Thank you anonymous reviewers for inspiring me to get off my lazy butt and write. I needed that push. Here is the long awaited chapter 18.
Estella Jean
In the back seat of the sergeant's car, Sherlock began his enthralled explanation of the mysterious letters. His eyes trained on me, reflecting shapes in the blue and a slight orange shine from the sun setting on the horizon behind me. Apparently Amala kept in close contact with her best friend from Punjab and these letters were the complete record of their correspondence.
"Now we have a record of every thought and every movement that Amala made."
Well that was quite convenient. The first victim that we can have a real look into. That would have to lead somewhere. Perhaps it was worth the risk he took when sneaking about, although I'd never give him the acknowledgment.
"Well that was a bit of luck at last," Grady said from the driver's seat, quietly listening to our conversation.
"Brilliant," I told Sherlock with a smile. I turned over one of the letters in my hand and my brow furrowed when I realized I couldn't read it.
"Uh Sherlock, It's in Punjabi," I noted, giving him a confused look.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Well obviously," he replied.
I continued to stare at him oddly. Did he honestly know Punjabi? I know he can speak several different languages but only when the need arises. As long as I had known him, I hadn't seen him speak that language.
"The boy who greeted us at the door was kind enough to lead me to them and explain who they were being sent to," he went on to say.
I was surprised to hear that the small boy was so willingly helpful. Sherlock was only a stranger. Not to mention, he didn't show any sign of understanding us on the porch.
"I thought he couldn't speak english?"
Sherlock began examining the dates on the envelopes with a scrutinizing gaze. He hummed and responded absentmindedly.
"He knows much more than he lets on it seems…"
His blue eyes finished scanning and he looked up at me.
"Look," he said and handed me another envelope, "The date. It was the last one she wrote."
It was in early September. Around the time when the victims were determined to have died.
"It was just before she died," I mumbled.
"Precisely. I think we should translate these right away. It might give us some relevant information before we talk with the fiance. Grady take us to the bookstore," he ordered.
"On my way," Grady responded and started the car.
"Do you think Penelope has a book on the Punjabi language?" I asked.
Sherlock nodded.
"I assume so. I noticed a decent section on foreign language this morning."
"Brilliant," I said again. It seemed our aimlessness was finally acquiring a direction.
...
John finished writing in his journal, racing to complete his entry before the light left him. Sherlock watched curiously in the dim dark blue of the car as John's hand quickly drove across the page.
His forehead wrinkled slightly as a peculiar observation came to him.
He watched John's hand carefully, the motions that he made, and realized that he wrote differently than others. The corner of his mouth tugged up slightly as John formed his words from the bottom of the letter upward instead of from the top to the bottom like most.
Oddly mesmerizing, Sherlock thought as the letters filled the blank space.
John came to the end of his sentence and closed the book. When he looked up he noticed Sherlock's intense gaze. It made the doctor uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and Sherlock turned to the front of the car as if nothing had happened.
"What?" John finally asked to satiate his curiosity.
Sherlock responded without looking at his partner.
"The way you write," he said simply. John looked at him with confusion on his features but remained silent. He tentatively opened his journal but saw nothing unusual with the words on the page.
"Uh…" He mumbled, waiting for further explanation.
"You write backwards John. Not many people do."
John was puzzled by the revelation and quickly scribbled something into the book just in case of the odd chance Sherlock was making it up. He could barely read what he had written because of the lack of light, but he could see that his pencil swirled from down to up.
It made him laugh in surprise.
"That is odd isn't it? How did you even notice? I didn't even notice."
Sherlock smirked and gave a small shrug.
"I always notice, John," he had wanted to say.
By the time they reached Elementary Books, the sun had set leaving them in the crisp cover of night. Grady parked parallel to the curb, beside the golden rectangle of light that filtered through Penelope's shop and imprinted on the pavement. Cresmere was so quiet at night. As soon as the sun went down it shut up within itself, the streets barely populated with stragglers bathed in streetlights, heading to dinner at one of the many restaurants.
"Well," Grady sighed, rubbing his forehead, "Today was rather busy. Thank you for your help. I don't think I could have done that on my own."
"Clearly," Sherlock responded rudely. John gave him a disapproving look and tried to make up for it.
"We are happy to help. When are we meeting tomorrow?"
Grady hummed in thought, then slightly turned in his seat to ask if noon would be a good time.
"Perfect. That will give Sherlock enough time to translate a few of the letters," John agreed with a polite smile.
"See you then," the sergeant said.
The pair left the car and watched it begin to pull away into the dark. It was at that moment, standing on the pavement outside the shop, that John realized just how exhausted he was after the long day of investigating. They had spent half the time just traveling around and even so, they had little to show for it. Tomorrow would be the same way, more routine questions, hysterical loved ones, and unanswered mysteries.
