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John woke up soaked in sweat. It took him several minutes to blink away the sleep that lingered in his eyes and clouded his mind. His breathing slowed down to a normal pace after a conscious effort.
"Ah, God. What an awful dream," he mumbled, rubbing his palm across his face. He willed himself to roll over and winced as the light flooding through his bedroom window assaulted his sensitive pupils. He groaned and threw his blanket over his head.
As he clung to the blanket's comfort, a thought occurred to him to stay in that position for the rest of the day, to forget the gaping faces and clawing hands dragging him into the darkness. That thought didn't last long, however, when he heard Sherlock's violin sing a beautiful tune in the room below. The sweep and glide of the pitch soothed him. He could almost imagine Sherlock's long calculated fingers pulling the bow across the strings, feeling the vibrations as he did so. The music began to grow in intensity and he knew his flatmate was most likely moving in that passionate, dance like motion he often does when the music fills him.
He plays that one when he's happy, or whatever it is that Sherlock feels when he's not brooding. His "theories" music, I suppose.
He felt a gentle smile quirk at the side of his mouth. The next thing he knew, he was padding down the cold wooden stairs towards the source of the solo instrumental. When he reached the bottom floor, he stood in the doorway, watching the consulting detective as he faced the open window and dragged the bow back and forth in delicate angles across the violin, which was only visible against his suit clad shoulder. The song suddenly transitioned to a sweet and tender repose, utterly enchanting. It fluttered up to the ceiling and then slowed down again. Its soft melody settled into the snug room and quietly lost itself in the dust of the morning. Sherlock set the instrument down, the bow in one hand and the violin in the other.
"Goodmorning, John," the man greeted, while still gazing out of the window. John smiled and shook his head.
"Now how-"
"You're never as quiet as you suppose," Sherlock replied to his presumed question, "What was the nightmare about?"
John looked at the back of his head with surprise, unable to understand how Sherlock always seems to know unspoken things about him.
"Before you bother asking I'll explain. Typically it takes you 2 minutes, or less depending if you're running late, to get dressed once you've woken up. This morning you sat on the edge of the bed for a full minute before walking over to the wardrobe. When you did, your footsteps were heavier than usual and you took closer to 5 minutes to get dressed. Once you got to the stairs you leaned against the handrail to steady yourself, something that you never do because it reminds you of when you had your psychosomatic injury. You don't like the dependence, but this morning you needed it because you had a rough night. You got two hours more sleep than your average amount so it's safe to assume you weren't lacking sleep and therefore had a nightmare," Sherlock thought for a moment, "I don't remember you ever having a nightmare before."
John couldn't help but smile gently out of admiration for his friend, who knew as much about him as he knew about himself. It was more than just his normal deductions. He only observed the things he found important, so for some unexplained reason Sherlock found his daily routine significant data to record in his mind. John hadn't even noticed why he avoided handrails or that he avoided them at all, and yet Sherlock sourced the exact reason. John was speechless with amazement.
"Coffee please, John," Sherlock told him while looking at the people navigating the street below.
John blinked, finally coming back to the current moment.
"Oh...yes, of course," he assented distantly, walking into the kitchen to fill the cafetiere with water. The earthy smell of coffee filled the room as it heated. He watched Sherlock set the violin down on the windowsill and plop down in his armchair. He seemed to get lost in thought the longer he sat, mulling over something complex in his mind. John shook away his own thoughts and resolved to find out if the muffins in the fridge were still there from yesterday. He gripped the handle and pulled the door open. He sighed at the contents, and then closed it.
"Sherlock, when did you put this dead body in the fridge?"
"3:00. Or rather it was closer to 3:05," he responded absentmindedly. He eyed the scrabble pieces still littering the carpet, sliding some to the side with his foot. John furrowed his brow and stared at the man. He pointed behind him to the kitchen table, which was cluttered with jars of all sizes, cartons, packages, containers, and loose fruits and vegetables. Everything was pushed to the side to make room for a large microscope and a variety of petri dishes and oddly colored bottles of hard to pronounce substances.
