Dishes

In which there are bubbles, Lana explains and Sherlock discovers a burglar

Lana dunked the plates into the dishwater and added soap, letting the dinner dishes soak as she cleaned off the table. Even through the trace smells of basil and Clorox, the scent of blood was still underneath. Lana grimaced; it was unnerving that the only reason the kitchen smelled like a butcher shop was because she was too stupid to defend herself. She hoped that John and Sherlock didn't notice.

"It smells like a slaughterhouse in here," Sherlock commented as he strolled into the kitchen with his computer.

Lana begged for the patience not to kill him. Slowly, she put on a forced smile. "Oh, it's not that bad. It's probably from the leg in the pantry or the blood samples anyway."

"No, I'm fairly sure it's from you," Sherlock pointed out as he opened the fridge. "I don't recall the leg or the blood samples leaving stains all over the floor."

Lana gritted her teeth. They had only known each other about four hours and already he was getting on her nerves. "Well, if you don't like it, grab some bleach and get rid of the smell yourself."

She hated that she had lost her temper. Avoiding his eye, Lana went back to the sink and started scrubbing the leftover pasta sauce off the soapy dishes. She could tell he was smiling smugly and purposefully kept her back to him.

"Here, let me," said John, as he stepped forward and took the sponge from her. "After all, you did the cooking."

"It's no trouble, I'm glad you liked it." Lana grabbed a dishrag and started to dry as John cleaned. Sherlock hadn't moved, still sitting at his laptop, typing away at something not worth Lana's concern. It seemed fitting, she supposed, considering that he hadn't eaten anything, so of course he would sit there like a lazy sack and surf the net. At the same time, though, this felt natural. The dishes clinked, the tap dripped, and for a moment, Lana felt at peace, as though staying in a random flat with two strange men was perfectly normal.

"So," said Sherlock, from his post at the table (where he was doing absolutely nothing), "what do you know about Mike Pere?"

Lana almost dropped the plate she had been drying. She didn't expect to bring up the topic this soon, but this clearly wasn't a man who really knew the definition of the word tact, so she tried to appear unfazed and handed the plate back to John. She leaned against the counter, twisting the dishrag around her hand so her hands wouldn't start shaking. At least he was keeping her connection to Mike a secret, but merely changing his last name didn't change who he was to her. It hadn't very clever either; switching his last name with the French word for father- what was that about? This felt like a test; how well she could think on her feet and still give him the information. It was up to her to keep their charade up. She knotted the dishrag tighter. "What do you want to know?" she asked, staring at the floor.

"Why was he in France? Did he have any relations to gangs or underworld figures? And why would a gentleman such as himself be violently murdered in a long line of seemingly random serial killings? I need a lead to move forward. I know there's a connection, but none make sense so far. I need data, anything you can find for me." Sherlock was focusing in on her; she could feel his icy stare as he sat, waiting for her answers. Lana took a deep breath. She would tell the truth; at least as much as could be told without revealing Pere's true identity.

"I used to work for Pere, before I went to Denver. He was a ruthless boss, but he knew what he was doing; under him, the company's income peaked. I still had my doubts about him though, but I played the normal employee, moving upward until I became a public relations secretary for the board of directors. I didn't have direct access to them, but I had a list of their schedules and such to make sure they kept in touch with the outside world. I only ever spoke to Pere on a regular basis. I would help plan his meetings and such, and he wrote me a letter of recommendation to transfer to another company once I completed my time working for him, if I still wanted to.

"Well, I was working late one night, and I overheard Pere and another director having a fight over the phone. They were yelling about some sort of deal and how it had gone sour. I remember that all I got out of it was that the company had lost money; a lot of money. The next day, we crashed. Turns out we were bankrupt. We had lost a huge amount of money in what sounded like a gamble. Nobody knew all the details, and so a rumor started."

"Oh, this ought to be good," Sherlock muttered.

"Some people started saying that our board of directors had lost the company in an actual gamble. A muti-million dollar gamble that put everything on the line."

"A gamble with who?" asked Sherlock, leaning forward in his chair still further.