He would give anything to just relax, for Mrs. Hudson to serve him a cup of tea with those delicious little biscuits she sometimes bakes, and his comfortable armchair to rest in. Sadly 221B was many hours away. As Sherlock opened the door to Elementary Books, and the bell chimed, he felt disheartened with homesickness.
At least it's warm in here, he thought positively as the warm air of the bookstore and old book smell rushed to greet them.
In a way it wasn't that much different from 221B, except that it was cleaner. The stench of Sherlock's experiments and abandoned plates of food were absent. The clutter which never seemed to improve despite the hours he spent chastising his partner did not exist here.
Perhaps it isn't too bad, he decided, gazing at the layers of bookshelf units, covered in interesting titles. One could wander for hours discovering new things to read. His thoughts were interrupted when Penelope appeared brightly into view, peeking her head from the curtain of the backroom.
"You're back!" she noted with a grin, "That's great. You could probably use a cup of tea. I just made some. And I have biscuits. Don't worry though, I bought them at the shops."
She gestured for the men to enter and disappeared again.
John struggled to respond to her surprising psychicness.
"How? How did she know that I was thinking that?" He asked Sherlock with astonishment.
Sherlock smirked, "You're easy to read John. I would know."
He smiled at the shorter man.
"I'm going to look for the translation book. Have fun," he told the doctor with an edge of sarcastic amusement.
John wasn't fooled. He knew Sherlock approved of Penelope, even if she was juvenile and overly chipper. He would be soon to join them.
Sherlock strided toward the book aisles and John entered the curtain behind the counter.
It didn't take the consulting detective long to find the book, but the loud giggling coming from the back room made him cringe. He resolved to do his translation in the armchair at the end of the aisle where he would be in silence.
Time passed. He was halfway through the last letter, attempting to piece together the odd conversation with only the words written by Amala's friend. He was intermittently interrupted by John and Penelope with the occasional laugh or exclamation.
It wasn't so much the noise that made him lose his concentration. It was the thoughts that weaseled their way into his mind, accompanying the noises.
Amala was struggling with her classes as far as can be deciphered from her friend's writing.
"Oh John," Penelope laughed lightheartedly.
Sherlock felt his eye twitch. He struggled to focus on the words on the page in front of him. He shifted in the seat.
That must be...where was I? So frustrating! They know I'm trying to focus. Here I was.
"Are you sure you are making…"
His thoughts wandered effortlessly from his task. His calculating eyes narrowing on the curtain to the back room. He tried to shake the feeling he noticed creeping up inside him. His eyes returned indignantly to the translation book.
I suppose a man would find Penelope attractive. Her face has nice symmetry.
He shook the thought away and returned to searching for the words in the translation book.
"No, not like that Penny," John's amused voice floated to his ears. Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh.
That stupid nickname. Penny. What made him come up with that? Nicknames are purposeless anyways. It makes her seem even more like a child.
He cleared his throat and found the words he was looking for.
'Decision'
'Best'
"Are you sure you are making the decision that is best?"
What decision? About her family, career, or fiance? My bet would be on the fiance…
His thoughts wandered back to John.
Would John find her attractive?, he couldn't help but wonder.
That would be ridiculous! He barely knows her and she is so young, barely legal. John's an old man compared to her. It would never work. Yes, most definitely fiance. There's the word right there.
"What about your fiancé?"
She was making a decision that would impact her relationship with him...but what was it?
"He seems perfect for you. He must sincerely love you, but will he want to make a commitment? Will you? If you marry him you can't go back to your family. They will be heartbroken"
That doesn't make sense. Of course he wants to make a commitment. He already proposed. Her father didn't show any sign of worry about the engagement, although that may be due to the fact that she is dead. Still, he only showed admiration for the man she was engaged to. Oh. It's so clear! Why didn't I see it before? There is another man. She is engaged to one but she loves another and was trying to decide which one to be with!
He flipped through the book and scanned the next sentence. However, that specific sentence confused him. He thought perhaps there was an error in the translation but after a double check he saw that it wasn't.
"I am certain that your new friend will be able to help. He sounds wise."
New friend? That is neither the fiancé or the other man. It is a third person in the equation.
"There now you have it Penny...sort of," John's voice broke through.
Sherlock sighed heavily. He furrowed his eyebrows severely in concentration. He growled when he realized he couldn't focus anymore, despite his attempts. He abruptly stood up, causing the translation book to fall to the floor with a thud and all of the letters to flutter to the floor in a haphazard array.
I must tell them to keep quiet. I'll never get this done in time with their outbursts.
Sherlock straightened his suit jacket and strode down the book aisle with his head held high and his eyes squinted critically. When he got to the backroom and John and Penelope's voices had become louder with the proximity, he grabbed the curtain to the doorway and shoved it open. Penelope and John looked up with surprise on their faces. They sat on opposite sides of a coffee table. John had a needle between his fingers with a thin thread inserted in the loop and a scrap of fabric.
