The zipper tab of John's jacket tapped intermittently at the file folder in his hand as his thigh bounced slightly. He had never known a lift to take so long, but stairs were hardly an option. Sherlock had managed the short walk from 221B to the curb side and likewise the stroll from the street to Scotland Yard without much difficulty, but John felt him leaning slightly now. He was seriously considering reconsidering this venture when the chime finally sounded over his head, drawing his gaze upward for a moment. The doors slid open with a hiss.
"Christ, you look like the walking dead. More than usual, I mean."
Definitely should have stayed home.
"Afternoon, Anderson." Sherlock drawled, his voice smooth as silk. John cleared his throat. It was too late now, he couldn't make any show of trying to escape, he would never live it down. He gripped Sherlock's forearm, determined that if he was going to stumble in front of anyone, it wouldn't be Anderson, and they edged into the suddenly-uncomfortably-small lift with the abrasive forensics expert.
Anderson sipped his coffee loudly. He knew that it was a notion born of cynicism, but John's immediate assumption was that he was doing it on purpose, just to irritate them. He knew by the set of Sherlock's teeth that it was making his head ache. "So really, what is wrong with you?" Anderson demanded. Sherlock pointedly said nothing, his eyes fixed on the door.
John glanced over and felt his mouth constricting involuntarily. Anderson looked more dishevelled than usual, like he hadn't changed his clothes since the day before, and he was busy twisting a kink out of his neck as he stood glaring at Sherlock.
Don't say it, he scolded himself, be the bigger person.
"Sherlock's a bit ill today," he stated flatly.
"Oh, I do hope it's serious," Anderson smirked, "at least then you could move on to better prospects." The lift stopped, dinged softly and Anderson took a step toward the door just as it began to open.
Sherlock, astonishingly, remained silent.
But that was the line, Anderson had crossed it. John couldn't help but smile as he opened his mouth. "How was the doghouse, Anderson?" He inquired, more loudly than was strictly necessary, relishing the look of shock on the man's face as he turned back to regard his unexpected antagonist. "I guess you're wishing you had invested in a more comfortable sofa. By the way, I promise I won't tell anyone that you were hitting on me. I'm sure Sally and Mrs. Anderson would both kill you."
Sherlock's head swivelled like a hawk until he was staring, wide-eyed at John. The smile that crept over his face was the incarnation of amazed, childlike awe, as though John had just revealed himself to be Batman. Had he been a lesser person, Sherlock might have been unable to resist the urge to kiss him full on the mouth. John flicked the case file casually to his head in salute as he brushed past Anderson, only to nearly collide with Sally Donovan as she approached the doors.
She sneered, dark eyes fixed on John, clearly having overheard the whole thing. "What side of whose bed did you wake up on this morning?" She demanded, and he was surprised to hear an air of something like amusement in her voice. She was almost impressed. Almost.
Sherlock cracked, and John couldn't resist joining in, not caring in the least that they both looked like complete idiots, overcome with giggles in the middle of Scotland Yard. At least Sherlock was no longer the only one leaning for support.
Lestrade kept lowering the file to glance across the desk critically as Sherlock laid out his latest theory. John could see from his expression the exact moment when he comprehended the phrase "post-mortem bruising," then "simulated sexual assault" then "alternate source of genetic material," each with increasing confusion. Even after he had heard and dissected Sherlock's spiel he remained silent for a moment, processing.
He raised his eyebrows in John's direction. "You agree with all this?"
John looked to Sherlock. "I trust his analysis." Even if he was recovering from a massive opiate overdose.
"I'm not sure if this is more or less depraved than our original assumption," he sighed, tipping his head back and massaging his temples. "But at least the poor girls didn't suffer as much as we thought. I suppose that's something. So…" he dropped his forearms onto the desk and considered the duo directly, "where do we go from here?"
"Musical instruments." Sherlock had begun explaining this to John in the cab, an attempt at keeping the blank stares and disruptive questions to a minimum.
"Musical instruments?" Lestrade repeated, "Sherlock, plenty of kids play musical instruments, what makes you think that's a motive for murder?"
"It wasn't an immediate connection, but I started to wonder when I saw the third girl's hand. She played a string instrument, something with a bow, she smelled like rosin, but not a violin or a viola, so probably a cello."
"Why not a violin or viola?"