"That's just it; I don't know. Most people brushed it off, because the rumor seemed ridiculous. And you know how people talk when they're angry; they'll say whatever they want to get sympathy. But others took hold of it, and it went from a rumor to an idea. Talk began to spread about getting more information out of the Directors, but when the time came for us to demand answers, every single Director simply vanished overnight."

John looked up from the last of the dishes, up to his elbows in bubbles. "What do you mean, vanished?"

"I mean that twelve people simply seemed to disappear. No warning to anyone, from the sound of it, because I got a call from Pere's wife asking why he hadn't come home that night. I replied that I thought he had taken a sick day because he hadn't come in for work. After a little digging, I discovered that the situation was the same for all of the Directors. They had simply hung all of us out to dry. There were three thousand of us working for them, and now all of us were unemployed. They hadn't left any explanation as to what should happen now, and so with no one in charge, the company started to crumble.

"I was lucky; I managed to get out before things got too bad. On a whim though, right before I applied for a job at the sun, I went through and cleared out Pere's office for any clues that could point to what might have happened. All I found was a note; there were no other papers in the office to be found."
"Do you have it with you?" Sherlock was practically bouncing up and down in his seat. Lana had to laugh; he looked like an overexcited child on Christmas, only this was a man in his early thirties, grabbing for evidence in a serial murder spree.

"Keep your shirt on; I'm getting to that. Anyway, we all stuck around and tried to build up the company that had fallen to ruin. And then, a week later, twelve men simply walked into the building and strolled into the Director's office. They started taking business back to the top from day one, but by then, I had had enough. I quit the next day, and cut off any ties I could to the company and Seattle that I could. It broke my heart to leave my mom though. She was having a hard time because of her divorce from my dad. I had helped her out, but I needed to get out, so I left Seattle behind and moved to Denver. Once I moved there, I got an apartment and started working for the paper in the area; the Denver Sun. About a month into my job, I was assigned the crime stories, and so I began traveling first around the city, then the state, the country and finally into Europe."
"How long ago was this?" asked John as he stacked the last plate in the cabinet.

"about two years ago."

John nodded and then reached back into the cabinet. "do you want some coffee?"

"Oh, shut up, John" said Sherlock, and turning back to Lana. "Didn't you have a story to finish?"

Lana looked down. The dishrag she had been twisting in her hands was wound around her wrist. She blew back a stray hair that had fallen in front of his face. "There's not much left to tell. About two months ago, I got an assignment to head for France. A group known as Les Assasiners was active again, and they wanted me to go in and write a piece. Seemed like a usual situation, so I went in. I did a little digging, and then I found out who their most recent victim was. I had to be sure, and so I went to the morgue…and …"

Lana fell silent, her hands completely wrapped in the dishrag. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. John stepped forward, his hands still smelling of soap, and gently undid the knotted cloth. "I'm sorry," he said. "You shouldn't have to talk about it now. And CERATIN PEOPLE shouldn't be forcing you to talk about it."

"What?" said Sherlock, looking appalled? "I didn't do anything. "

John rolled his eyes, and Lana cracked a smile. Sherlock looked up, surprised. He couldn't help but notice how her face lit up when she smiled. Quickly, he forced himself to look back at his computer.

"So," said Sherlock, still typing away, "huge business collapse, disappearing CEO's and one turns up dead in Nice. Why?"

"If I knew the answer, I wouldn't be here and neither would you." Lana pointed out.

John privately smiled. These two were blunt, rude and cunning.

They were perfect for each other.

"Well, "said John, rising from off the counter and stretching. "this has been interesting, but I'm exhausted and I have work in the morning, so I'll…leave you to it."

"What? Now? But there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock cried as John headed for the door.

"Good night, Dr. Watson," said Lana, not looking up. The dark haired young woman was staring out of the window.

"Please, John."

He left.

"Well," said Sherlock. "It's twelve at night, and I have some samples to test. Feel free to take the couch if you're tired."

"Oh, no," said Lana, pulling up a chair with a loud scrape. "I'm not going to lose this chance to do something useful."

"You're already useful."