"So did it occur to you at any point that the food you removed needed to be kept cold?" he questioned. Sherlock did not turn around to look at the blond, but instead rapped his fingers against the armrest of the chair, his eyes darting in lost thoughts.
"Ah a perfect time for the mind palace," John mumbled with agitation.
"Well I'm not buying the new groceries," he added assertively. Sherlock continued to rap his fingers against the fabric, his eyes narrowing as he found a particularly interesting train of thought.
"That means you'll have to buy them," John reminded him, "Which means going out in public and, godforbid, interacting with other human beings."
The curly headed man jumped up suddenly, startling John in the process, who was taken aback by how enthusiastic the man was about going to the shops. He leaped from the armchair to the kitchen and flung open the door to the fridge, grinning at the corpse inside with satisfaction. John sighed and gave up on his hopeless cause, deciding to replace the contents of their fridge later that day. In light of his defeat, he considered that he might as well drink the freshly brewed coffee he made for Sherlock and enjoy the comforts of reviewing his case notes in silence.
Sherlock can continue to do whatever it is he's doing to that poor dead person as long as it doesn't interfere with my own peaceful morning.
He brought his notebook over to one of the armchairs and sat down with his coffee in hand. He flipped through the pages, searching for his most recent notes. When he settled on the page titled, "The Case of the Soap People and the Missing Statue", he began to read off the facts.
The victims were killed by cyanide poisoning.
The corpses were tied with jute rope and weighted down in a lake within 18 hours of death.
They were saponified in the lake for six months.
The bodies were removed from the water between 24-36 hours before they examined them (between 9am and 9pm the day before the gallery opening).
DNA testing must be done by dental samples.
Theories: The killer was trying to send a message by putting them on display.
John considered the list for a moment. Sherlock said the biodegradable jute rope is a sign that the killer was inexperienced, yet they knew how to acquire cyanide and more importantly, how to saponify a body. That takes a great deal of knowledge, so perhaps the killer has connections to a coroner or a forensic chemist. He decided that was a decent theory and recorded it, noting to himself to discuss it with Sherlock later. He moved on to the next set of notes.
Meredith Dandurant, the art director, seems to be hiding information from us and the public.
Her main focus is the stolen statue, which is worth a large sum of money.
The statue in question was approximately 7 meters tall and 450 kilograms.
She didn't recognise the victims.
All guests were invited by invite except a certain suspicious person, Bruce Hartford, who is connected to the art industry and had quite a lot of prior knowledge about the artist.
The artist's name was Leo Christanza. This was the first gallery he's worked with and he's been making this collection for two years. Other galleries have shown an interest in him, including the London Art Museum.
Theories: Meredith is withholding information. This is a case of insurance fraud and she paid movers to take the statue to another location (unlikely). Whoever moved the statue must have had experience.
John sipped at his coffee and stretched his arms, letting them rest behind his head. The thought occurred to him that Meredith described the uninvited guest, Bruce Hartford, as suspiciously as possible. Why would she portray him as being so suspicious?
The idea nagged at John until he decided to do some research. He put his coffee down on the desk, sat up straighter, and pulled open his laptop. He typed "Bruce Hartford" into the search bar and clicked search. He sifted through the irrelevant results, a wide array of facebook accounts and linkedin profiles, eventually realizing the need to narrow down his results further. He added, "art" to the search bar and instantly what he was looking for showed up. The Telegraph had an online article which matched his keywords.
"Successful London Art Gallery Undergoes Renovations"
Bruce Hartford, director of the art gallery, Hartford and Brooke, tells us that the renovations starting Tuesday will last for an indefinite amount of time.
