He felt terrible. It was their six-month anniversary, and they had reservations at a very fine restaurant. They had actually dressed and were on their way out the door. And then Lestrade had called.
"I'll go with you," Mary had said cheerfully. "Maybe it'll be an easy case, and we can still make it on time." John looked at his wife, sitting beside him in the taxi, looking absolutely stunning in her new dress with her hair put up just so. He wasn't sure why she put up with him. Six months, they had been married, and since their honeymoon he had not managed to so much as take her out to dinner even once. He sighed.
"Captain! Don't be that way!" she coaxed him. "Your work with Sherlock is important. And it isn't something you can schedule. I knew that when I married you. Actually, I knew that before we ever started seeing each other. It's one of the things that made me want to be with you."
John smiled at her affectionately. "Because you're a masochist?"
She snorted with laughter. "Because you're amazing at what you do. I love watching you work. Captain, believe me, it's a treat to me to get to watch you work at a crime scene." She leant over and kissed him.
The crime scene was in fine, old Georgian home in Highgate, near the cemetery. The knot of police cars and the garish yellow crime scene ribbon looked incongruous in the splendid old neighbourhood. John watched his wife look appreciatively around at the beautiful gardens surrounding the houses up and down the street and marvelled at her ability to see the fun in every situation in which she found herself.
A scandalized Sgt. Donovan met them at the door. "All right, the doc can go in, but what's SHE doing here?" she demanded. "Sherlock don't need groupies egging him on. He's got ego enough without a fan club."
John gritted his teeth angrily, but before either of them could respond, Lestrade appeared behind Donovan and beckoned them in. "Mary! A pleasant surprise! I'm always glad to see you!" he said warmly, putting a friendly arm around her. He turned to John.
"Sorry, mate. I see you're all dressed up for a night on the town," the D. I. said apologetically. "I wouldn't have called, but this has us stumped."
"It's our six-months anniversary," John grumbled, knowing he was being ungracious but feeling ill-used and put-upon. "Where's Sherlock?"
"Upstairs, examining the corpse." Lestrade led the way, talking as he went. "It's a locked-door scenario, mate. The door to the victim's study was locked and bolted from the inside. It's on the second story, and one of the windows is open—but there's no way anyone could have climbed up to it without being seen. The killer would have had to carry a ladder around to get up there. And there's no sign of the murder weapon."
In the study, Sherlock was hovering over the corpse with a magnifying glass while a disgruntled Anderson stood over him with his arms crossed petulantly over his chest.
"John! It's about time you arrived. Come and look at this," Sherlock commanded. He shoved the magnifying glass into John's hand and pointed to the wound in the victim's chest, just above the heart.
John knelt to have a look. "Not a knife. Nor anything metal—there're tiny wood splinters in the wound. Not deep enough to have caused much damage. Poison, I would assume. Fairly fast-acting, but not so quick as to prevent him tearing his shirt open to have a look. I've never seen anything quite like this before."
Sherlock grinned. "I knew you'd agree! Anderson was insisting it was some sort of a screwdriver," he sneered derisively. "I would guess a poisoned dart from a blowpipe, except the dart is nowhere to be found. Also, the victim was obviously standing right in front of the window looking at his assailant at the time—why would he not step away immediately if he saw the killer raise a blowgun to his mouth? It isn't as if one could mistake it for anything else."
"It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of," Anderson scoffed. "We're in London, not the wilds of Africa. Blowguns and poison darts. Nonsense."
John looked over at Mary, standing by Lestrade and looking intensely interested. She had joined them at crime scenes a few times before, obviously fascinated by The Work. Now he wondered why he'd never thought to include her in the investigation. She was certainly far more intelligent and talented than Anderson!
"Mary, come have a look. Tell me what you think," he suggested.
She looked like a child who had just been offered her favourite sweet. "May I?" she asked Lestrade eagerly.
"Of course. I'd value your input," Lestrade smiled. John hid a smirk. Lestrade adored Mary, having all but adopted her as a favoured daughter. She could do pretty much anything she wanted short of murder, and Lestrade would approve whole-heartedly.
"Now, I object!" Anderson complained. "It's bad enough, Watson being here, mucking about with the evidence. At least he's a surgeon. We don't need an inexperienced bloody GP sticking her bloody nose in."
"Watch it, mate," John said darkly. He straightened up from where he'd been crouching by the body, his face threatening. Anderson took a step back warily.
Lestrade quickly stepped between them. "Anderson, you watch your filthy mouth in front of the lady," he scolded. "John is here at my request, and if he wants a second opinion from a qualified physician, he may have it, and you will co-operate, understood?" He turned to Mary and gestured for her to go ahead. She twinkled at him cheerily and dropped to her knees by the victim, new dress and all, and accepted the magnifying glass from John.
"Watson IS the second opinion!" Anderson whined. "Why do we need a third opinion, I'd like to know?" He was ignored.
She was silent for a moment. Then she looked up at John with a sheepish expression. He was puzzled. He was sure he'd never seen that look on her face before. "What is it?" he asked quietly, concerned.
