Hello there! I am ever so sorry for not updating since- *GASP* the tenth, but I've been very very very very busy. On Tuesday I had my Cello Grade 4 exam, so I've been practising for that (I got a merit- *happy dance*), and on Wednesday night I was at a gig. We do this Zip Rock thing at school where you all have to make bands and ours got picked to play at this nightclub. It's not really my scene- I get annoyed at teenagers playing their music too loudly on the bus, let alone having to dance with them. No matter, I'm back safe, without any muggings, though at one moment I thought I was going to be! It doesn't help that I'm the most muggable person in the world- My 'defence mechanism' is yelling "OW!" before anyone touches me, in the hope they'll be frightened away XD With that and Christmas shopping, a horrific Progress Review (I saved my Music Coursework in the wrong place, so sue me. D for effort- I rock.) and general stress, I haven't had much free time. And I'm sorry. I don't know quite why I'm writing such a long AN, I just feel talkative at the moment. It's probably because it's Christmas soon. Anyway, this isn't the greatest ending to the crime in this case, but I'm not the best at thinking of plots. I prefer shameless Sherlock/John scenes :D
P.S Kudos to anyone who recognises the lines I've stolen from Dogma. And sorry if my stable-talk isn't great, I'm not a horse owner. As close as I've got is the riding crop my friend has bought me for Christmas. That didn't look weird AT ALL :D Oh, and just a warning- Sherlock's being very dirty minded for a moment in this chapter. Not that you'll mind, of course.
December 4th
6:00pm
"Six hours," said John absentmindedly, gazing out of the window at a frost covered London. Sherlock too glanced at the world outside. It was as if someone had sprinkled icing sugar all over the top of the grey, polluted streets. Somehow it made the place… beautiful. It covered the dirt and the grime and the filth and the crime, blanketing the city in something innocent and pure. It occurred to him that before he had made friends with John he had never described London in such a sickeningly poetic way. He'd gone soft.
"Sherlock," murmured Lestrade. "I have a theory."
"Do you?" said Sherlock smoothly. "Must you tell it me? It'll probably be wrong."
"Yes," said Lestrade irritably. "I must. Doesn't this Mellor character seem a little… suspicious?"
"What about him?"
"Well, he's having an affair with his secretary," Lestrade said pointedly.
"Must I tell you this again? A bad deed doesn't make a murderer."
"I don't get why you're so quick to defend him."
"I'm not defending him… Is this relevant?"
"You said he was resentful of Blower for bailing him out. Surely that's a motive?"
"A motive for what, exactly? As of yet you have not uncovered any connection between Moriarty and anyone at the club, illegal or otherwise."
"Well…" said Lestrade desperately. "We're looking for one! There has to be one!"
Sherlock's laptop made a small pinging noise. He glanced at the screen. "You're right. There is one. And I've found it out."
"What? Sherlock, what are you talking about?"
"I'll explain to everyone when we're there. I've cracked it," Sherlock's eyes danced, the reflections of the cold artificial lights clearly visible in his pale blue eyes. This was his paradise, his Arcadia, his blissful, rapturous nirvana. That tingle he got at the base of his spine when he solved a case.
9:00pm
"Is this really the most appropriate place, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked testily. It was late in the evening, and the three men were standing at the entrance to the horses' stables. There were five or ten horses in there, all chewing happily on bales of hay.
"I think so, yes." It didn't help that the stables were freezing. The bitter wind would have burnt his skin raw if not for his thick winter coat and warm scarf. The same could not be said for John. He was visibly shivering, his coat not thick enough to protect him from the cold. "John, are you alright?" he asked, surprised to hear a pang of apprehension in his voice.
"Fine," John muttered.
"You're not fine." Without even realising what he was doing, he had strolled over to John and wrapped his own scarf around his neck. His hands ghosted over the tanned skin of John's neck, and Sherlock only realised later that his own trembling was nothing to do with the cold.
"Thanks Sherlock," John said breathily, smiling up at the taller man. Their eyes locked for one moment, and Sherlock realised quite how beautiful John's eyes were. There was a dark chestnut, almost black ring around the edge of the iris. The rest of his eye was a warm tawny colour, flecked with streaks of amber. It reminded Sherlock of the cognac his father used to drink. Unfortunately, he had little time to gawp at John's exquisite features, as the stable door creaked open and in stepped six men.
