flat. "Ooh-ooh!" She stepped into the room. "Everyone having fun?"
"Yes, Mrs. H, thank you," said John, smiling warmly at her.
"Well, if you need anything, just ask," said Mrs. Hudson, glancing over towards the kitchen and spotting the dishes that had been drying on the counter. "Oh!" She immediately hurried over and began cleaning them up.
William glanced down at his untouched tea. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson."
"Yes, dear?" she asked, glancing up at him.
"I believe I'm finished here," he told her, holding the saucer and cup out towards her. He spotted John giving him a look and a subtle shake of the head out of the corner of his eyes.
Mrs. Hudson gave him a stern glare and wagged her finger at him. "I'm the landlady, dear, not the housekeeper." She immediately went back to putting away John's dishes.
William frowned at the dishes she was sorting through and then down at his held-out cup and then back at her housekeeping task. "My mistake." He brought his cup back towards him and looked at John.
John was smiling and shaking his head at him. "Don't ask."
And my groundwork is almost laid...