No specific warnings for this chapter, yay! That seems to make a change.
Sorry about the slightly longer delay for this chapter, though I should warn everyone that the slight drought in chapters will probably continue for a while, because I have scarily close exams. For the moment, I hope you are content with this one.
Reviews are much appreciated, I'd like to know how I'm getting on :D
The flat was silent. Completely silent, but for the sound of his own breathing, slow and calm, and the slight rustle of cloth on leather as he shifts his weight a little on the sofa. John's long gone: he left an hour ago with a smile, and a few of the buttons on his shirt done up in the wrong holes. Sherlock didn't bother pointing this out. He estimated that John would have noticed approximately 43 minutes ago anyway.
His thoughts move away, easily, from his flatmate; switching instead to images of old gunshot wounds, and the tears running down Scarlet Vlascenko's face. He frowns, and the young girl's face changes, morphing into one a decade older: the pixelated photo of Virginia Smith that John had found online. She's the image of innocence, with her natural blonde hair tumbling in soft curls down her shoulders, huge brown eyes turned upwards towards the lens of the camera. Of course, the picture was airbrushed, and Sherlock is wary of using it in any way to draw any conclusions. Airbrushing often takes away the little human aspects, the little imperfections in expression, as well as physical defects. He hates it. All for the sake of removing a few non-existent blemishes.
His thoughts fall silent. He can hear his own breathing again, and he closes his eyes. Mrs Hudson is moving around downstairs, making breakfast, moving into the lounge to put on the TV, walking back to the kitchen, yes, tripping over that stool again. She did it so often; Sherlock wonders why she didn't move the thing. Small, circular, three legs, probably made of pine, judging by the scrape of the legs on the floor.
The display on his phone changes: the little numbers showing the time to be 8:07. He plans to arrive at Virginia's flat at about nine. He has learnt, from extensive observation, that nine is an acceptable time in the morning to visit a person with whom you are unfamiliar. At nine, it is too late for the person to complain that it's too early for them to entertain, but if they don't have work, it is statistically most likely that they will not have any other engagements for at least an hour. Nine is too early for social gatherings.
Obviously, Virginia Smith does not have work.
He calculates that he can depart 221B in about ten minutes, but that still leaves ten minutes of lethargy. Sighing, he opens John's computer, guesses his password, and begins searching for details on the other victims.
Oh. Stupid.
He's out of the door within two minutes, laptop under his arm, a quick text fired off to John, waving one arm into the road at a passing cab. He gives the address of John's clinic, and leans back into the seat of the vehicle.
I'll be there in ten minutes. SH.
The clinic where John Watson works is unremarkable. Built about twenty years ago, judging by the architecture, it's painted an off-white, various wilting bushes and hedges lining the short path to the door, presumably to give an air of homeliness. They needn't have bothered, Sherlock thinks. They add considerably to the atmosphere of illness, of death and dying. He doesn't like the building, he decides. It's dull, it's faintly depressing, and as such doesn't look like a place where John Watson should work.
Well, he'd rather John didn't work. As he'd once told Lestrade, he needed an assistant.
Sherlock strolls in, nose in the air. There's a little huddle of people sitting in the waiting area. His eyes flick over them, analysing.
Hungover. Common cold. Pregnant with the child of her partner's best friend, but thinks she has a virus. Honestly.
He makes his way over to the reception. The woman sitting there has only had three hours sleep at maximum, and she's yawning, and nodding slightly, as she surveys the waiting area. As Sherlock approaches, she attempts a welcoming smile, which is more of a grimace.
"You always feel like this after a night out," Sherlock tells her. He can understand why people might find his observations unnerving, but her glare is really unwarranted for such a mundane one as that, and he proceeds to the point. "I'm here to see Dr John Watson."
"Do you have an appointment?" she asks, glancing down at the book in front of her. "Name?"
"Sherlock Holmes," he tells her, flashing her a smile. When it becomes apparent that he does not, in fact, have an appointment, it only takes a minute to persuade her to fetch John. He lounges against the hard wood of the desk, and waits.
The woman sighs a little as she gets up, but she does so nonetheless. John appears moments later, looking a little worried.
"What's happened?" he asks, looking at Sherlock in apprehension.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" John's eyes fall on the laptop in Sherlock's grasp, and they narrow very slightly, but he holds his tongue, waiting for Sherlock's explanation.
"I need data, John," he informs him, handing the computer over, and drawing himself up. "On all of Virginia Smith's close relatives – specifically parents, grandparents, and possibly uncles or aunts." He smiles at the shorter man's exasperated expression, and feels a faint surge of excitement run through him as he contemplates his next task. Pale eyes meet the slightly darker, and the smile blossoms into a fully fledged grin, which John returns in spite of himself. "I know you'll do admirably."
He turns and leaves without a backward glance, his mind concentrated fully on the mystery of Virginia Smith, the thus far evasive killer, and that manipulative authority, lurking behind the lights and the glamour of the TV studio.
