A Silent Game
A Silent Find
As the cab pulled up outside 221B, the four of them went inside, Rose letting them through to her en-suit bathroom. She thanked her mother for getting her into the habit of keeping a clean room, having let the habit spread into anything she did.
As she opened the door to her bedroom, Sherlock let his eyes scan everything, wanting to still find out more about his flatmate. He found that her room was incredibly neat and tidy - almost to the military standard that John kept his room. There were a few books dotted around here and there, pencils and coloured pens littering her bed, the sheets having been made that morning.
She lead them over to the bathroom door, opening it to reveal a white painted room, the cabinet above the sink catching their eyes immediately. There was a yellow post it note on it, an arrow pointing downward, writen in the same blue pen. They found a surprise in the sink waiting for them.
"Those are not mine." Rose said, pointing to the old pair of trainers sitting in her sink.
"Shoes." John said, raising an eyebrow to no one in particular.
Sherlock went to go to the sink, mindful of every detail, but Lestrade's words made him pause.
"He's a bomber remember." Sherlock thought for a moment and carried on, Rose having stepped to the side, sitting on the edge of the bath.
The atmosphere was thick with tension as they all awaited Sherlock's deductions on the possibly very dangerous pair of trainers. So they all jumped - even Sherlock - when a phone rang out loudly in the silence. It wasn't any of theirs however.
It was the pink phone.
Sherlock took it out of his pocket, taking off his right glove before doing so, looking at the number. It was blocked. Taking a steadying breath, he answered the call, keeping it on speaker phone, so they could all hear.
"Hello." He said softly.
On the other end of the line they could all make out the heavy and uneven breathing of the caller, which they soon found out was a woman. "H-Hello…sexy." Rose frowned at the words. Sounds like she's crying, she thought worriedly.
"Who is this?" Sherlock asked as the woman sobbed. John looked to Lestrade, who just kept watching Sherlock. Rose had her eyes on the floor, focusing completely on the call.
"I've…sent you…a little puzzle. Just to say hi." The woman said, though it sounded like she didn't quite know what she was saying.
"Who's talking? Why are you crying?" Sherlock asked, trying to get some answers.
The woman just cried a little harder though. "I…I'm not crying, I'm typing." The realisation hit them in a cold wave; a hostage. "And this…s-s-stupid bitch is reading it out."
"The curtain rises." Sherlock muttered, Rose's head snapping up at his words.
"What?" John asked.
"Nothing." Sherlock answered quickly, trying to get back on task. John was persistent though, forgetting they were on the phone to a hostage that was probably being held at gunpoint or something of the sort.
"I've been expecting this for some time." Was all Sherlock said.
Surely not...Rose thought, remembering the scream of the dying cabbie. John looked like he was about to ask something more, but Rose sent him a hard look, shaking her head. He got the hint.
"Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock…or I'm going to be…so…naughty." The woman sobbed a little more before the line cut off.
Sherlock pocketed the phone again, sighing slightly. "Rose, we're going to need an evidence bag for these." He said, putting his glove back on.
"On it." She replied, used to his requests by now, happily complying - if only to get out of the slightly claustrophobic room. It was way too small to fit four people in it.
She darted up the stairs, grabbing a spare evidence bag from the kitchen and ran back down to the waiting men, Sherlock with the shoes in his gloved hands. Slipping them into the bag, he sealed it and took it from her.
At Saint Bart's labs, Rose waited patiently by the door while Sherlock snapped on a pair of latex gloves, starting to examine the shoes. John had just gone to find coffee for them, but came back half an hour later to find Sherlock looking through a microscope, Rose sat on a stool at the end of his table, watching closely as the man worked.
"Sorry it took a while; got a bit lost." He said, handing a still warm cup over to Sherlock, who set it on the table, not looking away from his work. "So, who do you think it was?"
"Hm?" Sherlock asked, not really concentrating. His phone beeped, but he ignored it.
"The woman on the phone - the crying woman." John clarified.
"Oh, she doesn't matter, she's just a hostage. No lead there." Sherlock said, still not looking up. Rose took note of what he said; it was a bit cruel, yes, but at the same time, it was true. There was no use in wasting time on something that would get them no closer to finding the answer; Sherlock had taught her that.
