The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Two: Teatime Of Death

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It was just past nine the next morning when everything started going to hell. Moreso than usual, anyway. I awoke to the sounds of dischordant violin playing and Mycroft trying his best to speak over the ruckus. Somehow, I knew that the rest of the day would not be much better...|

John sighed, pulling his shoes on in a rush as Mycroft pointedly tapped his umbrella against the floor. "You could at least consider it, Sherlock. A woman is dead, doesn't that count for something?"

Raising one eyebrow, Sherlock dragged the bow across the strings, drawing out an unearthly wail. Even as he rolled his eyes at his flatmate's antics, John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"I'm not you, you know. I can go and poke around and ask questions, but you know I can't see things the way you do."

There was a hitch in the noise, and then a rush of even louder notes.

"Not to mention, you never know if the killer is really gone. I mean, don't they usually come back to the scene of the crime? Unobservant as I am, I probably wouldn't notice until the maniac was right on top of me," he added, feeling like the lowest of the low for trying to worry Sherlock. Not that he would worry, of course. Sherlock never worried about people, sociopaths don't worry.

Still, in his mind's eye, John could see the dismay, the despair that had been in Sherlock's eyes, the eerie blue glow of the pool making the detective's face look even sharper. That must have been it - he had only imagined that Sherlock had been worried, frightened for him. And...well, he hadn't imagined the frenzy with which Sherlock had torn the vest off of him, or the way he'd hurled it as hard as he could. He hadn't imagined Sherlock, witty, verbally gifted Sherlock, stuttering as he thanked John for offering to die to save his life.

He didn't blame the man for feeling a bit off-balance; he'd surprised himself with that move.

Sighing, John stood and snatched his jacket off the back of the recliner. "Fine," he grumbled, not even giving Sherlock the courtesy of a withering glare (partly because Sherlock seemed to find his glares amusing), "you want to be childish, you go ahead. I'm going to go do the right thing."

He didn't slam the door, because one of them had to be the grown-up, and surprise! The task had fallen to him. Again.

Mycroft bid John farewell as the doctor climbed into the familiar black sedan. He spent the short drive pretending Anthea (or whoever she really was) wasn't ignoring him. They managed to have a lovely conversation, even if half of it was in John's head, and before long, they were pulling up outside a large manor. As he stepped out of the vehicle, eyeing the vine-strewn brick exterior, John reviewed what he already knew.

The elder Holmes brother had explained that this was a case of the utmost secrecy - the victim, Wilma Redding, had been in a minor position in the Ministry of Defence, and there was a worry that she may have been killed by a double agent trying to protect his or her identity. For some reason, John wasn't sure he bought this. Whether it was all the time he spent with another Holmes who didn't always say what he meant, or just the way he attuned himself to people's emotions, but he knew there was something Mycroft was withholding. Something bigger than possible national crisis.

"While I commend your dedication to bettering your observational skills, John, I can assure you that the ivy didn't do it," said a sardonic voice from behind him.

John whirled around, heart thudding and face flushed. "Sherlock? Bloody hell, what have I said about sneaking up on me," he groused, clutching his chest.

Smirking, Sherlock tilted his head towards the front door. "If you're done staring around blankly, allow me to show you how it's done."

As he followed his companion into the house, John was alternately irritated at being belittled once again and relieved that Sherlock had donned his customary coat so John didn't have to worry about getting caught staring at his rear.

They moved through the entryway swiftly, bypassing several forbidding-looking men and women in dark suits. John swerved off towards the living room without needing to be asked, allowing Sherlock to observe the crime scene unimpeded while he questioned the family.

The first half of "the family" was Mr. Redding, who was wailing his deceased wife's name and refusing all offers of comfort. This did not deter the other half of "the family," who was Wilma's younger sister, Judith Aaron. The young woman was pretty, in a plain sort of way, of average build and...er...bust, and was dressed in jeans and a worn t-shirt. She was a sharp contrast to the ornate decor, expensive furniture, and distraught husband (half-nine and he was already dressed in a three-piece suit?). Looking torn between pity and anger, she was in the process of trying to wrap her arms around Mr. Redding, who batted her away weakly as he sobbed.

