CH 3
Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson
John returned to his one room cubby in the veteran half-way house. He sat on his single bed, which he hated, since there were no other larger bits of furniture comfortable enough for him to relax in. He looked to his small desk and then to the used laptop on it.
It was a small bit of compensation and it had been paid for by the Government as an aid to his rehabilitation and for his supposed Blog therapy. He didn't trust the web or the blog sphere though, which is why he hadn't written his daily happenings in there, much to the disappointment of his Psychologist and the SC.
He inhaled deeply and scented the gun oil from the kit in the drawer. He was then vividly reminded that his senses had activated for a short time that day. They had been sharp and some were interesting, but most of the time he found it to be quite overwhelming and frightening too.
He didn't have full control yet and he wanted most of that before he revealed his activated status to the Sentinel Council. He didn't want to be forced to attend some social event with Guides being presented to him at a Joining Centre without being in control of his sensory reactions. He'd, quite frankly, rather avoid that rigmarole altogether.
All legally tested GNA Sentinels were informed of the potential hazards of sudden activation. They were vigorously taught how to prepare their minds for such an eventuality. He had taken his studies in the matter very seriously and used much of what he'd learned about meditation in order to do as well as he did in the army. His visual aide devices had been developed long before he left for the battlefield. That was as much as the SC could do for any of those with a GNA Sentinel status.
His old friend Mike Stamford was an active Guide and the man's wife was his Sentinel. She had been classed as a low level Sentinel and Mike had been lucky in the fact that the woman chose to be a teacher at one of the larger, combined Sentinel and Guide Centres (SGC) in the city. It had allowed Mike the chance to do what he loved, which was, of course, to teach the bright young things that he sometimes hated.
John had been so close to believing that he'd never be activated as a Sentinel and when today of all days, he meets a potential flatmate, who seemed to know a lot about him, by just looking at him. 'A remarkable talent, that,' he thought. 'I wonder if he sees too much because of it. I must be like a blessing and curse at the same time.'
It also seemed like his potential flatmate might be a Guide of some ability too, since he'd reacted to the Sentinel voice, just like his old friend had. It wasn't as though the younger man had shown any outward sign of having been affected, but any Sentinel would have noticed those reactions.
'Going to have to be careful with that,' John thought. 'Not many Sentinels have a voice that can affect Guides. It's like the Guide's own special voice for their personal Sentinels, but some have a tone that can affect all Sentinels...I think they might be monitored or registered by the Guide Councils (GC). I wonder if they monitor the Sentinels in the same manner?'
He looked back at his portable computer. He stood up, approached his desk, and settled there to do some web searching. The first thing he typed...
Sherlock Holmes London
Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson
The next day, John walked up to a door next to a charming little bakery slash café named 'Speedy's'. A yellow cab had just pulled up, as he knocked on the dark blue door with 221B over a door knocker.
"You're right on time," Sherlock stated.
"Mr. Holmes," John said holding out his hand to be shaken.
"Sherlock, please," the younger man said, shaking his hand.
"John," Dr. Watson replied. "Well this is a prime spot, must be expensive?"
"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal," Sherlock explained. "She owes me a favour. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. Luckily I was able to help her out."
John looked to Sherlock and asked, "So you stopped her husband from being executed?"
"Oh no," Sherlock replied with a slight mischievous grin. "I ensured it."
"Sherlock," a matronly woman opened the door with arms wide to embrace the younger man in welcome. "There you are, come in and get yourself warmed up dear."
"Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson," Sherlock introduced them, as they headed up a set of stairs to the actual 221B Flat.
The building was an old fashioned townhouse that had been converted into a series of three flats, one per floor with an additional bed room at the top of the house, in case it was required. The landlady resided on the main floor behind a door marked 221 and there was a door just across from the small landing which separated the narrow stairs up into two sections, which contained the number 221C.
Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson followed Sherlock as he strode into the room, as though he was familiar with the layout of the flat already. He made his way to his own laptop to check for emails, hoping that one of them would contain an interesting case or new information on another that he was working on.
