"Charlie's family are pretty cut up about it, as you'd expect," Lestrade told Sherlock as they walked up the Welsborough driveway, "so go easy on them, yeah?"
John's phones rang just as Sherlock answered Lestrade "You know me."
At the same time, John had answered Mary's video called on John's phone, and she called as she carried Rosie on her hip: "Hey, hello."
"Yeah. Got them, don't worry." John informed Mary. "Pampers, the cream you can't get from Boots."
"Yeah, never mind about that." Mary answered impatiently. "Where are you now? At the dead boy's house?"
"Yeah." John said, while Sherlock glanced over with disinterest.
"And what does he think?" Mary asked curiously, nodding on screen to where she could just see Sherlock's outline. "Any theories?"
"Well, I texted you the details." John replied, and Mary answered impatiently: "Yeah, two different types of vinyl."
Sherlock abruptly took the phone from her, ignoring as John protested, to ask: "How do you know about that?"
"What, the different types of vinyl?" Mary laughed. "Oh you'd be amazed at what a receptionist picks up." She stage-whispered: "They know everything!"
"Solved it, then?" Sherlock questioned as Mary cooed at Rosie, and Mary answered with a smile: "I'm working on it."
"Oh, Mary, motherhood's slowing you down." Sherlock commented, and Mary sniped back teasingly: "Pig!"
"Keep trying, Marie's already worked it out." Sherlock replied, ignoring both Lestrade and John's shocked expressions as he handed John's phone back to him.
Lestrade hurried after him as they stepped through the Welsborough's front doorway, and Mary asked John as he caught up as well: "So, what about it, then? What, an empty car that suddenly has a week-old corpse in it? And what are you going to call this one?"
"Oh, the, uh, 'the Ghost Driver'." John answered, and Sherlock turned in exasperation.
"Don't give it a title." He complained, and John countered: "People like the titles."
"I hate the titles." Sherlock retorted, and John hissed back: "Give the people what they want."
"No, never do that - people are stupid." Sherlock answered flatly, and Mary objected over John's phone: "Uh, some people."
"All people are stupid." Sherlock retorted, and Mary pointed out: "Marie?"
"She's not people." He replied, and Mary raised a brow as she indicated herself.
"…Most people are stupid." Sherlock conceded, and Lestrade asked: "What did you mean, Marie's figured this out already? It's bizarre enough, isn't it?
He gestured to the closed living room door, and Sherlock just gave Lestrade a look, before he turned and headed towards the living room door. The other two followed, John hanging up on Mary, and Sherlock managed to school his features into professional sympathy as he walked into the living room, greeting: "Mr. and Mrs. Welsborough."
The couple stood from their sofa at his arrival, and John and Lestrade followed Sherlock inside as the Detective continued: "I really am most terribly sorry to hear about your daughter-"
"Son." John quickly interjected under his breath, and Sherlock swiftly corrected: "Son."
Lestrade introduced to the couple: "Mr. and Mrs. Welsborough, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"Thank you very much for coming." Mr. Welsborough said hoarsely. "We've heard a great deal about you. If anyone can throw any light into this darkness, surely it will be you."
"Well, I believe that I- " Sherlock abruptly broke off as he caught sight of something in the corner of his eye, and he finished absently as he turned to stare at a display table on the far side of the room, under the living room window: "…Can."
Vaguely he heard Mr. Welsborough begin: "But Charlie was our whole world, Mr. Holmes. I..."
Sherlock ignored everything, focusing on the display table – something wasn't right about it, something about the arrangement of the objects on it. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the displayed items, cataloguing each with a slight frown as he tried to figure out what error his mind had absently caught.
"Sherlock?" John asked, noticing Sherlock's preoccupation, and Mr. Welsborough blinked.
"Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Welsborough asked, and Sherlock answered quickly, breaking from his concentration: "Sorry, you were saying?"
"Well," Mr. Welsborough repeated, hugging his heartbroken wife, "Charlie was our whole world, Mr. Holmes. I... I don't think we'll ever get over this."
"No. Shouldn't think so." Sherlock answered a little flatly.
His eyes had drifted back to the table, while Mr. Welsborough paused, taken aback by Sherlock's bluntness, but Sherlock didn't care as he said: "So sorry, will you excuse me a moment? I just..."
He walked slowly over to the table, eyes narrowed, while the others all blinked and glanced at each other.
"I'll... I'll just," John murmured to the Welsborough's "um... Ahem."
He walked over to Sherlock, who was staring at the table of Margaret Thatcher memorabilia, and whispered: "Now, what's wrong?"
"Not sure, Just..." Sherlock murmured back, absorbed in examining the table. "By the pricking of my thumbs."
"Seriously?" John scoffed, staring at his friend. "You?"
"Intuitions are not to be ignored, John." Sherlock retorted in an undertone. "They represent data processed too fast for the conscious mind to comprehend."
He turned back to the Welsborough's as he asked: "What is this?"