"Captain. I think I know what caused this. I think I'm quite sure I know," she said hesitantly.
Sherlock stepped closer to her. "You've seen a wound like this before?" he inquired curiously.
"Um," she pressed her lips together. "Yes. Actually, I've caused wounds like this before."
The room grew quite still. John noticed Anderson's mouth gaping wide open. Lestrade looked struck by lightning. Sherlock was absolutely delighted.
"Oh, that's marvellous!" the detective murmured, enraptured. "Mary, you have hidden depths I've only suspected!"
Mary looked embarrassed. "Um, well. When I was about ten years old, I lived for a while with my great-uncle. He was quite elderly at the time, but for most of his life he'd been an anthropologist, studying indigenous tribes living on the Amazon River. He'd collected quite a store of artefacts, including primitive weapons. I was . . . really interested in those."
John chuckled. "Of course, you were. Army brat," he said affectionately.
She laughed. "Yeah, well it was a bit more than that, really. Anyway, he had several examples of estolica—that's a sort of small atlatl . . . ." she trailed off, seeing she had lost them all.
Anderson snorted. "She can make up anything she likes, and you lot will just be dazzled, won't you? It's all gibberish!"
Mary looked appealingly at Sherlock. "You must know what I'm talking about. Primitive dart-throwing weapons, like the Incas used, and the Quechua tribe in Ecuador."
Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Of course! I've read of such weapons. You can tie a thread to the butt of the dart so that you can retrieve it quickly and reuse it. It's a fairly close-quarters weapon, not as efficient as a bow and arrow—but more easily concealed. You could carry it around the neighbourhood and no one would notice."
Mary nodded. "Naturally, my uncle didn't let me play with his artefacts, but he did let me examine them. It was quite easy to figure out how to make one from common, household items. I got quite good at shooting darts."
"I'll just bet you were," John chuckled affectionately. "I imagine you were utterly terrifying!"
But Anderson was indignant. "You shot people with darts?" he exclaimed. "What a little hellion!"
"Anderson!" shouted John, Sherlock, and Lestrade in unison. Mary dimpled gratefully. Anderson backed down, holding his hands up placatingly.
"Of course, she shot people with darts," Sherlock huffed impatiently. "Who wouldn't shoot people with darts, given the opportunity?"
"I'm sure she had a good reason." John chortled, not even trying to hide his amusement. It tickled him to picture a ten-year-old Mary ambushing local bullies with her home-made dart thrower.
"At least, I didn't poison the tips," Mary reasoned. "And I only shot people who deserved it. Unfortunately, the school authorities didn't agree with my sentiments. I got in a lot of trouble. My uncle was mortified. Although, he did admit I'd built a decent estolica for someone my age."
Lestrade was choking with suppressed laughter. "Darlin', I would just love to see that. In fact, I need to see that. I need to know if you could really shoot a dart up through that window from the garden below."
Mary nodded. "I know I could. I mean, I could have sixteen years ago. I'm not sure how well I remember it now. I'll try, if you need me to."
John objected. "Can we do this tomorrow? We have a dinner reservation." He looked at his watch. "Well, actually, no we don't; not anymore. Mary, I'm so sorry. This is not how I meant us to spend the evening."
But Mary, he noted with great pride and gratitude, seemed to be truly enjoying herself. Lestrade sent one of his men to the shops to pick up the items she needed, and she quickly fashioned a crude dart-thrower with the joy of a child playing with a new toy. The men crowded around her with rapt interest. Even Anderson was enthralled. John eyed Sherlock with a growing unrest—he hoped the detective was not getting any ideas.
"That's the best I can do right now," Mary said at last.
Sherlock was beside himself. "Go down to the garden, then, and I'll stand in the window where the victim was positioned. Then you can shoot me."
Mary was aghast. "I certainly will not!" she exclaimed. "I mean, it doesn't go in deep, but it's still a puncture wound. I'm not an irresponsible ten-year-old anymore, Sweetheart. And anyway, I make it a policy to only shoot people who deserve to be shot."
Sherlock sighed. "It would give me more accurate data to see how it works first-hand," he argued; but Mary could not be moved. "All right, then, I'll hold up this bolster and you can shoot it," Sherlock conceded. Mary agreed and trotted down the stairs to go out to the garden with her new weapon. John followed, enjoying this new, bloodthirsty side to his wife that he had long suspected but had never seen.
It worked like a dream. Mary stood with the weapon at her side, and those above in the window could see only what looked like an ordinary stick in her hand. Suddenly she raised the estolica and fired in one, smooth motion. The dart flew through the air and into the bolster Sherlock held at chest level, puncturing it, then falling out again, jerked back by the thread tied to the butt. Mary reeled the dart back in quickly.
"Perfect!" Lestrade called down to her. "That was amazing!"
John and Mary looked at each and laughed. "Thanks for letting me help," Mary smiled happily.
"I'm glad you've been entertained, love," John grinned. "But I do want to know, how many chaps did you shoot before you got caught?"
Mary smiled enigmatically. "As many as I wanted to," she smirked.
They headed home at last, tired and satisfied with a job well done.
But they never did get any dinner.