John looked around the flat and noted that there were lots of test tubes, petri dishes and beakers in the kitchen. His nose twitched as he felt something begin to assault his sense of smell, but using the meditation techniques that he'd learnt long ago, he tuned it out in order to make his blunt observational comment. "This is lovely, I'm sure it will be perfect once we clean the rubbish out of…"
Sherlock looked sheepish. He picked up a pillow with the Union Jack flag stitched on its surface and tossed in into a low, battered, yet comfortable looking chair, as he said, "I'll sort my stuff out, soon enough…"
"Oh…" John muttered and then he lifted his unnecessary cane and pointed at a grinning piece of human ivory. "That's a skull."
"Friend of mine," Sherlock replied, again with a mischievous grin. "Well…when I say friend…" He shrugged, as he used a dagger to pierce some bits of paper to the mantel. Then he moved to another area to toss a few things into a trunk. He then looked out of the window as something out there had just caught his eye.
"What d'you think then, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson said to the ex-soldier. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."
"Of course we'll be needing two," John replied in an automated fashion. Then he turned to look at the woman with a confused expression on his face.
"Oh, don't worry, dear," she said with a cheeky smile. "There's all sorts round here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." She pointed in a direction with her hand. "Old Mr. Gregson has two sets of Guided Sentinels on the other side of Speedy's."
John looked up to the ceiling for half a moment and then limped to the chair with the cushion that had been put there by Sherlock. It had been an unconscious choice, as his sense of smell was guiding him towards something his burgeoning senses might have perceived as a comfort.
Mrs. Hudson, knowing that her quirky tenant, Sherlock, loved mysteries, immediately picked up the local paper and commented on the page it had been opened to. "What about these suicides, then, Sherlock, three of them?"
"Murder," he replied absentmindedly and then he continued. "…and there are four."
"Four," she asked confused, but turned to the door when she heard someone running up the steps.
"What," Sherlock asked. "What is it? Something's different with this one, you wouldn't be here otherwise."
"You know how you said that they never leave a note," the grey haired man commented. "Well this one did. Will you come?"
"Where," Sherlock asked.
"Brixton," the grey haired man in a modern trench coat asked.
"Who's on forensics," Holmes asked.
"Anderson," the detective replied with a sigh.
"Anderson won't work with me," Sherlock stated.
"It doesn't matter," the detective said. "Will you come?"
"Yes, but not by police car," Sherlock said trying to hold back his emotion with some effect. "I'll take a taxi." The grey-haired man nodded and half bowed to everyone in general and left the room.
John and Mrs. Hudson watched as the younger man fairly bounced about the room exclaiming, "Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note… Oh, it's Christmas," he strode out of the door.
"Look at him dashing about like that," Mrs. Hudson said. "My husband was like that, but you're more the sitting down type, like me." She said that to Dr. Watson, who just stared at the closed flat door and then she offered, "You rest your leg and I'll make us some tea…just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper."
"Damn my leg," John said loudly with a smack of his walking stick against the floor. He was immediately contrite and said, "Sorry, I'm so, so sorry." He picked up the paper that had gotten Mrs. Hudson's attention and he said, "Tea would be lovely…"
"Don't worry I understand," she patted the side of her bum and said, "I've got a hip."
"Some biscuits too, if you got them," he returned absently, as he skimmed over the article about the suicides.
"Not your housekeeper," she replied from a distance, as she left the flat to return to hers in order to make the tea and, of course, to supply some biscuits for the sweet Doctor fellow that may become one of her tenants.
John looked up immediately when he sensed that Sherlock had come back. The younger man was at the flat door. He hadn't gone that far. He put on a scarf and pulled on some black gloves.
"You're a doctor," Sherlock stated. "In fact you're an army doctor."
"Yes," John said, immediately standing up.
"Any good," Sherlock asked.
"Very good," John stated with pride. He may not be genius in a particular specialized field, but he was very good with what he did know.
"Seen a lot of injuries then," Sherlock continued. "...violent deaths and the like?"
"Well yes," John replied.
Sherlock looked at him intensely. "Bit of trouble too, I bet."