Sherlock barely registers climbing back into the waiting cab, his subconscious just alert enough to commit the route they take to memory. He's got very strong suspicions as to the identity of the killer, but it would be illogical not to examine every possibility. Jumping to conclusions was dangerous. It was what the police tended to do, which was why innocent people were sentenced so often, or the guilty simply never brought to justice. It was why murders on the news shocked nobody. It was why people died.
It was why he could keep living.
Regardless, Sherlock Holmes was the police force's superior, and as such did not fall into the same traps. They didn't consult amateurs, and he was not about to behave like one.
He pays the driver numbly, and climbs out of the taxi, looking around. It's a very nice part of town, the kind of place that made John blanch at the rent on the flats.
A minute later, Sherlock is standing outside of the door of Virginia Smith. He notes, as he surveys the door, that she hasn't lived here for much more than a few months. The paint on it looks very new, as does the lock, when compared to the other doors. Also, there's faint evidence of heavy objects being hauled across the carpet to this door: wardrobes and shelves and the like – from the scrapings in the weave, and the kind of creases that are only created by dragging heavy furniture. Storing the information for future reference, Sherlock rings the bell. He hears it buzz inside. There's a faint yell, and hurried footsteps. The door is wrenched open.
The first thing Sherlock notices about Virginia Smith is the matching locket to Scarlet, tucked discreetly into the slight V of her shirt. He suspects it's a small rebellion against whoever is controlling her.
She's much the same as the picture John found, although Sherlock notices that the editing rather emphasises the young woman's cheekbones and lips. She's far less conventionally attractive in the flesh, but still possesses the same childlike innocence in her brown eyes. He'd almost believe it, except for the contrasting set of her mouth. The look in her eyes is a defence mechanism, long cultivated by the owner.
She looks him up and down, biting her lip.
"Do I know you?" she asks. Her voice is uncertain.
"I've come to ask you a few questions."
Her brow furrows.
"Oh." She pauses. "Are you from the media?"
She exudes sweetness, Sherlock notes, but she doesn't have the force of character to hold up an entire TV show, single handed. She'd be a passable presenter, but not executive producer. He was right.
"No."
She looks at him in a mixture of confusion and apprehension, licking her lips nervously. Sherlock doesn't stop looking at her, his gaze intense and serious, until she decides to widen the door enough to let him in. He walks in, taking a quick glance around. The door snaps shut, and she appears beside him, beckoning him through an open door just down the hallway.
"Who's this?"
She's led him into what appears to be a large office. It's very light: one whole wall taken up by a huge window. There's a table in the middle of the room, with two chairs beside it. The whole table is strewn with notes and files, and a few photos too. There's a timetable on the wall, with filming hours scrawled onto it, meetings. And, most importantly, at the table sits the source of the voice.
Oh, beautiful.
It's a man in his early fifties. He's slightly rounded, but tall nonetheless, his once fair hair almost completely grey. Sherlock imagines he would be quite intimidating if he stood up; he's about six foot eight, and very strongly built. His eyes are what grab Sherlock's attention, however, a deep brown, crinkled slightly at the sides, but nonetheless a strikingly familiar shape. Relative. And, if he's not mistaken…
"This is my dad," the young woman tells Sherlock breathlessly. Her eyes switch to her father's face, who is looking at her questioningly. "Dad, this is – "
"Sherlock Holmes. It's lovely to finally meet you."
"Me?" The man seems taken aback, and hands a large wad of paperwork to his daughter, who takes her seat next to him, and looks at it. Her eyes don't move though, she's clearly choosing to listen to the conversation in preference to working. Funny, for a young, motivated, powerful executive. "That's my Virginia people want to meet. She's the star here."
He pats his daughter on the shoulder. He's too jovial, too false. It's so obvious.
"Well, I'd imagine a father has a certain influence."
The man raises his eyebrows.
"Nothing significant," he says. "I tend to have step in and stop the wardrobe department dressing her indecently, but other than that…"
He laughs, too loudly.
If anything, Sherlock feels a stab of disappointment that it was this easy. Nonetheless, he recognises that there's one remaining point of debate, and if his suspicions are correct, then this should be fun. He lets a smile crawl onto his lips, and looks at the man across the desk, triumph in his eyes, deliberately provoking him.
"Tell me, Mr Smith, does your daughter know you've murdered the best friend of her lover?"
Silence.
"I think you've misunderstood something, Mr Holmes," the man says, his voice faltering. There's that same false joviality on the surface, but Sherlock can clearly hear the tremors in his voice. Good. He had been right. "My daughter…"
"Has been conducting a secret, lesbian relationship with fifteen year old school girl Scarlet Vlascenko for some time, as you have been aware of. You were informed first by her boyfriend, and upon hearing the information, decided it was too dangerous to allow anyone to possess such knowledge, and killed him, should anything threaten the success of your television programme. You put your daughter under surveillance, so that you would be aware of any person that came across the knowledge. You've killed five people, and tried to pass it off as gang violence. You didn't kill Scarlet, though, in case your daughter became aware of your actions – you knew the girl would be too scared to tell anyone anyway."
There's a stunned silence, in which Virginia looks incredulously at her father, and a pink flush crawls onto her cheeks. He's breathing heavily, Sherlock can visibly see the anger in him building up, like a vast pressure. His face is slowly turning red too, mirroring his daughter's.
