The men sat side by side in matching wooden chairs, waiting to hear permission from the secretary to enter the office, while they examined the reception area casually.
Sherlock had already taken note of several things, the location of the office which was a rented space in the central business district, the pale blue walls, and of course, the paintings. They were of a somewhat different style than what was displayed at Meredith's gallery. He couldn't quite place what the distinction was, except that they seemed more dull and less thought provoking in a way. They followed basic concepts of expressionism, so much so that you might even call them conservative.
Dull, Sherlock thought.
John bounced his knee as he glanced over the room, and turned around to see the wall length painting above their chairs. He squinted at the odd shapes, attempting to visualize a coherent image, but eventually gave up with a shake of his head. He didn't seem to notice any difference with the art. To him, Bruce and Meredith both had bizarre tastes. John's definition of art, if he had to have a definition, was some kind of display which could be identifiable. A painting of cathedral windows in the morning sun, or a statue of a historical figure, that was art. These off angles and strange color schemes didn't make sense, didn't have purpose.
"He's ready to see you now," the voice of Bruce's attractive secretary broke their wandering thoughts. John thanked her courteously. The brunette smiled at them as they passed her desk and approached the frosted glass door withBruce Hartfordetched on the surface.
John glanced at Sherlock, and his partner stared back expectantly. John sighed and shook his head, opening the door and holding it open for him as Sherlock obviously wanted. The consulting detective made his grand entrance as usual, curly head held high, strutting his long legs over to the man behind the desk. However, as he crossed over into the room, the alarms in his senses began to go off. His eyes darted everywhere at once.
The bookshelf, he narrowed his eyes, the painting, the desk, the shoes. There's definitely something suspicious here.
John, on the other hand, walked in as any other person would, to address the man they had planned on meeting. Bruce Hartford.
The man resembled the picture on Sherlock's phone very well: tall, strong, distinguished, and intellectually mature. He reclined back comfortably in his chair, with his hands clasped in his lap. His salt and pepper hair was combed smoothly, not a strand out of place. His dark charcoal eyes matched his suit, and were outlined in wrinkles that only complimented his authoritative appearance, as if he were a man that knew everything.
"Good morning, gentlemen. How may I help you?" he asked in the silkiest of voices. He had an American accent, a fact that John had forgotten, and was temporarily taken back by. Sherlock had not, of course, and wasn't surprised to hear it. He smiled politely at the man behind the desk, a smile that only John could identify as fake, and offered him his hand.
"I'm Dr. John Watson," he introduced in a gentle tone as they shook hands firmly. John snapped his head towards his partner and gave him the strangest expression, clearly not understanding what was going on. Sherlock only smiled his posed smile in return.
"And this is Sherlock Holmes, the detective," he said, gesturing to John, "Don't mind him, he's a bit socially awkward."
John continued to look at him as if he were insane, his eyebrows incredibly furrowed and his mouth open slightly in question. Bruce had, apparently, not picked up on the confusion and reached out to shake John's hand.
"Pleasure to meet you Mr. Holmes," he said and John finally turned back to the art director, but without much attention.
"Uh...yes," he nodded and shook his hand flimsily. Sherlock was still smiling at him, telling him with his eyes the plan that he had in mind.
We switch roles so I can observe the surroundings,his blue eyes seemed to explain. John responded with a frustrated expression, we didn't get a chance to discuss this!
Stop complaining John. You know you are better at the preliminaries than me anyways.
The doctor sighed and shook his head at the patterned carpet, Fine, whatever, so bloody stubborn. You know, partnership implies 50/50 decision making. No wonder people call me your PA.
He cleared his throat, preparing himself for his newly assumed role. He became straight faced. His attitude changed into one of disinterest and rudeness. He looked up from the carpet and focused on the prominent man in the gray suit.
"We are just here to ask some important questions regarding a current criminal case at the Galerie de l'art humane. Several bodies were discovered during the grand opening two days ago and our sources tell us that you were in attendance during the event. Please answer quickly and to the point, avoiding irrelevant details. We are busy men trying to catch a criminal so don't waste our time," the doctor told the man arrogantly. Sherlock smirked at John's imitation of him and then took this time to immediately zero in on his task. He slowly took a few steps back to integrate into the background, unnoticed.
Surprisingly, Bruce did not give "Sherlock" a look of despise, as most would. He didn't even appear shocked at the lack of cordialness in his manner. He let out a full laugh and grinned at him.