"Of course," John's brow furrowed, as he wondered where this conversation was leading. "Yes...enough for a lifetime...far too much."
"Wanna see some more," Sherlock asked casually, but was observing the man's reaction.
John's eyes lit up as he answered with a breathy exhaled and slight trembling groan, "Oh god yes!"
"Mrs. Hudson we're leaving," Sherlock said, as he clambered down the stairs with John quickly limping behind him.
John followed the taller, younger man, saying, "We're popping out."
"What both of you," she asked coming out of her flat, not having made any tea, since she'd heard Sherlock clamber back up the stairs, loudly.
"Possible suicides... four of them," Sherlock stated with a grin, "There's no point in sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"
"Look at you, all happy," Mrs. Hudson responded to the younger man's enthusiasm with an understanding and motherly indulgent smile. She sensed his eagerness to be out there and using his mind. She allowed his eccentricities because of her own active Guide status. She was a low level empath and had developed an honest fondness for the quirky young, genius Guide. "It's not decent."
"Who cares about decent," Sherlock said. He gave her a hug and received a slap on his tush from the matronly woman. "The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" He strode out of the door with John in his wake. He lifted his arm and yelled, "Taxi!"
A cab immediately stopped and the two men got in. After a few minutes on their way, John's attention reverted back to his companion. He kept trying to figure out the younger man.
"You have questions," Sherlock stated.
"Who are you," John asked. "What do you do?"
"What do you think," Sherlock returned.
John paused and said, "I'd say private detective..."
"But…"
"But the police don't go to private detectives."
"I'm a Consulting Detective and Guide," Sherlock declared. "Only one in the world, I invented the job."
"What does that mean and why tack on the Guide part," John asked.
"All Guides active or GNA, need to be identified as such in their job titles in case there's ever an activated Sentinel in trouble, as is the case with Sentinels too. I have some Guide abilities, but not the patience for their mysticism and none of the empathic stuff or so I've been told. I am, however, properly registered as Activated," Sherlock explained with some bitterness, as though some past experience clouded his thoughts. "The job title also means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
"But the police don't consult amateurs," John commented.
"Of course they don't," Sherlock replied with a smirk.
John looked away and then he turned back, "You said I've got a therapist."
"With a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist," Sherlock said. "You walk with a cane, but don't ask to sit down, as though you've forgotten about it, therefore it's psychosomatic."
"And the rest," John asked.
"When I first saw you, I noticed your military haircut and stance," Sherlock said. "You're tanned in the face and hands, but not below the wrist line, that means you were somewhere with a lot of sun, but not on vacation and that screams military, which means either Afghanistan or Iraq. You scented the room when you walked into the lab, indicating that you're an active Sentinel, but you don't have a Guide with you, which means one of two things, either you're a low level Sentinel and don't need one or that you've recently activated while in service to Queen and Country and haven't found your Guide yet. Though why the Government allowed you to leave their service as an activated Sentinel, invalided or not, I don't know, but it's a curious thing, a lovely little, tantalizing mystery."
"Something I'd rather not discuss at this point in time," John stated in a grumbling tone, which the younger man acknowledged with a nod. He then asked. "...and who said I had a brother?"
"Your phone did," Sherlock said. He held out his hand to receive it.
"My phone," John asked, as he took it out and handed it over without thought.
"Top of the line with key pad, MP and web enabled," Sherlock said, mentioning several of the phone's prominent and likely attractive features. "You've obviously just come back from a war and you're looking for a flatshare, which means that money is tight. This is not the type of phone that you'd purchase, let alone choose. It's the kind of phone that a younger person would own though and therefore it's from a relative. Someone that's close to you, not a cousin or some such because if you had them or were close to them, you wouldn't be looking for a flatshare and that means it came from a sibling..." He paused to flip the phone over.
"The rest is simple deduction based on the inscription," he gestured the phone to point out the inscribed words. 'To Harry, love Clara'.
