Turn Left – The Veteran's House

by Soledad

Summary: What if John didn't meet Mike Stamford in the park on that fateful day. Would his and Sherlock's path ever cross?

Author's notes: The facts about the decomposition of a human body after death are taken from the EnkiVillage website. I hope I haven't misinterpreted anything.

Athelney Jones, his appearance and some of his speech pattern have been borrowed from "The Sign of Four".

Some of the dialogue between John and Sherlock is taken from "A Study in Pink". Obviously, as our favourite consulting detective would say. My heartfelt thanks to Ariane De Vere and her excellent episode transcripts.


Chapter 07

Detective Sergeant Bradstreet arrives twenty minutes later and stares at the three-feet-tall, beautiful Buddha statue made of some silky green stone – and at the mummified body lying in front of it, wrapped into an old rug – in understandable confusion.

"Are you sure you called the right guy, Dr Watson?" he asks. "I'm a policeman, not an archaeologist. I don't know a thing about mummies."

"Neither do I," John replies. "But as a doctor, I know a great deal about decomposition. Therefore I can tell you with a ninety-nine per cent certainty that this mummy hasn't been lying here any longer than perhaps four or five years, tops."

"Shouldn't the body have decomposed in that time, though?" the sergeant asks.

John shakes his head. "The time it takes for a dead body to decompose depends on a number of factors. For example, if a dead body is inside a coffin and buried deep underground for instance, it could even take fifty years for every tissue to disappear. However, if the body is exposed to the elements, it can even skeletonise in a space of a year. The teeth and bones, on the other hand, can last even for a hundred years if the soil is not highly acidic and warm."

"And what if the environment is particularly dry?" Justin inquires. "Bodies buried in the sand of the Egyptian desert underwent a natural mummification; that gave the Pharaohs the idea of mummies in the first place, didn't it?"

"Apparently," John agrees. "And something similar was the case here."

"How that?" Miss Morstan asks with a frown. "Hampshire doesn't have a particularly dry climate, does it?"

"No, it doesn't," John admits. "But this… this secret chamber hasn't been opened for years, I reckon, and the air inside is very dry. Fortunately for us, the rainwater hasn't leaked through to the ground floor yet," he looks at Bradstreet. "Any idea who this guy might be?"

The sergeant shakes his head. "Not at first sight. Of course, he probably looked a bit different alive. It is a he, isn't it?"

John gives the body a closer look. "Yeah, seems like that, based on the shape of the shoulders and the hips. The post-mortem will tell us for sure."

"At least we can make an educated guess about the cause of death," taking a ball-pen out of his pocket, Bradstreet carefully moves the dry, thinning hair of the corpse out of the way to reveal a large wound on the back of the skull, which is clearly broken and crusted in some brown substance, most likely dried blood.

John nods. "Yeah, blunt head trauma. Bashed in the head with something big and heavy. My guess would be a mallet or the blunt end of an axe blade."

"The zombie!" Leon cries out, shaking in terror. "The zombie killed him with his axe. He killed all those blokes, and he will kill us all. We must get out of here, Doc; we can't stay a day longer!"

"Whoever killed this man, I'm quite sure they were very much alive," John mutters under his breath while Doc tries to calm his visibly upset buddy down.

The sergeant nods in agreement. "My thoughts exactly. Well, I'll give my superiors a call and have the body brought to the morgue. I'm afraid this is a crime scene now, Dr Watson – at the very least the secret chamber is. I must ask anyone to leave now; as soon as the coroner is done, I'll have to seal the entire ground floor."

"Great, just great!" John grouses. "Now I'll have to wait days, perhaps even weeks until I can go on with the inventory. Just what I needed!"

"I am really sorry, Dr Watson," Bradstreet replies with a shrug, "but a murder is a murder, even if it happened years ago. There's nothing I can do."


"That was really unkind of Sergeant Bradstreet," Mrs Holding exclaims later on when they're having tea with some of the helpers and she gets to hear about the grisly discovery. "To think that now that horrible Inspector Athelney Jones will come and sniffle around your house and the entire village, asking rude questions and digging around in people's private lives…"

"Do you know the man personally, Mrs Holding?" John asks.

"Everybody knows Athelney Jones," Kate Bradstreet says with a snort. "He's an idiot; and a rude idiot at that. Dad would have been promoted a decade ago, had Athelney Jones not taken over his cases by force – and ruined them."