"I've heard that you are rather bold. You would be an excellent business man! Honestly, I wish there were more of you in this world. Cut straight through the formalities and to the purpose. That's how progress is made. Go on with the questions," he gestured at John to continue. John blinked away his shock once again and tried to quickly come up with something on the top of his head. He noticed the single swivel chair across from the desk and sat down without being invited, setting his shoes on the desk as Sherlock had earlier in Meredith's office. Bruce didn't seem to bat an eye at the gesture.
Meanwhile, Sherlock pretended to stand awkwardly behind his partner. Acting, as he assumed, John typically does in such scenarios. His eyes darted about the room observantly, but he disguised it as idle passivity. His eyes lingered on the bookshelf which had claimed his attention when he first entered the office. The shelves were mostly dusty except for one specific spot near the bottom, where a book had been removed frequently, a particular title that was nearly hidden.
It's Never Too Late: A Book on Financial Revival
John's voice mildly interrupted his thoughts as he questioned Bruce, "Did you, in fact, appear at the Galerie de l'art humane, the night of the opening. Two days ago?"
"Yes, I did," he responded simply. Sherlock glanced at the art director briefly to make sure he hadn't observed his subtle snooping. The man behind the desk was fully invested in John's questions however, so Sherlock proceeded.
His eyes traveled to a painting behind Bruce's desk. His eyes glinted with discovery.
"Uninvited?" John asked accusingly.
"Yes, I came on my own accord," Bruce agreed with a nod.
"Why?" came John's instant response, attempting to be intrusive and interrogative with his delivery.
"Because I was curious about my competition. I was hoping the gallery wouldn't be as well credited as investors were expecting. My own gallery is currently under renovation. I don't want to lose my good title while construction is in its finishing stages," he said honestly, unclasping his hands and raising them from his lap to show how open he was.
Sherlock's eyes traveled downward to the man. He took this time to examine Bruce's suit more carefully.
His jacket is deep charcoal, but his trousers are midnight gray. They are designer but they're not part of a set, because they were bought on discount. His shoes are cheap and scuffed from use, but he doesn't buy a new pair. He thinks he can budget there. He thinks that no one will notice. But who would notice? There are the slightest indents in the carpet where the chair John is sitting in was previously positioned. It's been in that position for a long time because there haven't been any recent appointments. This man has no business. Yet, the furniture in the room is expense. He is trying so very dearly to hide his bankruptcy from the eyes of others.
"I see," John said indifferently, "How long has your gallery been under renovations?"
"A year," Bruce responded, but there was a slight edge to his voice. Both John and Sherlock noticed it.
"That's quite a long time," John stated, implying with his tone.
Bruce sighed, "Yes...if it wasn't for the incompetent workers, it would have been finished nearly six months ago."
His expression suddenly turned darker, as if a shadow passed over his thoughts. His forehead creased, his eyes hardened, and his lips formed a flat line. Sherlock noticed the way the muscles in his hand tensed and twitched with pressure. The man tried to hide them subconsciously under the edge of the desk.
Sherlock observed another peculiarity. It was a small but noticeable mark on the desk, that had caught his attention, and now, it seemed like incredibly vital information.
It was a divet, a deep scar, on the face of the mahogany surface, just on the right side of the desk where Bruce sat, as if he had taken a sharp object and violently dug it in. He had not replaced the table afterwards, perhaps because it was such a pricey piece of furniture, so it remained as a permanent reminder.
Lashes out in fits of anger, Sherlock thought to himself, Perhaps that mark was made in reaction to a very specific trigger. Hm...the loss of his business?
The art director's darkened eyes traced the scratch fleetingly and then the heavy mood was suddenly lifted.
"Any other questions gentlemen?" he asked calmly once again. Something about his smooth voice almost made John shudder. It was too eery, too soft.
"Yes," Sherlock spoke before his partner could. He was much more gentle than usual as he spoke, friendly even, as he imitated John's typical professionalism.
"Do you know Leo Christanza?" Sherlock asked kindly. Bruce blinked.
"The artist? Sadly no, I have never met him," he smiled apologetically. Sherlock gave a fake smile in return.
"Thank you for your time. We will have more questions later when the victims have been identified," Sherlock explained, "Sherlock, we better head to Scotland Yard now."