"This was a gift from Clara to your brother. However it's a new model, but already he's given it away, indicates the state of their relationship right there. You won't turn to him for help, despite his request for you to 'keep in touch', which is indicated by his giving you his used yet relatively new phone. Perhaps you didn't like his drinking, perhaps you liked his wife, but in any case the scratches on the back shows that your phone had a previous owner, someone who carried it in his pockets with keys and such. You are meticulous in your dress and would never have let it get into such a condition. Women take more care such things, so this came from someone is close to you, therefore, sibling and brother."
"How did you know about the drinking," John asked.
"Shot in the dark," Sherlock smirked. "Good one though. The marks around the re-charge port show that shaky, unsteady hands missed the mark when trying to plug it in before going to bed at night. You'll never see those kinds of marks on the phone belonging to a younger sober man." He handed the phone back and then said, "There you see, you were right."
"About what," John asked, as he stared at his phone catching all the clues that Sherlock had pointed out, stunned that so much could be deduced by scratches, odd marks and an engraving.
"The Police don't consult amateurs," Sherlock said, as he turned to look out of the window. He braced himself for the usual insults that came from someone who didn't like the fact that he could see so much.
"That was...," John paused as he searched for the right word, "Amazing," as he looked at the younger man with some expression akin to awe.
Sherlock looked back at him. He was surprised and had to ask, "You think so?"
"Of course it was," Watson told him. "Extraordinary! It was quite extraordinary."
Sherlock blinked and said, "That's not what people usually say."
Watson was curious and so he asked, "What do people normally say?"
"Piss off," Sherlock huffed and half-grinned.
John just grinned in reply and looked away at the slight surprised and mildly petulant look that the younger man had on his face. It was such an expressive face despite the attempt to remain mostly expressionless.
Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson
The cab soon pulled up the police cordoned area, flanked by the flashing lights on several police cars. John paid the cabbie and soon they were walking up to the bright white and blue tape.
They stepped away from the main street, when Sherlock turned to John and asked, "Did I get anything wrong?"
John limped his way alongside the tall young man. "Harry and me don't get on. Never have." He confirmed. "Clara and Harry split up...um...three months ago, and they're getting a divorce...and Harry is a drinker."
Sherlock was quite pleased with his deductions and said, "Spot on then! I didn't expect to be right about everything."
"Harry is short for Harriet," John said with a smirk. "She's older than me by a couple of years too!"
"Sister," Sherlock growled out with a frown. "Older? There's always something..." He lifted the barricade tape and walked past a youngish woman of exotic colouring and descent.
"Freak," she hissed to the Consulting Detective. "Ah...and where do you think you going," she asked Dr. Watson.
"With him," John said, as he pointed to Sherlock.
Sherlock turned back when he noticed that his companion hadn't followed. He held up the blue and white police tape and repeated, "He's a friend of mine and he's with me."
"A friend," she said. "Since when do you rate a friend?" She turned to John and asked, "What...did he, follow you home or something?"
John just scowled at young woman's attitude.
"John this is AG Sergeant Sally Donovan," Sherlock said by way of introduction. He looked at the woman and repeated, "He's with me."
"Fine," she said and then she used her hand radio. "Freak's here and I'm bringing him in."
A weaselly looking man came out of the abandoned building, wearing a baby blue full sized cover suit. "This is a crime scene and I don't want it contaminated."
"Ah...Anderson," Sherlock said his name with a mocking tone, as he gave the area a once over look around. "...and will your wife be away for long?"
"Oh don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson replied. "Somebody told you that."
"Your deodorant told me that," Sherlock replied.
"My deodorant," Anderson said in a questioning tone.
Sherlock looked at him and said in a surprised tone, "It's for men."
"Well of course it's for men," Anderson replied. "I'm wearing it."
"So's Sgt. Donovan," Sherlock returned. The other man turned to look at the woman in question and as he did so, the Consulting Detective and Guide commented. "Oof, I think it just vaporized. May I go in now?"
"Now listen here," Anderson pointed. "I don't want you implying..."
"I'm not implying anything," Sherlock stated, as he started to walk away. "You probably had a pleasant evening together. So, I suppose she just stuck around and scrubbed your floors, judging by the state of her knees."