"How's it coming Sherlock?" he asked, taking his sudden burst into the room as either a very good sign or a very bad one.
Sherlock looked with shock at the two, trying to figure out that they were up to. Whatever it was, it wasn't the scene he was suspecting.
"About half way. I may have a new lead. You're...sewing?" he asked.
Penelope grinned, "He's teaching me the suture patterns he uses on patients. He's trying to help me learn a new hobby of the week since cooking and origami are going pretty badly."
Sherlock didn't know how to respond. He stood there for an awkward moment.
"Why don't you sit down Sherlock?" John laughed and nodded to the space on the couch beside him. Sherlock attempted to wipe the expression off his face and did as John suggested. He sat uncomfortably stiff.
"How is it now John?" Penelope asked, holding up the fabric.
"Uh," John said as he looked at the terribly stitched line. Not wanting to discourage her, he decided to be considerate about his response.
"It could use just a little work," he replied finally.
Sherlock took one look at the stitch and frowned critically.
"Crooked" he blurted out without reserve. John sighed internally at his partner but Penelope didn't seem to mind the comment.
She shrugged.
"At least he's honest. I'll work on it later. I know I'm going to get it soon," she said positively, smiling at the fabric in her hands. A look of realization came to her features and her eyes widened.
"Oh dear!" she turned to Sherlock, "I never offered you tea!"
"Black, two sugars," he said quickly.
She nodded and went straight to the little desk where the teapot sat and began pouring the drink.
"So what lead did you find?" John asked in a hushed tone, leaning towards Sherlock privately, as soon as the girl had left.
Sherlock leaned forward slightly as well and whispered his findings. He told his partner about the possibility of another man in a relationship with Amala and about the mysterious 'new friend'.
John listened intently and furrowed his brow in thought.
"Strange," he said when his partner had finished.
"Do you think you will be able to identify them if you translate more of the letters?"
"Perhaps," Sherlock said just as Penelope handed him his cup of tea.
Her eyes lit up with excitement when she realized they were talking about the case.
"What letters?" She questioned with curiosity.
Sherlock and John shared a look before John hesitantly replied.
"One of the victims wrote some letters to a friend…" He explained.
Sherlock looked at him with astonishment for telling the truth.
"Oooh! Which one?" She asked instantly.
Sherlock's forehead creased in question.
"How do you know the victims? Their names weren't released to the public yet," he asked.
Penelope looked like a caught child. Her face reddened and her eyes averted. She rubbed her arm nervously.
"Well...I was picking up in your room and I may have accidentally stumbled across something labeled 'case file'. But it was an accident I swear! It just...fell open," she admitted awkwardly.
"Penelope!" John exclaimed but without the expected anger. He seemed mostly disappointed by her snooping.
Sherlock on the other hand mumbled something under his breath in frustration that sounded similar to 'no privacy'.
"Well," John sighed, "I suppose we can't do anything about it. I'm assuming you know everything now."
"Pretty much," she nodded and sat down in her previous seat across from them.
"You should let me help!" She suggested.
Sherlock leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands steepled against his lips. He weighed their options and the possibility they had of arguing against the woman successfully. It was becoming slimmer by the second.
"Please John!" She pouted.
"No! It's dangerous anyways. You can't do what we do Penny. Accidents happen, criminals try to kill us. You don't know what you're asking."
Sherlock was surprised that John's argument was so effective. He sat up straight again when he noticed how quiet Penelope had become. She looked at the ground in a defeated manner.
Sherlock was rather impressed. He never would have considered the 'we care too much to let you do this' route.
Of course John would, he thought, John really does care. His expression is proof.
John's expression was certainly one of worry. Sherlock recognized it because he had seen it directed at him many times. A smile quirked at the edge of his lips as he mulled over the thought.
"Well maybe I can just give you help from here," she suggested.
"What do you mean?" John asked with concern. She smiled joyfully and exclaimed that she would be right back. She disappeared behind the curtain before the men could ask further questions.
"She's ridiculous," Sherlock uttered exhaustively.
"Oh stop it. You like her," John replied with confidence making Sherlock unable to dispute the point.
Penelope returned a few minutes later with the file and immediately began flipping through it. The partners watched her with curiosity as she removed a picture and handed it to them.
Sherlock took the picture and he and John examined it together. It was the wrist of one of the victims, post mortem. Sherlock immediately recognized it. One of the victims had a tattoo on their wrist of a violet flower and a crescent moon, although it was faded due to the saponification.
The consulting detective's eyes flicked back to the woman. She smiled triumphantly at him.
"I know what this tattoo is," she told him.
Sherlock smiled slightly.
"Really?" He asked, his eyes shining.
Penelope nodded, "It's a bar in town."