Feeling awkward for intruding on this display of emotions that he shouldn't be privy to, John cleared his throat. "Er, Ms. Aaron? Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

She seemed reluctant to leave her brother-in-law's side, but she followed him across the room to sit on the loveseat.

The usual questions came first: where were you, what time did you leave, what time did you return, did you notice anything unusual before you left? When you returned?

Then came the more difficult questions about Wilma's personal life. At least, they were difficult for John to ask. Judith seemed to have no trouble answering them.

"Oh, Will was always off partying. She was a drinker, sometimes she even used drugs, shameful behavior, and the men! She had at least four lovers at a time, juggled them like a pro. Don't get me wrong," she interrupted herself, as though she had just realized that she was speaking ill of her dead sister, "Will was a wonderful woman; very lively, curious about everything, smart as a whip. She had it easy growing up, I suppose a little too easy. Got used to getting everything she wanted, never thought about consequences."

"And you hated that about her, didn't you," Sherlock drawled from the doorway, prompting John to jump again. As soon as they got home, he would be tying a fucking bell around his neck.

Oh, lovely, and now he was thinking of Sherlock with a collar on. That one was going to stick with him for a long time.

Trudging into the kitchen on Sherlock's heel, John frowned. Wilma's body was still where Mycroft had said it had been found - perched against the kitchen sink, slumped facedown in the now-cold dishwater.

"Is that even physically possible," John muttered, prompting Sherlock to send him a sidelong, withering gaze. "I mean," he amended hurriedly, "if she wasn't drowned by force, if she just fell unconscious, she would have crumpled, or fallen backwards, right?"

"Oh, very good, John," Sherlock said in a mock-perky tone. "Say something else distinctly unhelpful, why don't you?"

"You're a dick," John complied snidely.

"Obviously," Sherlock began loudly, pretending he hadn't heard John, "Mrs. Redding did not simply fall unconscious and accidentally drown in her dishwater. She was drugged, and positioned in the sink to make it look like an accident."

John's eyebrows shot upward. "And you figured that out...how?"

"Samoa, John!"

"Sorry?"

Flailing at a set of luggage tucked in the corner of the kitchen, Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. "Don't you see? The airport code - FTI. Fitiuta Airport in American Samoa. Wilma Redding's jealous younger sister comes back from Samoa just twenty-four hours before she's drugged unconscious and drowned in her sink? It's obvious!"

"Pretend it isn't," John replied calmly, leaning back against the breakfast nook and wondering why he wasn't more bothered by the presence of the dead woman. They certainly made an interesting tableau, anyway.

Sherlock groaned. "Oh, come on, John. Obviously, it was in the tea!"

"Sherlock..."

"Fine," the detective grunted, grasping John by the shoulders and forcing him into a chair. Then he rounded the table and sat across from him. "This morning, at precisely seven-thirty, Wilma Redding and Judith Aaron had a breakfast of toast and tea. Wilma was hungover, and not up to eating anything heavier, and Judith had just flown in from a different time zone, and was still a bit ill from the flight."

Jumping up, Sherlock ran to the stove and grabbed the teapot. "Judith, being the kind, sweet woman that she is, offered to make Wilma a nice hangover remedy. She boiled the water and prepared the cups. She got Lady Gray, but Wilma, Wilma got kava kava tea."

Sherlock grabbed the teacups, still sitting beside the sink, unwashed, and brought them to the table, plunking them down none-too-gently. John wondered if perhaps he should mention disturbing evidence, but he knew that at this point, Sherlock wouldn't hear a word he said.

