Chapter 12: The Viper's Pit
The ride to Mount St. takes under 10 minutes. Lestrade is standing in front of the club when they exit the taxi. The Viper's Pit has a black awning, with its name in gold flanking the curled snake from the hand stamp. The doors behind Lestrade are ancient: solid wood, decorated with twisting wrought iron applied in dizzying and disturbing patterns. There are no windows in the gray stone building.
"Took you long enough," Lestrade grumps. Sherlock simply shoots him an unreadable look with a sideways glance and steps around him to tug on the handle. The door opens easily, and Sherlock immediately disappears into the dark interior. John grimaces uncomfortably at Lestrade and twitches a hand towards Sherlock's retreating back. "He's... er... sorry. We had a bit of a talk before we came," he tries to excuse the delay.
Lestrade looks closely at the unassuming little man and then grins, quite large. A lover's tiff, is it? How entertaining to consider Sherlock in such domestic surroundings. "No worries, mate," he replies easily. "I could keep for ten minutes." They follow Sherlock in.
The entry hall is obviously where the people queue up to buy tickets. John hears early Sabbath quietly pumping from the large space to the right, harshly lit in the glare of fluorescent overheads. What he can see of the vast room seems empty, except for a long bar against the back wall and a DJ booth in the corner. There is a smaller room to the left, with billiard tables and dart boards and another unmanned bar. The vacancy is unsurprising, given that it's only mid afternoon. This place probably isn't officially open yet. There are wide stairs leading up to a second story and Sherlock is bounding up them two at a time. "Office," he explains laconically over his shoulder. John frowns a little, thinking Sherlock should move more carefully, to avoid stressing the wound on his side. But even after knowing Sherlock for only a week, John recognizes the futility of that pursuit. He supposes he may hear about it if Sherlock begins bleeding through his shirt.
The upper story of the club is laid out with office and loos on one side, and a large performance space on the other. The walls are painted black with virulent patterns and graffiti in colors that will obviously glow under black lights. Right now, like downstairs, the fluorescents are on, showing wear and tear that definitely would detract from the mystery of a nightclub at full swing in the late hours of the night.
Sherlock pulls open the door on the left, and a gruff voice inside says "Hallo," surprised. "Can I help you?" Sherlock sweeps in, John and Lestrade are just behind him.
"I certainly hope so," Sherlock replies. "We're investigating a series of murders that seems to be centered around your club."
Lestrade rolls his eyes at the lack of introduction, but pulls out his warrant card to flash at the man behind the desk. This gentleman stands up... and keeps rising. He must be at least 200cm, dwarfing Sherlock like a redwood to a pine. John blinks, feeling inadequately undersized in the room.
"I'm Vonnegut Stacey," the man says, reaching a hand out to take Lestrade's card and inspect it. "I'm the owner here." He takes a minute to inspect the card. John studies him. He's comically tall, but that's the only thing funny about him. His red hair is short, except for a long braided goatee on his chin. He is wearing a tight black tee, under which thick muscles are delineated. The skin of his arms and neck is covered in ink, too much to make out any specific images. He wears elegant suit pants, clearly bespoke for someone of his proportions, and a gray jacket is tossed on a black leather sofa against the wall. He is as stylish as Sherlock, in his own way, and an imposing figure.
Sherlock, meanwhile, settles into a battered red leather chair across from the desk.
"D.I. Lestrade," Lestrade introduces himself. "Sherlock Holmes and his..." a discreet pause, "...his colleague are assisting in this investigation.
"Dr. John Watson," John says, offering the giant his hand. It is shaken, firmly and professionally: no need for a pissing contest with this man.
Sherlock shrugs off the need for social niceties. He leans forward on his chair, fingers lightly touching against his chin. "Have you heard of the string of eviscerations happening nearby?"
The nightclub owner is no thick piece of muscle, though he may look it. He doesn't ask for a definition. "There have been several murders in the last few months where the organs were taken," he acknowledges. "This is the first time I've heard about my club being involved. Would you care to elaborate?" He sits back down and waves John and Lestrade over to the sofa.
"Not several." Sherlock corrects. "Five so far. The latest woman was found on Sunday."
Stacey nods, expression neutral, but eyes politely on Sherlock. "I saw that on the telly," he confirms. "It happened here in Mayfair. I didn't realize she was number five. So. This is a serial killer, then? In our neighborhood?"
Sherlock looks at him appraisingly. He isn't a complete imbecile, how refreshing. "Obviously," he scoffs.
Lestrade groans under his breath. It wasn't anything the press hadn't already sensationalized, but he really doesn't want a panic. Does Sherlock have to confirm it? Can he just not help himself?
"We have evidence that the latest victim was here until closing on Saturday. I'd like to look around, talk to your staff, see what I can find."
Stacey nodded. "Of course. What is this evidence?"
"Club stamp on her hand," Sherlock replies.
"And the bar tab in her purse," Lestrade adds.
"You found her purse?" Sherlock asks, diverted. "I'll want to see that."
"Yes, yes, Sherlock. When we're done here."
Stacey looks at the D.I. "You have a warrant?"