That Detective Inspector Athelney Jones isn't a pleasant person John realises later in the afternoon, when a very stout, portly man wearing a drab grey suit strides heavily into the drawing-room of the frightened Mrs Holding. The man is red-faced, burly and obese, with a pair of very small, twinkling eyes that look keenly out from under swollen and puffy pouches, belying his good-natured appearance. He is closely followed by an apologetic Sergeant Bradstreet.

"Here's a business!" the man declares in a muffled, husky voice. "How lucky that I happened to be out at Stockbridge, over another case! I was at the station when I got the call."

The expression upon Sergeant Bradstreet's face clearly shows that he doesn't find the fact that the inspector was immediately available a lucky one. John cannot blame him. He dislikes the man instantly, too.

"Bad business! Bad business!" Athelney Jones repeats, apparently pleased with the sound of his own voice. "But who are all these people? Why is the house full like a rabbit warren? I said I wanted to speak the owner of the house, no-one else."

"Doctor Watson is the owner of The Veteran's House," Bradstreet explains with forced patience. "He and two of the ladies are currently living here. The third lady is the sister of Mrs Holding and is visiting her right now."

"Oh, a doctor!" the inspector perks up. "That comes in handy. You saw the body, I understand? What d'you think the man died of?"

John nods. "I did, but I'm hardly qualified to give an answer without a proper examination.

The inspector waves off his concern with a fleshy hand. "Oh, come on! Never be ashamed to own up!"

"Well, in that case my professional opinion is that the man got his head bashed in with a blunt object," John says with a shrug. "But we'll really need a post-mortem to clear up the facts."

"Facts!" Athelney Jones echoes, satisfied. "Stern facts here – no theories. Still, we can't deny that one can hit the nail on the head sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. How was the window?"

"The room doesn't have a window," Bradstreet replies through gritted teeth. "It is a hidden chamber, the likes of which you can in old, black-and-white Edgar Wallace films, Inspector. It could only be opened by a hidden lever from inside the small cabinet that stood directly in front of the entrance."

"Ha!" the inspector declared triumphantly. "I have a theory. These flashes come upon me sometimes. What do you think of this, Sergeant? Those tramps living in the garden killed the man for his money and put the body into the secret chamber because they thought no-one would ever find it there. That's common sense!"

"Except that they had no way to know about the secret chamber and would never enter the house on their own, seeing as they're deadly afraid of the so-called zombie worker," John comments.

The inspector stares at him in disbelief. "Dear me! You aren't telling me that you believe in that nonsense?"

"Of course not," John replies. "But if they had killed the man, why did they warn us that several people who entered the house were never seen again? We didn't even know about that."

"That's easy," the inspector says dismissively. "They simply wanted to turn suspicion away from themselves. But once I've questioned them thoroughly, they'll come out with the truth. Sergeant, I want you to arrest those men and keep them in the cells of the police station until further instructions."

"We only have got one arrest cell at the station," Bradstreet informs him dryly.

The inspector shrugs. "It isn't so as if they didn't have time to synchronise their testimony already. Put them into the same cell and I'll interrogate them tomorrow. Doctor Watson, I want you to come to the police station at well. I want to know how did you come into possession of The Veteran's House."

"I inherited it," John tells him. "Some four years ago."

"Then you can certainly show me the documents," Athelney Jones says. "I want to see them."

"What for?" Bradstreet asks. "They were set up by Parker & Brockman in Stockbridge and verified by a notary. They are certainly genuine."

"Says you," the inspector replies. "One can never be careful enough with previously unknown heirs suddenly popping up all over the place. Tomorrow morning, Doctor Watson; at ten o'clock, sharp. I'll need to talk to the pathologist now."

And with that, he squeezes himself through the rather narrow door of Mrs Holding's drawing room and leaves the house.

John looks at the sergeant. "What are you going to do now?"

Bradstreet sighs. "Arresting Leon and Doc, what else? I cannot ignore a direct order of a superior. At least they'll have it clean and warm for a change, and I can feed them at the costs of the Hampshire Police. But I'm really worried that Athelney Jones will manage to send them to prison based on some indirect evidence."

"Unlikely," John says with a snort. "It would be hard to prove them guilty of anything else but living rough."

"Hard but not impossible," Bradstreet replies. "And mistakes do happen. Our legal system is not infallible. I'd hate to see Doc imprisoned for a murder I'm sure he didn't commit."