"Although we don't know when our doors will reopen, these renovations are necessary for our expansion plans, and when they are finished we know it will better serve our patrons," told reporters after the public announcement. Hartford and Brooke has been one of the highest reviewed art galleries in London for the past 10 years. The renovations scheduled to take place will only improve their ratings. Many will eagerly await their reopening.
John found this bit of information very interesting. The date on the article was from a year prior.
"Hey Sherlock?" he called towards the kitchen. A grunt of response was given.
"I found something interesting here-"
"Working," he interrupted. John knew by his distracted tone that he wasn't intending to be rude but was only absorbed in his current work...whatever it is.
"Alright, i'll tell you later," he told him. He moved on to his next section of notes.
The security system was interfered with the night before the gallery opening at around 11:43.
A power outage caused the security to be down for ten minutes until the generator turned on.
The footprints in the oil outside had their imprinted logos cut off.
They wore second hand shoes in odd sizes.
Theories: The person who cut the power must have had experience as an electrician. The art thieves took extra precautions to stay anonymous, showing they are both clever and most likely well trained. They probably have stolen in the past.
John reached an epiphany and was about to search for something else when a soft knock came to the door of the flat. The doctor went to go open it for the unknown visitor, and was surprised to find Molly standing there awkwardly.
"Oh goodmorning Molly. I thought you would be Lestrade with news," he told her, opening the door wider and letting her pass through. She mumbled a thank you and Sherlock scoffed from the kitchen.
"Lestrade never comes over with news. He's the laziest inspector in London. He'd rather call us an exponential number of times than spend 5 minutes to come over and talk to us face to face."
John laughed, "And you wonder why with that attitude?" he asked, shaking his head.
"So why are you here Molly?" John wondered, "Not that we don't like having you here. It's just unusual."
Typically Sherlock couldn't stand spending much time with her because of her "pathetic and uncomfortable unrequited advances" and her "equally pathetic attempts at postmortem humor". But he only looked mildly annoyed as he adjust his microscope and glanced at John fleetingly before returning his gaze to it.
"Sherlock called me over actually, to help with his experiment," she explained, a proud glint visible in her eyes. That explains how he got a corpse, John thought to himself.
"We are testing tissue samples," she continued, "Sherlock is trying to create an improved PMI mathematical model that calculates the time of death of saponified corpses, taking into account the various conditional factors."
John looked at her blankly. Obviously her explanation went right over his head.
"For the case?" John asked.
"For a research paper" Sherlock responded.
"He really is a genius for coming up with this idea. I mean saponification isn't very common but when it happens time of death can be difficult to determine and in some cases, impossible. This could have solved so many cold cases!"
"Sounds marvelous..." John said as he poured himself another cup of coffee and began to tune her out. Actually it struck him as odd that Molly was working on an experiment with Sherlock when the bodies had just been transferred to her lab last night.
"How are the autopsies coming along?" he asked over the steam of his coffee cup.
"Oh pretty good! I had a night shift working on it. We finished examining two of them and another team took over this morning. Then Sherlock called me and I brought over the equipment he needed. I suppose I had too much energy to sleep and I figured there was no harm in assisting him in the meantime."
More likely, you are too dedicated to say no, he surmised. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes and almost felt upset for the way that Sherlock takes advantage of her feelings for him.
"Well, have fun with your dead body. Let me know when you're finished Sherlock. I have some things about the case I want to talk about with you."
Sherlock responded with another grunt and Molly began unpacking the large bag she brought with her on the kitchen table. As the doctor waited to talk with his partner about the case, he decided to try to relax.
He flipped on the telly and sipped his coffee reverently. He found the channel for the local news and listened to the steady thrum of the newsreader's voice, occasionally interrupted by a comment between Sherlock and Molly about a percentage or measurement, or the classification of a tissue. He glazed over during a boring piece about economics and the dull details relating to a new bill Parliament was currently considering. Then John heard something which caught his attention. He scrambled to turn up the volume and leaned forward to hear better.