He gestured at the table, and a startled Mr. Welsborough answered: "Oh, it's a sort of shrine, I suppose, really."
He walked over, standing beside Sherlock as he explained: "Bit of a fan of Mrs. T. A big hero of mine when I was getting started."
"Right, yes." Sherlock said, smiling politely as he pulled out his small, portable magnifying glass. He examined the table, noting the marks in the centre, and then looking at the other figurines and photographs.
"Who?" He asked after a pause, turning to Mr. Welsborough, who asked blankly: "What?"
"Who...? Who was this?" Sherlock asked, gesturing at the table, and John's mouth dropped slightly while Mr. Welsborough asked incredulously: "Are you serious?"
"Sherlock..." John warned, and Mr. Welsborough said in disbelief: "It's... It's Margaret Thatcher, the first female Prime Minister of this country."
"Right." Sherlock muttered as he looked back at the table while John frowned.
"Prime Minister?" Sherlock asked this time, and Mr. Welsborough answered, looking at Sherlock curiously: "Leader of the Government."
"Right." Sherlock murmured, turning back to the table. "…Female?"
"For God's sake!" John said in exasperation as Mr. Welsborough frowned. "You know perfectly well who she is."
As Mr. Welsborough walked back to his wife, John asked quietly: "Why are you playing for time?"
"It's the gap." Sherlock whispered back as he gestured at the large empty space in the middle of the table. "Look at the gap. It's wrong. Everything else is perfectly ordered, managed. The whole thing's verging on OCD."
He glanced back at the Welsborough as he added in a louder voice: "My respects. This figurine," he pointed at it, "is routinely repositioned after the cleaner's been in, this picture is straightened every day, yet this ugly gap remains."
He pointed at the gap in the middle of the table as he continued: "Something's missing from here, but only recently."
"Yes, a, a..." Mr. Welsborough began, as Sherlock leaned in to closely examine the markings on the table in the middle, right around the gap.
"Plaster bust." Sherlock finished with Mr. Welsborough, who frowned in confusion, while his wife exploded: "Oh, for God's sake! It got broken. What the hell has this got to do with Charlie?"
Sherlock however, cocked his head and clicked his fingers as he announced: "Rug!"
He pointed at said item on the floor, looking back at the Welsbouoruhg's while Mrs. Welsborough asked in confusion: "What?"
"Well, how could it get broken?" Sherlock pointed out. "The only place for it to fall is the floor," he pointed again, "and there is a big thick rug."
"Does it matter?" Mrs. Welsborough demanded, impatient and angry, and John interjected soothingly: "Mrs. Welsborough, my apologies. It is worth letting him do this."
"Is your friend quite mad?" Mrs. Welsborough asked sharply, and John replied: "No, he's an arsehole, but it's an easy mistake."
"Look, no, we had a break-in," Mr. Welsborough said impatiently, "some little bastard smashed it to bits. We found the remains out there in the porch."
"The porch where we came in?" Sherlock questioned, but Mr. Welsborough continued over him: "How anybody could hate her so much they'd go to the trouble of smashing her likeness..."
He scoffed, but Sherlock shrugged as he answered calmly: "I'm no expert, but, uh, possibly her face."
John closed his eyes in annoyance, but Sherlock didn't see as he stared at the table, wondering: "Why didn't he smash all the others? Perfect opportunity, and look at that one," he pointed at a picture in a small frame, "she's clearly smiling in that one."
"Oh, Inspector, this is clearly a waste of time." Mrs. Welsborough stated. "And if there's nothing-"
"I know what happened to your son." Sherlock interrupted, and instantly the Welsboroughs were looking at him fixedly.
"You do?" Mrs. Welsborough asked with wide eyes, and Lestrade stared while Sherlock replied flatly: "It's quite simple, superficial, to be blunt."
He paused as he remembered Marie's words to be kind, and he said in a slightly gentler tone: "But first, tell me, the night of the break-in, this room was in darkness?"
He gestured around the living room, and Mr. Welsborough replied confusedly: "Well, yes."
"And the porch where it was smashed," Sherlock continued, "I noticed the motion sensor was damaged, so I assume it's permanently lit."
"How did you notice that?" Lestrade asked, surprised, and Sherlock retorted: "I lack the arrogance to ignore details. I'm not the police."
Lestrade's brows furrowed, while John piped up: "So you're saying he smashed it where he could see it."
"Exactly." Sherlock answered, and John questioned: "Why?"
"Don't know." Sherlock replied with a shrug. "Wouldn't be fun if I knew."
"Mr. Holmes, please!" Mrs. Welsborough begged, and Sherlock barely restrained his sigh.
Picturing his own son, he endeavoured to be calm and gentle as he turned back to the Welsboroughs and explained softly: "It was your 50th birthday, Mr Welsborough, of course you were disappointed that your son hadn't made it back from his gap year. After all, he was in Tibet."