"What about Leon?"

"Leon would be actually better off in prison, where he'd be fed regularly and get a chance to become clean," Bradstreet says. "But he isn't a murderer, either. He is a druggie, yes, but not a violent one; never was. I just don't know how to prove it to anyone. Especially to Athelney Jones who only believes in facts – or what he thinks are facts."

Mrs Hudson, who's been listening to them with keen interest, clears her throat apologetically.

"In that case, Sergeant, perhaps it would be prudent to employ professional help," she says. "And I believe I know just the right person."


In the next morning John and the ladies are sitting at the breakfast table when the bell rings. Miss Morstan goes to answer it and returns with a tall, skinny, very pale man clad in a long Belstaff coat, with a blue cashmere scarf looped around his neck. The man has a full head of unruly black curls and the most extraordinary eyes John has ever seen. They are ever so slightly slanted and seem to change their colour between green, blue and slate grey constantly.

Heterochromia, John identifies the phenomenon and has to suppress a grin because with his dramatic cheekbones, the long black coat and the way he moves as if he would own the place – any place – the man has a certain air of Count Dracula about him.

Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, seems genuinely happy to see the guy and hurries towards him with open arms.

"Sherlock!" she exclaims, getting a hug and a kiss on the cheek from the newcomer. "You've come!"

Ah. The eccentric tenant, then. What did she say he was? A consulting detective? Well, perhaps he'll be able to drum some common senseinto Athelney Jones.

"Of course I came," the man says in a deep, velvety baritone and John notices Mrs Holding all but swooning from it. "You said it was a mummified body in a secret chamber and Athelney Jones being an idiot again – how could I not come?" he looks around. "So, who's my client?"

After a moment of hesitation John steps forward. "I reckon that would be me… but I won't be able to pay you much, I'm afraid. Not before I've sold the junk I inherited. Doctor John Watson," he adds, stretching out his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes," the newcomer shakes his hand, gives it a cursory glance and then asks. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John is so shocked he can barely ask back. "Sorry, what?"

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man repeats.

John hesitates, then looks across to Mrs Hudson, who beams like a proud mother whose two-year-old has just done something really clever.

"Afghanistan," he finally says. "But how did you know ...?"

The detective rolls his eyes. "I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. You introduced yourself as Doctor Watson, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.

He loudly clicks the 'k' sound at the end of the final word. It echoes in the stunned silence of the room.

"That ... was amazing," John finally says.

The man – Sherlock – looks at him in surprise. "You think so?"

John nods with emphasis. "Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's my Sherlock," Mrs Hudson declares proudly.

For the first time, the detective shows signs of genuine amusement.

"That's not what people normally say, though," he tells John, who asks with interest.

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'!" Sherlock replies, and they both giggle for a moment. Then the consulting detective becomes all business again. "Now, tell me everything from the beginning."


Later, Sherlock Holmes insists on accompanying John at the police station and once there, he gives Detective Inspector Athelney Jones such a hideously false smile that it nearly gives John a tooth-ache.

"I think you'll remember me, Detective Inspector," he says.

"Way, of course I do!" the inspector wheezes. "Sherlock Holmes, the theorist! Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case."

"Well, I was right, wasn't I?" Sherlock asks still faking overdone friendliness.

"It's true you set us on the right track," the inspector admits reluctantly. "But you'll have to admit that it was more by good luck than by good guidance."

"On the contrary: it was a piece of very simple reasoning," Sherlock replies icily.

There's so much hostility in his voice that even Athelney Jones falls silent for a moment. Then the man shakes off the uncomfortable feeling and turns to John. "I'll see those documents of yours now, Doctor Watson."

John clenches his teeth but lays out his verified documents for the inspector to examine. He is furious; it isn't as if he'd ever wanted the damned house, but it's legally his, and not only has it become a crime scene, but the swanky inspector has the cheek to question his ownership! He begins to understand why everyone in Nether Wallop seems to despise Athelney Jones; but understanding doesn't help his foul mood one bit.

He knows the inspector won't find anything wrong with the documents. Had there been a problem, Mr Parker-Smythe would have found it, the solicitor being much better versed in legal stuff than the policeman. He is relieved nonetheless when Athelney Jones sweeps the documents together with obvious disappointment, declaring them all valid, and announces that he'll interrogate the homeless suspects next.