"I'm glad you could all make it," said Sherlock coolly, nodding curtly to the men. The four executives he had seen earlier were there, along with Anthony Mellor. "I am happy to say there will be no more killings."
The men breathed a sigh of relief. "That's fantastic," said Mellor.
"Indeed," said Sherlock coldly. "Shall I explain? This club breeds Thoroughbred race horses, does it not?"
"Yes," Blower said proudly. "The finest in Britain."
"And how would you know, Mr Blower?" Sherlock fixed him with a piercing stare.
"I, er, well, I-" he stammered, shocked by Sherlock's accusatory gaze.
"You know nothing of horses," he said plainly. "You're in it for the money. Mr Mellor here is the one with the passion for all things equine, am I right?"
"I have a certain level of expertise, yes." Mellor said quietly.
"As I thought." Sherlock stood up and began to pace the large outbuilding. "The packages that have been delivered here are nothing for humans, they are for the horses."
"The horses?" said Blower bemusedly.
At that moment, the rather orange secretary knocked on the barn door with several cups of coffee. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
"Not at all," said Sherlock. "Feel free to stay, Miss Blake. That is your name, Miss Blake, right?"
"Er, yes," she said, looking slightly confused.
"Ok then. Yes, they are for the horses. Under your noses, there has been illegal activity in these stables."
"Preposterous," said Blower. "We'd know. Nothing's been going on here that I haven't known about."
"Oh please," said Sherlock waspishly. "I could fill books with the things you don't know about this place. The things you don't know about the people you surround yourself with."
"Like what?" He snapped back.
"Mr Bernard here?" He pointed at one of the executives. The man trembled slightly under his gaze. The atmosphere suddenly became icy.
"What about Bernard?"
"Last year he cheated on his wife of seventeen years, eight times – twice with prostitutes. He even had sex with her best friend while she was at her garden club meeting and he was supposed to be watching his kids." The man flushed scarlet. The other men gaped at Bernard, shaking their heads disapprovingly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Disgusting," spat one man.
"And you, Mr Newman" said Sherlock quickly, swiveling on the spot to face the man who had just spoken. "You got your girlfriend drunk at last year's Christmas party, and then paid a kid from the stables to have sex with her while she was passed out, just so you could break up with her - guilt free - when she sobbingly confessed the next morning that she cheated on you. She killed herself three months later. You sent flowers to her funeral."
"How did you-" spluttered Newman angrily.
"It's amazing what you can find out if you make a few, well placed phone calls," said Sherlock flatly. "Mr Pereira here disowned his gay son. Mr Turran placed his mother in a third rate nursing home and used the profits from the sale of her house to buy another horse. And you, Mr Blower," Blower flinched when he heard his name. "You have more skeletons in your closet than the rest of these people put together. I can't even say them out loud." Time slowed as Sherlock approached Blower. Every footstep was like a bullet to Blower's chest. He flinched as Sherlock reached him and stooped slightly to meet him. Sherlock whispered something into Blower's ear, and the blood drained from his face. "Your daughter," Sherlock said softly. "You sick bastard." Blower began to well up. Sherlock turned away from them all. He recognized the signs in the men- the deep, burning shame that was blazing inside them. They avoided each others' eyes, desperately ignoring the stinging, scorching guilt within them.
"Sherlock…" said John cautiously. "Are you alright-"
"I don't care what they've done, John," he said quickly. And he meant it too. The frightening knowledge he had just gained about the men around him should have bothered him, but it didn't. That was what worried him. And the fact that he was worrying made him worried. Sherlock Holmes did not worry, worrying meant you were uncertain and Sherlock was never uncertain. "I just want to know the answers. The packages contained some very compromising material."
"What compromising material?" said Lestrade.
"Drugs."
"Drugs?"
"Anabolic Steroids, to be precise. Used in humans for many sporting events, as I'm sure you're aware. It strengthens muscles, and many human athletes use them to get ahead. However, there are huge long term health risks, and using them on Thoroughbred horses is a very bad idea. Thoroughbreds are very susceptible to illness and steroids could well kill them. Any potential buyer would need to know whether or not the horse has been taking such drugs. But these were not intended for a horse that was to be bought by regular buyers. This was meant for horse number 10." He walked quickly towards the paddock where a tall, black stallion was standing. Sherlock patted it gently on the nose. "This is Topthorn. He is training to be a race horse. And he's good, from what I hear. He's a rare breed of horse known as a Lord," Sherlock smirked. "Ten Lords a Leaping."