"...the high profile guests that attended were horrified when, instead, the ceremony revealed the bodies of 7 women, one of the largest mass murders in a decade. And if that wasn't enough to terrify, the bodies were reportedly "statue like" and similar to the appearance of a bar of soap. Now the case referred to as "the soap people" is gaining widespread attention, and it is even rumored that Internet famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, is working with the detective inspector to solve it. Earlier today, the BBC managed to interview some of the attendees of last night's event."
The screen switched to a clip which must have been filmed earlier of the newsreader, and a large man, sitting opposite each other in leather armchairs.
"I'm here with Augustus Weinfeld, son of Frederick Weinfeld, the oil tycoon and tenth richest man in England. what were you doing at the gallery opening last night?"
"I donate to institutions which I believe have cultural merit to the city of London. I recently donated a collection of art to the V & A. Other contributions I've made include the London Library and the British Museum. On a smaller scale I also donate to academies, charities, and art galleries. I was attending last night to see if this was an institute worthy of my contribution."
"Did the event of last night deter you at all from making that decision?" The newsreader questioned. The man hesitated before responding, still formulating his thoughts.
"Well...the event last night was a tragedy. I'm sorry to see it happen and I'm sure the best inspectors in London are on the case now. However there has been so much attention surrounding these murders and the gallery name and I'm afraid I can't associate myself with that type of attention, especially when the assailant has yet to be named."
Does he think someone at the gallery is involved in the crime? John questioned. Is that the kind of allegation Meredith was referring to? Seeing this, I can hardly blame her for wanting to keep all of the information surrounding the case private. He shook his head at the idea and frowned slightly.
"So you are not contributing to the gallery because you think it will impact your reputation?"
"Precisely."
"Do you think the other contributors and investors will share your view on the matter? What future do you see for the gallery?"
"I can't say what the decisions of another man would be. However I can't imagine that anyone with a known name is taking the gallery into serious consideration anymore, at least until more information about the killer's identity is released. Even then, I still think it will most likely attract the wrong people. The quacks of society, the thrill seekers, and the crime enthusiasts will memorialize it as the site of some modern... Picasso turned Jack the Ripper crime. Its notoriety in the art world will never get its start. "
John couldn't help but think that was incredibly harsh. His sympathies for Ms. Dandurant grew the more he listened to the ridiculous people on the screen, as they ridiculed the gallery and its employees. Finally, past his point of annoyance, he changed the channel to a talk show. He found, to his surprise, that the topic today was in fact the art gallery. Leanne, the show's host was talking with one of the guests that attended the gallery opening the night before. The guest was an older woman, wearing a tacky amount of makeup for her age. She was obviously dressed up for the occasion of being on live TV and was a bit too proud for the tears in her eyes to be believable.
"Thank you for talking with us tonight Barbara. We know how hard it is to talk about traumatic events here and we admire your strength. We support you," the host told her gingerly, taking her hand in hers. The camera zoomed in on the guest as she wiped a tear away.
"Thank you," she whispered emotionally.
"Could you tell the audience and the people at home what happened?"
The emotional woman bent her head to hide her tears and nodded.
"I'll tell you as much as I can remember before... I blacked out. I remember the art gallery director gave a speech and introduced the artist. Then he talked about his art collection for a few minutes. And then they were just about to reveal the statue when…" the woman trailed off, her eyes stuck on something far away. John gave the television a skeptical and censuristic look, watching as the completely ludicrous interview took place in front of him. The host gave the woman a look of pure pity and patted her hand consolingly, which of course the camera zoomed in on.
"Be strong Barbara," she whispered.
"Oh dear lord! C'mon!" John exclaimed, rolling his eyes.
"Then everything got real quiet and still... They were like something from a movie. The skin...it didn't look real. I thought for a brief moment they were statues but they were looking at me with their black eyes, dead eyes. They were bodies! I let out a scream and suddenly everyone was pushing and shoving and crawling over one another. It was awful, awful!" Suddenly the woman broke out in a sob and her over-applied make up smeared across her wrinkled cheeks. They panned a shot of the audience, all of which seemed to eat it up the theatrics. Many of them even had tears in their eyes during the account.