"Good luck with that," Bradstreet comments dryly, while his superior squeezes his bulk into the arrest cell. "Doc won't speak as much as a word – not that I'd blame him – and all Leon can mumble is drug-induced nonsense."

"I'm not so certain about that," Sherlock says, and John realises with surprise that he's actually serious. "I'll speak with him once the fat idiot has left."

Bradstreet seems uncomfortable; it's unclear whether because Sherlock has just called his immediate superior a fat idiot (even though he might agree with the statement) or because of a civilian wanting to interrogate a suspect. Because Leon is a suspect, at least officially, regardless of the fact that Bradstreet doesn't personally agree with having him arrested.

"I'm not sure I can allow that, Mr Holmes," he says.

"Sherlock, please," the consulting detective interrupts. "Mr Holmes is my brother, and trust me, you wouldn't want him to get involved."

The absolute conviction in his voice throws Bradstreet off-balance for a moment; but only for a moment.

"I'll take your word for it," he says dryly. "All right, you may speak with Leon; although I don't know what you hope to learn from him. His brain has been addled due to the drugs he's shot himself full with all his adult life."

"Oh, believe me, Sergeant, I have some experience with unravelling the seemingly mindless ramblings of drug addicts," Sherlock say softly.

There is something in his voice that makes John suddenly hyperaware. Could it be that this brilliant man, too, is a junkie? Or used to be one? 'Cause that would be a criminal waste!

Before he can come up with a question the other man might actually answer, the cell door flings open and Athelney Jones bursts through it like an irritated rhinoceros.

"This is serious business here," he wheezes. "I want these men kept in custody, Sergeant, until the end of the investigation. They refuse to cooperate, and I won't risk them escape in an unobserved moment. They're most suspicious: the older one clearly has something to hide, and the younger one is completely out of his mind. They're a danger to the inhabitants of this village."

"Yes, sir," Bradstreet withstands the urge to roll his eyes. Barely. Still the inspector is satisfied with his answer and finally leaves.

"About time," Sherlock comments cynically. "I'll speak with Leon now. Alone."

"No," the sergeant says decisively. "I can't allow that. Either I'll be there or you won't speak with him at all."

"Oh, for God's sake!" the consulting detective cries in exasperation. "All right, be there, but keep out of my way!"


It shows how much Sergeant Bradstreet is already resigned to the fact that things have been taken out of his hands that only a few minutes later Sherlock Holmes finds himself in the policeman's office with Leon, the homeless junkie. The office doesn't have one of the stereotypical, one-sidedly transparent windows, so John and the sergeant watch the proceedings from the background, trying to be as unassuming as they can, which is a great deal easier for John than it is for the sergeant.

It appears that Sherlock Holmes has indeed ample experience dealing with drug addicts, because after providing Leon with a large mug of hot coffee, the young man gradually opens up to him.

"Tell me about the zombie," Sherlock orders brusquely, after they've discussed the intricacies of living rough for a short while. "Tell me all the details."

"I just saw him once, up in the attic," Leon explains, obviously relieved that somebody is finally willing to believe him. "And only its face, mind you. I was down in the garden, so that I couldn't make out the features, but there was something… something unnatural about that face."

"Define unnatural," Sherlock prompts.

Leon shrugs uncertainly. "I dunno… it didn't even seem human, you know. And its colour… it was a living chalk white, with something set and rigid about it."

"Could it be a mask?" Sherlock suggests, but Leon shakes his head.

"Nah; part of it seemed as if it's been burned badly."

"Burned?" Sherlock echoes doubtfully.

Leon gives him a baleful look. "I know what burn marks look like, man. One of my mates died in a fire; he looked like that after the pathologist was done with him – as if his features had melted together."

"That still doesn't mean that your so-called zombie is actually dead," John intervenes from the background. "Sometimes people can survive a fire horribly disfigured. That would explain the looks."

"We shouldn't form theories before having all the necessary facts," Sherlock says, clearly annoyed by the interruption. "I need to see the body first; then we'll go on zombie hunt," he looks at John expectantly. "Well, Doctor Watson? Are you with me?"

John closes his eyes for a moment, savouring the long-missed rush of adrenaline. "Oh God, yes!"

"Do you really think Detective Inspector Athelney Jones will allow you to see the body?" Bradstreet asks doubtfully.

Sherlock gives him another one of those hideously false smiles. "I don't intend to ask him, Sergeant."