"How dare you make such unfounded accusations!" he bellows, standing up, almost tipping the table over in his rage. He's a lot taller than Sherlock, and seizes him by the lapels, so that their faces are almost touching: furious red to unfazed white. The ferocity of the detective's glare seems to prevent him doing anything further.
"I can assure you that these accusations are not unfounded," Sherlock says, calmly quirking an eyebrow. "Would you like me to explain myself?"
"Get. Out."
The taller man drops him, shoving him hard against the wall. Sherlock feels his frame hit the brick with surprising force, hears the plaster crack, and experiences blinding pain in the back of his head. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying hard not to black out. Forcing them open and gritting his teeth, he sees that the father has stormed out, Virginia has followed, and he is alone. The room sways and blurs, he can see grey smoke clouding his vision. It becomes apparent that departure is both vital and near impossible.
He'll never quite remember how he managed to get back to Baker Street: it's a blur of pain and trying not to throw up in the cab, each step he takes an immense effort. Every movement initiates a wave of nausea, and causes London to flicker and lurch.
He manages the stairs, just, but one step into 221B, and everything goes black. He dimly registers an impact with the floor, but then the lump on his head throbs, and he loses consciousness.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The next feeling Sherlock is aware of, is the sensation of cool fingers in his hair, and warm breath fluttering across his face. It's nice, he's surprised to find, if unexpected. It reminds him of a time long gone, when he'd run into the house crying: crying because the other boys had called him names and pushed him over and pulled his hair. It hadn't been fair, he'd only told them what he'd observed: their parent's imminent divorce as obvious to him as if it had been scrawled across their foreheads in their disjointed handwriting. But they'd hit him, hard, pushed him to the floor until his knees dripped blood, pulled his hair until he'd screamed: and he'd run, all the way home into Mummy's arms, crying. She'd held him close, one hand holding his head close to her. He'd felt so safe.
Then, he'd got older, and realised that it didn't matter what people thought. He'd hidden his grazed knees, lied about that lump on his head, and realised that those hugs – once so comforting – were just hugs. He was no safer because of them, it wouldn't make anything better, the effect was psychological, and it wouldn't work on him. He thought he'd deleted those old memories.
"Sherlock?"
A familiar voice brought him back to the present, and he opened his eyes with a start. Not mother. John.
He realised that he was lying down: not where he had fallen, but on his back on the sofa. John's face, which was only a few inches from his own, broke into a small smile as Sherlock opened his eyes. The man radiated an overwhelming air of relief. Sherlock supposed he must have been out cold a few hours – and deep enough to ensure that he did not awake when John had hauled him from the floor by the door to the sofa.
Sherlock vaguely registered that John's hand was still in his hair, his fingers deftly exploring the lump on the back of his head. He gave a yelp of pain and sat up very fast. He wished he hadn't, but didn't want to admit this, so continued sitting there, bolt upright, swaying slightly.
"Ow," he told John, pointedly.
"What the hell happened, Sherlock?" the doctor asks him, leaning back a little, but sounding, if anything, slightly frustrated. How incredibly unfair.
"Wall."
"You banged your head on the wall?"
"No," Sherlock tells him, slightly waspishly. "I was pushed into a wall. There's a difference. Not this wall."
"Not…"
Sherlock glares at him.
"No, not this wall. The wall of Virginia Smith's office, in her house."
He's still sitting up, and his head is killing him, but he's very reluctant to concede defeat. Luckily, John seems to notice this, pushing him gently but firmly back into the sofa. The flicker of annoyance has been swallowed once again by that deep concern.
The remainder of the evening is almost unbearable. Sherlock answers John's questions in monosyllables, until the doctor has apparently gleaned all he wants to know about the case from him, and the room falls silent. Sherlock's head is throbbing still, but the ice John insisted on has helped. He no longer feels faint or sick, so it's an improvement, albeit a small one.
He finds an impending sense of dread building up inside him, for reasons he wouldn't care to share. He's not superstitious: he's well aware that a feeling is just a by-product of an over active imagination, and too much courting with danger, but this is more than just an itch. It's a quiet dread, a dread built not on imagination, but observation and good, logical contemplation.
He looks over at his flatmate. John Watson. Flicking idly through the TV channels, sighing, and settling down into his chair to watch the news. Oblivious John, not considering what Sherlock's dreading, not knowing, not realising. Hell, if he knew, he'd be unbearable: but that isn't why Sherlock doesn't tell him. It was the same when he went to meet Moriarty.
A small voice in his head reminds him that in that instance, things did not turn out favourably for John. Maybe he should warn him.
No. Absolutely not. It would make things a lot worse, for both of them. Sherlock is capable of handling any situation he is thrown into. He's not, after all, unfamiliar with danger, and he should not have to calculate John's reaction into every aspect of his life. It is completely irrational. It doesn't matter.
He doesn't want John to worry.
After all, Sherlock reasons, his flatmate does that enough already, and he is adamant that as a doctor, John would advise against high anxiety levels.