As Sherlock knocked on the apartment door, John watched him, noticing the barely perceptible change in expression and demeanour that signified he was putting on an act of some sort. He almost looked like a different person - friendly, open and approachable instead of aloof and detached. The door opened a sliver, held back by a chain, and a woman's voice came weakly from behind it. "Hello?"
Sherlock smiled widely, and in an encouraging tone of voice said, "Vicki Braithwaite? I'm Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague Doctor Watson. I wondered if we could come in for a little chat?"
There was silence from the other side of the door, but quickly it closed and then opened again, the chain removed. A short, dark haired young woman stood in front of them, her face slightly puffy and eyes red rimmed. John recognised her as the presenter he had seen briefly while at the television studio. She indicated they should come in, and closed the door gently behind them, being careful to relock it.
"I recognise you from the studio. You work for the police?"
If John hadn't known Sherlock as well as he did, he would almost certainly have missed the slight flicker in his expression as he corrected Vicki "I work with the police, yes. I'm a specialist."
The woman nodded, not seeming to notice the slight reproof in his tone. They moved through the small flat to the living room, and she indicated they should sit down. She perched on a small sofa, taking a sip from the cup of tea she had placed next to her. John sat, but Sherlock remained standing, clearly more comfortable when he was commanding the room.
"I already told the police everything I remember." Vicki said, quietly.
Sherlock smiled even more broadly. "And indeed, I have read your statement. However, I'm here to ask you about the things you don't remember."
The young woman blinked, and looked up from the cup of tea she was cradling in her hands. "I'm sorry? The things I don't remember? I...I don't think I understand."
"It's quite simple. I will ask questions, and you will answer them. The important difference being that I will be the one responsible for determining the relevance of the information."
John noticed that now they were safely inside Vicki's flat, Sherlock appeared to have almost entirely dropped his chummy persona, and he was once again his calculating self. He remembered the feel of Sherlock's hands on either side of his head, the taller man staring intently into his eyes as if he could read John's mind if only he looked hard enough. Remembered what Sherlock had said to him about 'maximising his memory'. He wondered if Sherlock would try something similar with Vicki, and was mildly relieved when the detective instead began with simple questioning.
Sherlock pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and handed it to John along with a pen. "Doctor Watson, would you be so kind as to take notes? One never knows what might be important."
John looked up at Sherlock in frank disbelief, having never known him to forget anything that could be relevant to a case, and was only slightly surprised to catch his subtle wink. Clearly Sherlock didn't want to have to explain anything more than he had to.
"To begin with I will ask foundation questions, to make sure we are on the same page, as it were." Sherlock asked basic questions; how long had she known the deceased, how had they met, had they socialised outside of work? As he talked he paced, one hand in his pocket. John wrote down anything Vicki said, wishing he knew shorthand, or at least had access to a Dictaphone.
"Now, think about what happened yesterday. Close your eyes, picture it in your mind. Build up a complete image of the studio, the set, even the clothes you were wearing. Think about finding Jason's body. You walked to the tent, you lifted the flap. What was the first thing, the very first thing, which you saw?" Sherlock had stopped pacing, and was watching the young woman, unblinkingly.
After a few seconds Vicki whispered, "I - I suppose it was his mask." She looked guiltily downwards.
John stared at Sherlock, and mouthed "Mask?" Sherlock silently shook his head, and indicated she should continue.
"I feel awful, but the first thing I thought was that he was messing with me and I was really angry. He's always been a bit of a show off, and he likes to upstage his co-stars a bit. You know, be the centre of attention. He used to play little pranks – nothing dangerous obviously – but he liked it if we were a little bit off balance because it meant he could sort of take over." She blinked back tears, and swallowed. "Anyway. He was wearing his mask from the next sketch. It gave me a bit of a start and I was about ready to smack him, but then I saw he had sort of sick coming out of his mouth, and when I touched his face he was all clammy. I think I knew he was dead."
She began weeping quietly, and covered her face with her hands. John looked at Sherlock, and tried to indicate with hand gestures and nods of his head that he should comfort her somehow. Getting nowhere fast, he rolled his eyes and leaned over to pat the crying woman gently on the shoulder.
"I just feel so guilty, that the last thing I thought of him was that he was being a wanker, you know? It makes me feel like a really bad person, because he was probably already dead and I thought he was just mucking around."
Sherlock spoke again, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "You didn't mention the mask in your police statement. Why is that?"
Vicki sobbed and looked pleadingly at John. "I forgot, honestly. It completely skipped my mind. When I saw him again it wasn't there, I think one of the paramedics took it off or something. Do you think it's important? I won't get in trouble for not mentioning it will I?"
"I'm sure it'll be fine." John tried to soothe her and patted her hand, grabbing a box of tissues from the coffee table. "Here, try and calm down a bit. Is there anyone around you could spend time with? Boyfriend? Your mum?"
"My sister's on her way down on the train." Vicki sniffed. She seemed to almost physically pull herself together, and then looked up at Sherlock. "Is there anything else you need to ask me?"
"One thing. Can you remember whether you saw the mask again, anywhere?" Sherlock was still watching her, intently.
She shook her head. "No, I didn't see it again."
Sherlock nodded, as is this fit with whatever theory he was currently working on, and turned to leave.
John smiled and said, "Thank you, I'm sure you've been very helpful." He stood and followed Sherlock outside.
They headed back to the lift in silence, and John wordlessly offered Sherlock his hand when the doors opened.
Sherlock sat in their taxi home, brooding in silence. He had barely spoken since they had left the TV presenter's flat, barely acknowledged anything at all in fact. John was the first to break the silence.
"So, the mask is important, I understand that. What I don't understand is why I was taking notes. You've never forgotten anything you thought was important before now. Do you want to read over them?" He raised an eyebrow at his silent companion and sat back in his seat, clearly waiting for an answer.
Sherlock blinked and glanced at him. "Of course not."
"Then why on earth did you ask me to make them?" John looked nonplussed, and slightly offended.
"They are for you, John." Sherlock huffed and sat back in his seat. "You seem intent on recording every detail of my cases. I thought perhaps you might like to have accurate notes from which to work."
"Oh. Um. Well, thank you then, I suppose."John relaxed into his seat and turned to look out of the window.
Sherlock frowned. Ever since they had left the weeping woman's house, he had been unable to concentrate properly on the task at hand. He had at first thought she was overreacting, perhaps putting on a pathetic front to distract them from the facts of the case. After all, she had barely known the man. Yet she seemed stricken by a sincere depth of grief despite the shallowness of their connection; they had worked together for less than a year, had not been particular friends nor socialised outside of work. Yes, she had been the one to discover the body, but surely the shock of that did not account for all of it.
He compared her distress to what he imagined his own response would be. It would be unfortunate, yes, were he to discover one of his colleagues in a recently deceased state. Even Anderson would merit a moment of silence. But he doubted that he would grieve for any of them, even Lestrade or Mrs Hudson. And yet. When he thought of finding John's body – John whom he had known for less than six months and for whom he was as likely to 'show off' as anything else – he felt a curious heavy sensation in his mind. It was an almost physical weight upon his shoulders and chest, and momentarily he found it hard to breathe. He glanced sideways at John who was watching distractedly out of the taxi window. Sherlock couldn't account for it, but somehow this man had become important to him.
A/N - short one yes but I have been having trouble getting this bit out. Going to try and not be distracted by the shiny and get my next bit out pronto as well.
For fans of Benedict Cumberbatch (and let's face it who isn't!) BBC Radio 7 will be re-airing the first series of Cabin Pressure starting today! It is available on listen again as well if you missed it.