"Brilliant!" said John excitedly, and Sherlock felt a shudder of longing travel down his spine. John's voice, breathy from the cold, was so damn attractive. He sounded out of breath. It occurred to Sherlock that John would probably sound like that after sex.
"Yes," he said quickly, attempting to hide the strain in his voice. "It was." He opened the door of the paddock, and gestured for the men to come inside. The horse was huge, muscles bulging and towering above the other horses. "This horse has been given Anabolic Steroids, in the hope he'll become faster and stronger than the rest of the horses in its race. As you can see, its muscles are far more developed, but it's putting a strain on his heart. You can hear him panting from here."
"So it was you, Anthony," Blower blurted out suddenly. "You heard him; I don't care about the horses. It must have been you. It has to be."
"Wrong," said Sherlock bluntly. "It wasn't Mr Mellor here. However, he should have noticed the change in the animal's appearance and connected it with the use of drugs. He knew what was going on."
"I-" Mellor stammered. "I- I thought-"
"Then who did inject the damn horse?" Lestrade interjected.
"Miss Blake," Sherlock said simply. The assistant gasped and dropped the cup of coffee she was holding. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh please. Don't play innocent with me. Miss Leticia Blake is your full name, am I right?"
"I don't know anything about horses!" She stuttered. "I swear!"
Sherlock glared coldly at her. "Do not lie." He said firmly. "You were brought up in a wealthy family, and married a Mr. Andrew Blake. He divorced you after you cheated on him several times, and left you with next to nothing. You took a job here, as an assistant, in order to carry out your latest plan. You asked Moriarty to supply you with Anabolic Steroids to give to the horses, in order to breed many champion stallions. Moriarty invested in the horses, and gained money when they won. You took around 40%. Enough to set you up for a while."
"That's a lie!" she protested, but her eyes were hard and steely.
"However, Mr. Mellor realized what was going on. He noticed the change in the horse's appearance and strength, and then confirmed his suspicions when he found the drugs in your possession. You silenced him with sex, Miss Blake. You began an affair with a married man."
"Nothing I've done is illegal," she snarled. "I just wanted my share."
"I'm sure you did. But this is enough to get you fired- and James Moriarty is a dangerous man. I don't imagine he's too happy."
Blake's eyes shimmered with fear. "Please," she said weakly. "Protect me from him."
"There is nothing the police can do," Sherlock said in a bored monotone. "And I won't help. Do you know why? Because of what you have done to this innocent creature." John and Lestrade gazed at Sherlock, disbelieving that a man who shunned emotion could care what happened to a horse. "There is no evil in a horse, except what's been put there by humans. This horse was pure, and you've hurt it. And that I cannot abide."
10:30pm
"You know a lot about horses," John said in an offhand way. They were back at the Baker Street flat. Sherlock was lazily draped over the sofa, humming absentmindedly to himself whilst John sat in the arm chair opposite.
"I was forced to take riding lessons as a child," explained Sherlock. "My mother thought I should have a healthier hobby than playing with a microscope in my room."
John snorted. "I'm guessing that didn't work?"
"Not at all. I was never any good. Mycroft was, of course, much better than me and I left him to it. He was always so cruel with his horse, too. My horse was called Joey. He was a bright red bay, with a black mane and tail. He had a white cross on his forehead and four white socks. They were all even to the last inch, I'm telling you."
John smiled softly. "Did you mean what you said? About horses having no evil in them?"
Sherlock looked puzzled. "Yes. Why?"
John grinned. "Nothing! Just… Some sociopath you are."
Sherlock frowned. "I don't believe in senseless violence to animals."
"But you're fine with abusing dead bodies with a riding crop? I wondered where you got that from."
Sherlock smiled, then a startling image formed in his head. John holding the leather riding crop tightly in his hands. John, beating him senselessly with it, the sting biting against his raw flesh. John moaning Sherlock's name, growling in an animalistic way and Sherlock begging John for more. He wasn't sure how long he had been fantasizing about him and his flat mate doing some very inappropriate things to each other, but by the time he snapped out of it John had made himself a cup of tea and placed another mug next to Sherlock. Sherlock blushed as he realized what he'd been thinking about. For God's sake, he hadn't thought about… that, since he was a teenager. Hadn't been so desperate for sex since he was fifteen years old.
"John?" he asked, his voice weak.
"Yes?"
"I will teach you how… how to seduce Sarah. But on one condition."
"What?"
"Teach me to be human."