Bradstreet shakes his head. "Mr Holmes… Sherlock. I cannot condone any illegal act on your part. That could cost me my job and frankly, that's something I can't afford."

Sherlock waves off his concerns. "Don't worry. If needs must be, my brother can get me access to the morgue. He is an annoying git, but he does have his uses."

"I thought you didn't want him to be involved," John comments.

"I don't," Sherlock admits. "I never do. But for the case I'll endure his meddling if I have to," he whips out his phone, looks at it and scowls. "No signal. Sergeant, can I borrow your phone?"

"What's wrong with the landline?" Bradstreet points at the phone sitting on his desk.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I prefer to text."

Bradstreet feels around himself, then he shrugs. "Sorry, I don't have it on me. Left it in the flat somewhere."

"Here," John clears his throat and offers the consulting detective his phone. "Use mine."

That earns him a surprised look. "Thank you!" Sherlock texts away with a speed that makes his thumbs appear a blur, then gives the phone back. "That will take care of the morgue problem," he turns back to Leon. "So. What was the last time you saw any activity in the attic?"

It is a simple enough question but Leon has clearly a problem answering it. "Dunno… Before the little man showed up, I guess…"

"What little man?" Sherlock knows, of course, but wants Leon to tell him more."

Leon points at John. "Him. Sarge here says he's the new owner of the house."

"He is," Sherlock agrees. "But you have to be a bit more precise. The house had stood empty for four years before he showed up."

The concept is obviously too complicated for Leon who's lost his sense for time quite a while ago. "Had it? I can't remember. Doc will know. He knows things better than me."

"I think I can help with that," Bradstreet stands, takes the desktop calendar from his desk, leafs back a few weeks. "The last time I searched The Veteran's House was back in October. Leon had complained about the 'zombie' again two or three days previously."

"And you found nothing?" it isn't really a question on Sherlock's part, but the sergeant answers it nonetheless.

"Nothing. Not then, not in the previous cases. And believe me, I've searched that bloody house at least a dozen times in the last four years. If there is somebody – and I'm not saying it isn't – I never found it."

"Of course you didn't," Sherlock says it so matter-of-factly that it isn't even really insulting. "Like most people, you see but don't observe. It doesn't matter. I'll search the house myself."

"Shouldn't you ask Doctor Watson for permission first?" Bradstreet suggests mildly.

Sherlock shrugs. "Why should I? He wants the mystery solved – don't you?" he asks John, and John nods.

"Sure, search away as much as you want. Who knows what other hiding places you're gonna find yet."

"I'm sure I will," Sherlock claps his hands together in obvious delight. "Well, gotta dash now. The pathologist is waiting for me. I'll contact you when I'm back."

And with that, he leaves the police station in a dramatic swirl of coat tails. Bradstreet looks after him thoughtfully for a moment before escorting Leon back to his cell.

"Doctor Watson," he then says, "may I take a look at your phone?"

John understands the intention behind the request at once: the sergeant wants to check whom the eccentric consulting detective sent his text message.

"Let's hope he hasn't cleaned out the Sent folder," he replies, handing Bradstreet the phone.

"it doesn't seem so," the sergeant opens the folder and finds the message in question. "Unfortunately, it doesn't tell us much."

"May I?" John takes back his phone and looks at the screen with a frown.

There stands: mycroft . Need access to Hampshire morgue in case of mummified corpse ASAP. SH.

"He didn't even require an answer," Bradstreet says. "And he just ran off to meet the pathologist, without the slightest doubt that he'd be granted access. Who the hell might his brother be?"

"I'm not sure I want to know," John pockets his phone again. "I don't think it would be good for my continued health… or yours."

"You're probably right," Bradstreet agrees. "God, I hate these posh gits who believe they own every place they enter. Still, he might be useful, this time – he might be able to do things I can't do. So, what are your plans for the rest of the day, Doctor Watson? Going back to your house?"

John shakes his head. "Nah, I had enough excitement for a day or two. Besides, I'm sure Mr Holmes – Sherlock – will be standing in my room first thing tomorrow, demanding to go to the house with him, and keeping up with him won't be easy on my bad leg. So I'll give it a bit of a rest today."

"That might be a good idea," Bradstreet nods. "I won't be able to go with you tomorrow – I actually have work to do – but if you learn anything…"

"You'll be the first I'll call," John promises.

~TBC~