"Right," John nodded, understanding his meaning. Sherlock made his way to the door and held it open for the doctor. However, his partner didn't know that it wasn't for the sake of a polite gesture, but for the purpose of sending one last glance at the painting above the art director's desk.
…
"Wait, where are we going?" the blonde asked curiously. Instead of calling a cab to go to Scotland Yard, the consulting detective retied his scarf around his neck and began walking the streets briskly. John stuffed his hands in his pockets and kept up with his partner. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought.
"Don't ask questions if you already know the answer John," was Sherlock's only reply.
"Right," John sighed. I suppose if I have to guess, Bruce's art gallery.
John's assumption turned out to be true as he watched Sherlock pull out his phone to check the article on Bruce Hartford's art gallery, searching for the address. As soon as he found it, he slid his phone back into the pocket of his black coat and continued. Ten minutes later, when the mostly glass and steel building came into view, the partners began to slow down their speed.
"That's it," Sherlock told him, nodding to the cubelike structure. They stopped as they reached the front. The large glass windows were covered in semi-transparent tarp from the inside, blocking their view of the interior. On the ornate glass door entrance was a sign, formally describing the process of renovations going on at the location, and an apology for both the closure and the noise. Sherlock gave it a critical look as he examined it.
He listened for a moment and noticed the dead silence, which seemed strange considering it was 10 am on a weekday.
"C'mon John, let's see the back," he told him, with suspicion in his tone. The two men made their way down another street to access the alley behind the gallery.
The alley was wide and mostly empty, yet coincidentally, the loading area at the back of the gallery was blocked off by a series of large industrial sized skips.
"Deadend," John commented, but Sherlock shook his head.
"No. We are going over, this is obviously an intentional barricade. It's odd...not even the construction workers would have access to this entrance."
John laughed, clearly hoping the crazy man wasn't serious.
"Going over? Let me guess, I have to boost you up right?"
"Precisely," Sherlock responded, waiting by the green skip expectantly. John sighed lightly, his shoulders rising, then falling gently in defeat.
He walked to where Sherlock stood, and bent down on one knee, locking his fingers to create a step. Sherlock braced himself by grabbing the doctor's shoulders, and slid his shoe into the support he created. With a grunt, John pushed upward with his arms and his body, allowing Sherlock to grab the edge of the dirty green skip with his right arm, and then with some effort, his left as well. Suddenly, John felt nauseous and disoriented, his arms quivered and gave way, causing him to let go of Sherlock's foot and stumble backwards.
"John!" Sherlock cried, trying to grasp the metal surface with his arms, his chin digging in and his feet dangling without stability beneath them. John hunched over attempting to catch his breath while the consulting detective clambered to push himself up.
His heartbeat sped up. He gritted his teeth with determination and eventually hoisted the upper half of his body over the edge. He wiggled forward until his entire body disappeared over the top. John took in deep breaths and eventually reorientated himself.
"Sherlock are you alright?" he gasped out, "I'm so sorry! I honestly...I don't know what happened."
Sherlock grumbled as he looked down at his friend.
"Fine. I just overestimated your strength apparently. For a military man-" Sherlock started.
"Hey!" John interrupted.
"If I wasn't suffering the aftereffects of being drugged-" He shouted, his face growing red with frustration.
"Stop shouting and get up here," Sherlock commanded. John huffed and got up on the bottom edge of the garbage container, reaching his arms up for Sherlock to grab on to. His partner offered him his hands and he latched on to them. The consulting detective struggled to pull him up.
Finally, both flatmates made it to the top of the skip.
They took a moment to catch their breaths, and then Sherlock jumped down on the other side, John following. The loading area was empty, no equipment, no lorries, no sign of construction taking place. It was not a very surprising fact to learn.
Sherlock's features became critical as he approached the back door of the loading area. He noticed that there was a thin rectangular cut out at the top of the steel door, where a window provided a view in.
"John, I regret to say I need you to lift me up once more," he told the doctor.
"You've got to be kidding me," John muttered but begrudgingly acquiesced, following the same process as before and interlocking his hands. Luckily, he didn't need to raise Sherlock more than a foot so he could briefly peer through the window.
Sherlock looked around the inside of the gallery and immediately learned all he needed to know.
"It's empty," he told John, after he returned to the ground, "He must have taken the art to storage, and there is no sign that construction ever took place. They just emptied it and put up tarps. Our friend Bruce just made the suspect list."