Sherlock leaned forward, shrugged his shoulder out of his coat and pulled his shirt collar away from his neck, revealing a dark, oblong, slightly reddish patch. John could see many years' worth of scarring beneath it. "The violin is a cruel mistress," he sighed, "Anyone who plays avidly would have that mark, no such scars on the third girl, but the first…" He retrieved the photo of the girl from the file and flipped it over for Lestrade to see. "It's hard to see because of the marks from the strangulation, but there's clearly a callous, it's a different texture from the bruising." He tapped the photo and handed it over the desk. "And you don't get that kiss from a grudging hour of practice after school every day, this girl was serious, possibly a prodigy, the cellist as well, her hands were marked from the strings and likewise badly calloused."
"And the violinist's hand," Lestrade remembered suddenly, "her left hand was crushed, none of the others had broken hands." He narrowed his eyes, "hold on, I'm having a moment of brilliance." He dug in his pocket and retrieved his phone, dialling quickly and bringing it to his ear.
Only John heard Sherlock mutter "in a manner of speaking."
"Molly? It's Lestrade. You did the toxicity screening on Mackenzie Wallace, right?" There was a pause as he glanced up at Sherlock. "Yes, erm, yes, he asked after you. Sure. Look, this really isn't the time, do you have the report yet? I know there was a rush put on it. Yes. Excellent, read it to me." There was another pause, and John could see the excitement building in the way he tapped his knee. "That's a prescription sleeping medication, right? Well, comparatively. Yes. Absolutely. Thank you, Molly." He hung up, managing to look positively chuffed in spite of his scowl.
"The first girl was drugged, the other two weren't." Sherlock inferred mechanically, pressing his palms together beneath his chin.
"And it was kind of a botched job, seems like. He only used a few sleeping pills, not a real sedative. She must have snapped back when he smashed her hand." Lestrade was on a roll, or so he thought.
"You're still assuming it was a man." Sherlock said disapprovingly.
Lestrade froze, slightly embarrassed as only Sherlock could make him feel. "Well, yeah, I mean, women don't often commit crimes this violent." He shrugged uncomfortably.
"True, but where would a man have gotten a steady supply of donor semen? Couldn't have been his own, would have been far too easy, even for you lot. So, someone else's necessarily. Awkward conversation in the locker room, I imagine." Sherlock smirked, "It's possible, of course, a gay man with a partner or a desperate man with a teenage son, but the killer wouldn't want to implicate someone close to them. A woman, on the other hand, can go to any sperm bank, fill out a bit of trifling paperwork, and walk out with a year's supply of anonymous genetic material. Funnier questions crop up if a man tries the same thing."
Lestrade nodded meditatively. "Okay, so likely a woman, but at any rate, the killer snatched the first girl, intending to drug her and smash her hand, presumably to… stop her playing violin for some reason? But the assailant couldn't keep the girl sedated, had to kill her, and then had to come up with a blind to throw us off the scent. The red herring worked so well, apparently, that the killer repeated the pattern, murdered a few more young musicians, and now here we are puzzling over it."
"Sound analysis," Sherlock congratulated hollowly.
"Wait," John interrupted, "what about the second girl?" Lestrade looked at him dubiously. "The first was a violinist, the third a cellist, what about the second?"
Sherlock was positively glowing with pride. Maybe John wasn't incurably idiotic after all. "Ah, and there's the sticking point." He lowered all but his index fingers. "Not a pianist, going by the fingers, not a wind instrument, going by the lips, not a string instrument, certainly. That's why I need you." He nodded toward the DI "For this theory to follow through there has to be a connection to music with the second girl, Chloe Franklin. We need to talk to her mother."
Lestrade looked hesitant. "I'm not bothering a grieving mother unless you're sure you're onto something."
"You seemed sure when you were chiming in heroically a moment ago," Sherlock pointed out. John had to stop himself from smiling.
Lestrade sighed. John noticed for the first time how tired he looked. He would be the sort to sit up all night fidgeting. He and John were, in many ways, alike. Men of action. Never comfortable to sit idly and let Sherlock puzzle out the details. Both preferred a foot chase and a gun close at hand.
"I'll call the Franklins, tell them we need to collect a bit more information." He conceded, "But I warn you, Sherlock, behave. These people have been through enough in the last few weeks, they don't need your… cavalier insensitivity."
Sherlock smirked, sensitivity being hardly his primary concern, but he glanced at John's disapproving visage and straightened up in his seat.
"Understood."