"Yes." Mr. Welsborough answered, uncomprehending where this was going, when Sherlock corrected quietly: "No."
John also glanced at Sherlock, waiting, as Mr. Welsborough repeated in confusion: "No?"
Sherlock explained: "The first part of your conversation was, in fact, pre-recorded video. Easily arranged."
Mr. Welsborough blinked, remembering the Skype call that he'd received, and Sherlock continued: "The trick was meant to be a surprise."
"A trick?" Mr. Welsborough repeated incredulously, but Sherlock replied firmly: "Obviously. There were two types of vinyl in the burnt-out remains of the car."
Mr. Welsborough thought back to his son's odd request to come to the car to take a picture, while Sherlock explained: "One, the actual passenger seat, the other, a good copy. Well, good enough. Effectively a costume to hide your son in the car seat."
Mrs. Welsborough went into shock while Mr. Welsborough's brows furrowed and he almost pleaded: "You're joking?"
"No, I'm not." Sherlock answered softly. "All he wanted was for you to get close enough to the car so he could spring the surprise."
Sherlock paused, letting them imagine what could have happened, had Charlie's birthday surprise worked.
Charlie sat, waiting, in the driver's seat with the fake seat covered over himself. David Welsborough came out of the house, standing before his son's car and snapping a photo of the Power Ranger on the front.
As soon as he heard the click, Charlie threw off the fake seat, revealing himself, and David's eyes widened in surprise and delight.
"Oh, my God!" He cried, while his son shouted happily: "Surprise!"
"That's when it happened." Sherlock said grimly. "I can't be certain, of course, but I think Charlie must have suffered some sort of a seizure."
He nodded at Mr. Welsborough as he reminded the older man: "You said he'd felt unwell?"
Mr. Welsborough sat back in shock, remembering his son's strange pause in their phone conversation, which Charlie had dismissed lightly as the altitude. Except he hadn't been in Tibet – he'd been ill in his car.
"He died there and then." Sherlock finished softly. "No-one had any cause to go near his car, so there he remained, in the driver's seat, hidden, until the accident. When the two cars were examined, the fake seat had melted in the fire, revealing Charlie, who'd been sitting there, quite dead, for a week."
"Oh, God!" Mrs. Welsborough cried, breaking down into tears while her husband stared at Sherlock in dismay and sorrow.
"Poor kid." Lestrade murmured, hanging his head, and Sherlock said sympathetically: "Really, I'm so sorry. Mr. Welsborough, Mrs. Welsborough."
He walked out with that, and his sympathy for the couple immediately dropped. While he could – somewhat – understand how the loss of their son might feel to them, he scoffed at their inability to realize what had happened, and their failure to see the signs of Charlie's illness beforehand. Who in their right mind sent their child to Tibet for hiking trips, when his son clearly had a poor heart and weak constitution?
'People, that's who.' Sherlock thought as he headed out onto the porch. 'Stupid people, who don't observe.'
Shaking off the thoughts, he focused instead on examining the porch, instantly spotting the small scrape marks on the bottom of one of the pillars. Sherlock leaned in to examine the spot with his magnifying glass.
As John, and then Lestrade walked out behind him, Sherlock stated: "This is where it was smashed."
"That was amazing." Lestrade breathed as he joined them, and Sherlock frowned, asking as he continued to examine the marks: "What?"
"The car, the kid." Lestrade said in awe, and Sherlock dismissed: "Ancient history. Why are you still talking about it?"
"You could be a little more sympathetic." John pointed out, and Sherlock answered: "Why? They should have seen all the signs."
"Arrogant arse." John muttered, before he asked instead: "What's so important about a broken bust of Margaret Thatcher?"
"I can't stand it, never can." Sherlock replied irritably as he raised his head slightly. "There's a loose thread in the world."
"It doesn't mean you have to pull on it." John commented, and Sherlock looked up at his friend as he questioned: "What kind of a life would that be? Besides," he turned to stare into space, "I have the strangest feeling..."
He trailed off, his mind immediately flashing back to Moriarty.
'Miss me?'
Sherlock shook his head, dispelling the thought for now, and he said as he walked towards the waiting cab: "That's mine. You two take a... bus."
"Why?" John scoffed incredulously, but Sherlock answered flatly as he headed to the cab alone: "I need to concentrate, and I don't want to hit you."
He climbed into the cab alone, saying to the driver: "The Mall, please."
As the cab drove off, leaving and irritated and exasperated John and Lestrade, Sherlock whipped out his phone. He paused as his hand hovered over Marie's name, his thumb almost brushing the screen in a caress while his wedding band glinted softly on his ring finger, and he sighed. But pushing aside his personal feelings, he pressed the call button, and waited as it rang.
"Marie," he said when she answered, "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to make it back before bedtime."
*A/N Hi everyone, I'm really sorry but things are starting to look really busy for me. I'll continue to update weekly, but unfortunately, I do not think I can keep uploading two chapters per week on my stories. Sorry, but I hope you understand!