"The cups, John, say it all. This cup," he said, sitting again and gesturing to the cup in front of him, "was definitely Judith's - it bears her lipstick, you see? And that one was Wilma's, though I suppose, if you wanted to be certain, you could check to see if she's wearing coral lipstick. The important thing, John, is that the tea that was in Wilma's cup was not only kava kava, but a much stronger dose than it should have been."

"And kava kava is-"

"-kava is a plant with distinctly sedative properties. A strong brew can knock a person out in as little as twenty minutes," Sherlock explained as though this were common knowledge. "More importantly, it produces a heavy, dreamless sleep from which it is difficult to rouse someone. Judith knew this, because she'd witnessed the use of kava to aid sleep when she was in Samoa. She also knew that it would exacerbate the effects of any other sedatives Wilma might have been taking."

Leaping up again, Sherlock whirled around and grabbed a bottle from the counter behind him. "Antihistamines, John, containing diphenhydramine. The combination of the kava kava overdose and the sedative properties of a first-generation antihistamine wouldn't have taken more than fifteen minutes to affect her."

Grabbing the cups again, Sherlock deposited them back beside the sink, moving to stand just behind the corpse of Mrs. Redding. He lifted the short sleeves of her blouse, pointing to the barely-there bruises.

"Lightly bruised, caused by fingers. Judith grabbed her by the shoulders, and here, at the hips," he added, lifting her blouse to display more of the same markings, "as she fell backwards, unconscious." He grabbed to corpse (John winced, hoping Mr. Redding wasn't about to peek in) and hauled her backwards, pretending to struggle under her weight. "She then manhandled her sister until she was positioned in the sink, effectively drowning her while she was sedated," he finished, levering the body forward until she splashed back into the sink. He looked to John, breathless and grinning. "Well?"

"Two questions," John said after a long moment.

"Yes?"

"One, how the hell do you know she drank kava kava tea?"

"The smell, of course." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John chose not to pursue the subject.

"Okay, two. Why?"

"Oh, come on, John," Sherlock snorted. "Who cares why she did it?" Glancing at a burly man who was leaning through the doorway, he simply said, "The sister."

As more people in suits entered, hauling a body bag and assorted industrial cleaners, John could hear Mr. Redding howling from the sitting room.

"You! You stupid bitch, you killed her!"

"I did it for you," he heard Judith screech. "She treated you like shit, sleeping around, drinking your money away! I did it for you! I wasn't going to let her get away with hurting you any more!"

"Shut up! Shut up! You're nothing to me, nothing!"

Sherlock grinned at John. "Well, there you go, John. Love - the most powerful motive for homicide there is." Patting John on the shoulder, he made his way out of the house after the mysterious suits who were dragging Judith Aaron away. "Hungry? I could murder a teriyaki."

Hurrying to catch up, John's brow furrowed. There was something niggling at him, something strangely uncomfortable, but damned if he could figure out what.

It was probably hunger. Teriyaki sounded pretty damned good just then.

If I had been honest with myself, I would have realized that it was the way Sherlock had said the word 'love', as though it were some sort of rare, terminal illness. I had known that he considered himself to be above human emotions; all that mattered was the work, after all. Still, something about the entire situation nagged at me, telling me that it went deeper than a mere disdain for the murderess. In fact, it did, as I was soon to discover...

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - Chapter Two! Wahoo!

Ugh. Apparently, I rhyme at 2:30 in the morning.

So, yes, considering how little I delved into this particular murder, I spent way too much time researching. Four-and-a-half hours of trolling medication guides and online herbal encyclopedias and airline websites. Fun-fun.

In other news, I think John Watson's psychological profile fascinates me even more than Sherlock's. I'm not sure why - it's just utterly fascinating.

Review! It keeps me off the hooch.

Songs for this chapter: 'Livin' On A High Wire' (Adam Hicks - Lemonade Mouth) and 'Sweet Dreams' (Eurythmics).

Peace.

Akiko