John had to look. He pursed his lips together to prevent the grin that threatened to escape. He quickly followed the taller man. It was then that he noticed the matched scent when it had been pointed out, but he was surprised that it was something that a Guide could have noticed. He quickly caught on to the fact that Sherlock was, obviously, no ordinary Guide and wondered why the man hadn't been bonded with a Sentinel.
"You have to put one of those on," Sherlock said to John. He pointed to a package that contained the same full sized protective suit that the forensic examiner outside had been wearing.
"What about you," John asked, when he finished zipping it up. He was ignored as the younger man, jogged up the stairs to the scene of the crime. "What's AG mean?"
"Active Guide," Sherlock told him.
"Who's this then," DI Lestrade asked.
"He's a Doctor," Sherlock replied, absentmindedly. He scanned the room and then began to make internal notes related to the body before him. "He's with me."
"He shouldn't be here," Lestrade said. "I'm breaking every rule by letting you in here."
Sherlock stood up, looked at the GNA Sentinel and said, "Because you need me."
"Yes I do, God help me," Lestrade said. He looked to John, waved at the air in general as he said, "Oh, please yourself."
The ex-military man walked up to Sherlock who stood up and asked him, "Well, what do you think Dr. Watson?"
John asked in a low tone, "What am I doing here?"
"Helping me, make a point," Sherlock replied in a tone just as low.
"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," John said, as his eyes stopped and were riveted at the hint of moisture on the back of the woman's jacket. It was his first zone out.
"Yeah," Sherlock answered, drawing John back to the here and now, so quickly that the Doctor didn't think he'd zoned on anything because he hadn't sensed a lag in time. "Well...this is more fun."
"Fun," John's tone incredulous, "There's a woman lying there, dead."
"Perfectly sound analysis," Sherlock commented. "I was hoping you'd go deeper."
John sighed and then he approached the body. He crouched down and with his gloved hands he did a few checks for petechial hemorrhage in the eyes, stippling at the fingernails and a few other general medical observations. He was still stuck on the fact that the woman's coat was wet, until he leant forward to sniff her breath.
One deep breath and he was riveted by the scent of her perfume. There were layers to the scent he found. He detected something else in the scent and he leaned closer to her mouth. He went deeper and completely zoned on the smell of the poison.
"John, come back to me," Sherlock said low in his ear, with a slight touch to the other man's arm. He was surprised at the depth of the fugue state that the Doctor had gone into with just one sniff.
John's awareness returned, but he blurted the few things that came to him in order to help Sherlock's cover for the need to have a second opinion or was that just for someone that willingly followed him around. It was too soon to tell at this point.
"She took something medicinal," he said. "It had the same sense of odour that comes from powerful drugs, usually used for patients with terminal illnesses. It was mixed with various other ingredients made to mask it and probably to render it more lethal. However, the medicinal markers are quite strong."
Sherlock's eyes sparked at the thought that John could actually smell the kind of drug that the victim took. "That says a lot about the killer," he observed. "Go on."
"She came from someplace that recently rained because her coat is wet and her hair smells of damp, but it hasn't been raining here at all today. She also smells like she's been in proximity with other people and there's a lingering scent of exhaust smoke and track oil that I usually associate with any travel by tube or train," John said. "I can't give you more than that."
"That's all right," Sherlock said. "That's good enough, well done." He was pleased that someone had noticed something so obvious, but he figured that it was the Sentinel part of John's make-up rather than something he'd actually noticed in an automated fashion, like himself.
"No it's not," Lestrade said. "What else is there?"
"She's German," Anderson said. "Rache is the German word for revenge."
Sherlock stood up and shut the door in the face of the hated forensic examiner. "She wasn't German."
"What was she," John asked.
"She was a serial adulterer, here for one night from Cardiff, judging by the size of her case," Sherlock started to ramble.
"Oh god," Lestrade said with a huff. "If you're making this up..."