"What do you do after something like that? What can you do?" she asked dramatically. Do people really fall for this act? John wondered.
"Nothing can make up for the horrors I endured. I have nightmares now, and terrible visions of... those dead eyes. The most I can do is take legal action for the emotional damages that the trauma caused."
"The ignorance!" Sherlock's biting voice came from right beside John's ear. He jumped from the startling outburst he had not expected. He must have taken a break from his experiment when he noticed the case was on TV, somehow appearing silently on the other side of the couch. Or maybe he wasn't so silent and John was simply unobservant, something Sherlock often claimed.
"It has only been one night and she is using nightmares as basis for legal action?" Sherlock questioned incredulously. John agreed entirely. It was completely ridiculous.
"Is emotional damage something you can actually file a case for?" he asked with an astonished laugh.
"If you are a victim of abuse, which is completely unrelated to the witness of a murder scene. And did you notice that earlier the newsreader referred to this case as a "mass murder". How could he possibly know if it was a mass murder? For all that has been so far discovered, it could just as easily be a serial murder. And look at the way the newsreader blatantly lead the witness about no longer financing the gallery! What has happened to the media? They don't even bother hiding their factual fallacies and then there's this! What kind of ignorant people allow themselves to be manipulated by this kind of induced synthetic emotional response?" he scoffed, "They are as bad as Americans. There's no way that show will last. The audience is obviously paid and there's only so many lonely, ignorant, women who will find it believable."
Sherlock heard a sniffle behind him and turned to see Molly embarrassingly wipe her tear stained cheeks, and then shuffle into the kitchen again with her head ducked.
"Of course," he said, unsurprised but critical nevertheless. They watched for a few minutes longer, simply out of amusement, but it quickly became too annoying to handle.
"I prefer Graham Norton. Least his guests have more credit to them," John told him.
"No comparison," Sherlock agreed with absolution.
John decided he had had enough of television for the day. Sherlock went back to work with Molly and the doctor returned to his place in front of his laptop. He glanced at his notes, trying to remember what it was he was intending to research. Finally the memory dawned on him. The art thieves were highly experienced, which meant there are most likely other cases in which they've stolen art for the black market or underground buyers. Although it would take quite a bit of searching, he decided he should find out more about those other cases.
Two hours later, John set a stack of papers on the kitchen table, on top of a group of flesh covered petri dishes. Sherlock looked down at them and then up to John.
"Do I have your attention yet?" John asked with some frustration.
"Yes," Sherlock replied with a sigh of annoyance at the interruption. John nodded at the papers and finally Sherlock picked them up to read them. John stood over him and watched as the consulting detective's brow furrowed while he read through the pages.
"What is it?" Molly asked John, the curiosity winning her over.
"A case description for each place the art thieves have robbed in the past. Apparently they are international," John replied, a bit of his pride showing through at discovering such key information.
"Look John! It's always been the same. The power outage, the few minutes before the generator turns on. Look at the countries, Germany, Italy, America, they have expanded too far," Sherlock exclaimed, standing up urgently, his saponification experiment now in the past.
"What do you mean?"
"Criminals have a margin in which they can thrive and recruit more power and interested black market parties, but when they exceed that margin it becomes dangerous. Too many people know about them by now. All you need is to find one person to topple their whole organization," Sherlock paced, his eyes staring at John eagerly. John was confused however and could not follow his train of thought.
"So we find someone from the inside to tell us?..."
"They might not have to be from the inside," Sherlock explained, "They could be anyone in that industry, anyone who has at one point reached out to that group, or someone that the group has had as a connection!"
"So?..." John asked, hoping Sherlock would just get on with telling him what their next plan is.
"The homeless network John."