"We do," Lestrade answers. "Would we need it?"
Stacey smiles tightly. "I wasn't born yesterday," he says. "I'm not interested in anything being pinned on me because it's convenient for you."
Admiration flashes momentarily across Sherlock's face, and John feels an illogical jealously. So what if Sherlock is attracted to that handsome, unique, intelligent giant, who is as much taller than Sherlock as Sherlock is taller than John. More so, even. Certainly it shouldn't matter to John. Feeling deficient was ridiculous.
Several days earlier, Sherlock had brought John to his tailor to fit for a suit, but John realized he was more comfortable in the jeans and jumpers they'd picked up at H&M while waiting for the suit to come in. Now, of course, remembering who he is, John understands that preference. Nonetheless, he feels frumpy, and is discomfited by that. He frowns at his lap, and misses the sharp, assessing look Sherlock runs over him.
"-come downstairs. I'll get you Jerry, who tends in the Disco Den. Alito is here too, he keeps the bar for the Cave. We don't have a show scheduled for the Lair tonight, so Chris and Joplin are off. The security staff should be coming in around four o'clock. The other bartenders won't be here for hours."
Sherlock pulls a face. "We'll talk to who's here, and come back a little later. Eight or nine?"
Stacey nods.
Lestrade leans forward and pulls a photo from his jacket pocket. It is Jazmine Arat, looking far more lively than when John had last seen her, in a shot that's been pulled from some social media account. "Does she look familiar?"
Stacey takes the photo and studies it seriously for a couple minutes. "No," he finally says. "But we get hundreds through here every night. I couldn't possibly recognize all of them. I'm sorry."
Stacey stands, and Sherlock uncoils gracefully from his chair, running his fingers thoughtfully across the top of the blue scarf, drawing attention to his long, pale neck. He tilts his head back to look up at Stacey through his lashes, almost coy, and lifts a brow. "Lead the way, then," he suggests. And his voice is pitched lower than usual. John clenches his fists, and grinds his teeth as he stands, too. Stacey looks surprised for just a minute, but holds the office door open for Sherlock and guides him out with a quick hand on his back.
John growls almost imperceptibly and Lestrade gives him a worried look. They all troop downstairs, where Stacey assembles what staff is there at this time. The staff know nothing, don't recognize the picture, and some haven't even heard about the most recent murder.
Sherlock snarls at their collective stupidity and stalks off to look around. "Come on, John," he says, in a bizarre replay of an hour earlier. "I need to look around. I need data, John. Data!" This time around, John doesn't argue, and can't stop himself from tossing a triumphant glance at Stacey before marching after Sherlock to the Disco Den.
"Fog machine," Sherlock says, some time later. "This is the one that must have coated the victim in residue. It's the only fog machine in the club at the appropriate angle to a bar stool." He squats, turns, walks forwards and back, peering critically from the bar to the machine, and then calls out, "You. Jerry, is it? Can you turn this thing on for me?"
The slim, dark-skinned man behind the bar grins broadly (today had been far more exciting than he'd expected, what with police and serial murders in lieu of inventory, restocking and mopping). "Sure," he says, casually, and flicks the switch. The machine quietly begins to churn, and white fog trickles out, sickly sweet, until it becomes a great cloud.
Sherlock herds John to a stool, and pushes at him until he sits on it. "Here, John. Sit."
"For god's sake, Sherlock!" John explodes.
But Sherlock just sneers. "I'm not treating you like a toddler, John," he explains, irritated. "I'm treating you like a partner."
John subsides. What else can he do? Sherlock pulls off his jacket and jumper, much to John's confusion, then makes him roll up the shirt sleeve under them to well above his elbow. John wrinkles his nose at the fog crawling up his pant legs, but goes along willingly. He's being a partner, and this is for data. Sherlock makes him sit there for a solid 15 minutes, drinking (with his wrong hand, because the woman had been right-handed) the soda that the grinning bartender provides.
John set the empty glass down, but before he can swivel around on the seat, Sherlock presses him firmly down on the shoulder, and leans his head down to near John's ear. "Wait," he says, and the air of it curls around John's ear and worms its way into his brain. John is frozen. Sherlock curls his fingers around John's forearm and slowly slides his hand up to where the sleeve is cuffed. What is Sherlock doing? He feels a slow warmth grow in his belly.
But then Sherlock releases him, and leans to pick up a fresh napkin, fastidiously wipes his fingers clean.
"What-" John chokes.
"Residue, John," Sherlock interrupts. "Comparing the density of what I found on the victim's skin to yours just now, I estimate she sat on this stool for at least 3 hours. Given that the film on her covered slightly more than half her face, she had to have been turned slightly," here, he grabs John by the shoulder and knees, cocking him 20 degrees to the right, "in this direction. From which we may deduce the killer sat in this stool, here." He indicates with a dramatic flourish.
"That's bloody sensational!" John says, utterly impressed.
Sherlock pauses in his pacing and comes back to stand at John's shoulder. "Do you know you do that out loud?" he queries softly.
"Oh," John stammers. "Sorry. I'll stop."
"No. No," Sherlock seems to consider. "It's... fine."