"Look at her," Sherlock said. "Really look at her. Her hair and nails are done up nicely. Her hands are manicured so she has an office type of job. I'm thinking day-trader or she's in media of some kind judging from the alarming amount of pink that she's wearing. Her jewelry all polished and clean except for her wedding band, which clearly shows the state of her marriage, since the only polishing it gets is when she working it off of her finger. Her jacket is wet, but her umbrella isn't. The collar of her coat is also wet, which means that she's come from someplace that had rain too strong for her to use the umbrella. Just as John pointed out, there was no rain in London. And where has there been heavy rain recently to indicate a short distance of travel," the younger man twiddled with his cell phone and then showed the results. "Cardiff!"
"That's fantastic," John exclaimed with an awed expression and small smile that peeked out involuntarily.
"Do you know that you do that out loud," Sherlock observed.
He was again pleased that someone was praising his abilities, since he knew that something of this nature just couldn't last. But at least he was aware that the expressions he received from John were truly genuine, which might make their flat arrangement all the better. He had to hope that it would work. Plus he wanted to test his flatmate's Sentinel abilities, but that request could wait for another day.
"Sorry," John replied. "I'll shut up."
"No it's...fine," Sherlock said with a pause, as though he'd had to think about it for a little while. He looked around the room and asked, "So where's her case."
"Case," Lestrade asked. "What case?"
"Her suitcase," Sherlock said. "Smallish size, we also need to find out who Rachel was?"
"Rachel," Dr. Watson asked. "Is that what she was writing?"
"No she was writing an obscure German word for revenge," Sherlock rattled off quickly. "Of course she was writing Rachel. Now where's her case?"
"What case," Lestrade re-iterated. "There was no case."
"How do you know what size it was," John asked.
"How do you guys live with your funny little brains," Sherlock asked in a genuinely shocked tone. "Look at the back of her right leg. There are small splash marks which indicate she had a small case with her. Anything larger and the marks would be different. So where's the case, what have you done with it?"
"There was no case," Lestrade answered again.
Sherlock took off down the stairs and shouted for the case. He also muttered, "We've got a serial killer on our hands. Love those, there's always something to look forward to."
"What are you talking about," Lestrade yelled down at Sherlock.
"I don't know how he's doing it," Sherlock stated. "They're murders all of them. Find out who Rachel is." He then explained that the case had to exist.
"Just look at her," he told the policemen and John. "She coordinates her clothes and her shoes..." He paused, clapped his hands in glee and looked like he'd been handed the keys to heaven. "Of course that's it." He took off down the stairs and left John behind.
"What is it," Lestrade called down.
"PINK!" Sherlock shouted back up the stairs and then took off into the streets.
John sighed and slowly made his way down the stairs. His limp, psychosomatic or not had been hurting him at the moment. He'd been left behind. It was close to that moment, that he was determined to never be left behind again.
'Cheeky bastard was right, though,' John thought, as he took off the crime scene suit and left the area. 'This is far more interesting, but what is this going to do to my chosen career. I suppose I could go for retraining, but doing what and with my activated status, how?' He watched some of the forensics people gathering some evidence.
John walked towards the barricade that was still manned by the irritated AG Sgt. Donovan. She looked him over and said, "He's gone you know."
"Yes," John said. "I figured as much. How do I call a taxi? You know because of my leg."
She lifted the barricade and said, "Try the main road, a couple of blocks that way."
"Thanks," John said.
"You're not his friend," she observed. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"
"I'm..." John paused to think about it. "I'm nobody. I've just met him."
"Okay! Let me give you a bit of advice then," she said. "Stay away from that guy."
"Why," John asked.
"You know why he's here?" Sally asked. She didn't let him answer, but continued. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off on it. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."
John just looked at the woman and the attitude she projected. He knew it wasn't true because in the whole history of Guides and Sentinels, there has never been a case where a GNA or activated Guide went out and actually murdered someone. But he asked her the question she'd expected him to voice, "Why would he do that?"
"Cause he's a psychopath," she told him. "Psychopaths get bored. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." She sent the parting shot as the older man walked away from her and her biased and very, skewed, plus quite unnecessary opinions of his new flatmate.
Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson
TBC...