"As information. Nothing more and I want to do more. So tell me what needs to be done." She looked up at him, waiting for instructions. "Come on, I'm not just good for getting beat up."

"Really? Never would have guessed that," said Sherlock, not looking at her.

Lana could have kicked him. She stared at his lanky form, trying to decide what she could use to hit him with and still cause maximum damage.

"Shut up," said Sherlock.

"What?" Lana snapped out of her violent thoughts.

"Your thinking is driving me mad."

Her mouth fell open. "Oh, you can't be serious."

"Completely."

Lana blew her hair out of her eyes and took the seat across from him. He looked up, seeming surprised. "I take it you're going to try and do more than stain my floor, take my couch space and play with my face?"

"I made you dinner," she pointed out.

"Digestion slows me down."

"So does starvation. Everybody has to eat something."

"Eating is boring," Sherlock replied as he pulled the frozen blood from the fridge and grabbed some vials from the counter. Lana watched in interest as he began to carefully measure out the blood and mix chemicals on the kitchen table. She tried not to look impressed, but that was impossible; Sherlock's defined movements and focus told her she was dealing with a master. If her friends could see her now. They would all be impressed that she now had what looked like a boyfriend who was brilliant, strong and handsome- at least until he opened his mouth. Lana watched Sherlock's jaw lock in concentration as he measured out one of the samples and poured the crimson liquid into a clean test tube. She definitely admired his nerve, if not his manners and complete lack of tact. Sherlock certainly seemed to be someone you could trust if he was willing to work with you a little. Lana rested her head on her hands, feeling the smooth wood beneath her fingers as she watched Sherlock work. He hadn't commented on her thought process yet, so she let her mind wander as he measured out powder and entered data on his laptop. Then, as quickly as he had begun, Sherlock stopped up each of the test tubes, lined them up on a rack and set them on the counter. Only then did he look up at her.

"Well, I'm going to bed. There're some spare sheets in the linen closet if you want some."

"Wait," said Lana, blinking in confusion. "That's it?"

"I have to let these sit out overnight," said Sherlock, as he put the remaining blood back in the fridge. "For now, I'm going to think about this problem a bit more."

"I thought you were going to get some sleep."

"Only normal people need sleep," Sherlock replied, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a small box.

Lana raised her eyebrows. "Nicotine patches?"

"Helps me think," he replied, pulling out two and replacing the container. "I need to give this some thought tonight." Suddenly, he turned back toward her. His expression had shifted from one of relaxation to one of….could it be gratitude? No, he couldn't feel gratitude as far as Lana knew. This seemed more like… slight respect.

"Thank you for the information. You've been very helpful."

Lana's cheeks flushed. "Um, you're welcome. But really, I should be thanking you. After all, you saved me."

Sherlock raised his thin eyebrows.

"No, really," she pressed. "If you hadn't done that, I'd probably be dead."

He shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I needed information, and you provided it."

Lana rolled her eyes good naturedly, and brushed past him on her way to couch, noticing, against her will, how solid he felt, if not extremely skinny. She shook her head, and continued toward the couch until she was stopped by Sherlock's arm.

"What?" said Lana, confused? "What's the big deal? I thought you couldn't stand me. Remember, we're not actually dating, so I'd prefer if we kept physical contact to a-"

"Shut up," he said.

Lana was appalled. "Don't you tell me to shut up, you-"
"No, seriously! Shut up."Sherlock pressed his hand over her mouth and motioned downward. Lana looked at the floorboards, trying to hear something that would let her know what was going on. And then she heard it.

It was the load, groaning snap of someone stepping on a loose board. Her eyes widened, and she looked back at Sherlock, who nodded gravely. He removed his hand from her mouth, and it took her a moment to speak.

"Is it?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, rubbing his hand together in anticipation. "We've got a burglar. Now, where's my pistol?"

He swept from the room, leaving Lana to almost laugh in surprise.

She was definitely sharing a flat with the most bizarrely interesting man she had ever met.

Lana grabbed her pistol, with a grim smile.

This was going to be fun.

Up next- The Calling Card

In which Lana takes a fall, John makes a strange discovery, and the group is summoned.