John didn't seem to follow the same track however. He screwed up his face, shaking his head. "For god's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads."
"You're not going to be much use to her." Sherlock said, a slight warning in his voice. He remembered seeing so many police officers and detectives either loose themselves or other people because they cared; it simply wasn't worth it. He made sure Rose understood that soon after they started to work together.
"Are they even trying to trace it - trace the call?" John asked, still worried for the stranger.
Sherlock's phone beeped again. "The bomber's too smart for that." He said to John, then changing who he was talking too, one being nearer than the other. "Rose, pass me my phone."
"If you tell me where it is." She said in reply.
"Jacket." He said, still not looking away.
"You're wearing your jacket." She told him, wondering if he really had not noticed.
But it seemed he had. He just couldn't be bothered to move much. "Yes."
She rolled her eyes and got up from her seat, trying to manoeuvre her way through the arms of the unmoving man, reaching into his jacket pocket carefully, taking out his phone. "Here."
"Check it." He told her.
She sighed slightly and John wondered why she bothered doing all the little things she did for the man. "Text, from your brother."
"Delete it."
She was about to when John spoke up. "You haven't even read it, Sherlock." The doctor wasn't about to let Sherlock do something stupid simply to spite Mycroft.
"The missile plans are out of the country by now. Nothing we can do about it." Sherlock answered.
"Well, Mycroft seems to disagree." John retorted.
"He has text you eight times." Rose chipped in, checking the mans messaged for him.
"Must be important." John said, trying to convince the man.
Sherlock just gave him an obvious look. "Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?" With that he went back to his work again, thinking it was over. Apparently not.
"Dental appointment?" John questioned, frowning slightly.
"Mycroft never texts if he can talk." Sherlock said exasperatedly.
"He texts me…" Rose said lightly, eyebrows slightly raise, eyes scanning the contents of the table.
Sherlock threw her a knowing look, while John just frowned in confusion. "Why…?"
Sherlock cut him off though. "Look, Andrew West stole missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this - why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"
They were silent for a moment, Rose setting his phone back on the table next to its owner.
"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die." John said in a low voice causing a flash of guilt to run through her. Sherlock had other plans however.
"What for?" He asked, turning back to John, eyes as cold as always. "There's hospitals full of people dying, doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"
"Sherlock." Reprimanded Rose quietly, remembering that they had argued only the night before. The damage was done however as John looked away from him, before going out the door. He really wanted to hit Sherlock sometimes.
There was a heavy silence in the air, Rose being the one to break it first. "You really should stop annoying him like that, Sherlock."
He just ignored her though, sitting up a little straighter at the sound of the beeping of the computer, the screen flashing something. "Ah!"
Molly came through the doors then, smiling at them both. "Any luck?"
"Oh, yes!" Sherlock replied with a smile.
Just then another man came in having followed molly. "Oh, sorry, I didn't…"
"Jim, hi! Come in! Come in!" As she spoke, Rose caught something, though she didn't know what it was. Looking over to the new man - supposedly called Jim - she looked him over quickly, deciding not to trust him. There was something not right. Sherlock looked up, gaze flickering between Molly and Jim, but Rose didn't see any mistrust in his eyes. Molly started on introductions. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."
"Ah." He said, walking over to stand by Molly, though his attention was solely on the man working at the desk.
"And, err…Sorry." Molly said, looking over to Rose, pulling an embarrassed face.
Rose just looked Jim in the eyes, still not trusting him. She held out a hand though. "Rose Spencer." She introduced herself, giving him a firm handshake and a tight smile.
"Hi." Her instincts flared and she could have sworn she saw the makings of a smirk, but as soon as she noticed it, it was gone, Jim's attention going back to the man still working. "So, you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" He moved over to circle round to the other side of Sherlock, rubbing his hands as he went.
"Jim works in IT, upstairs." Molly told them. "That's how we met. Office romance." Rose saw what Molly was trying to do - whether it was consciously or subconsciously she didn't know. Jim chuckled at her.
Sherlock looked at Jim for less than a second before turning back to his work. "Gay."
Molly's smile faded instantly, a note of panic in her voice. "Sorry, what?" Rose was watching Jim though, his eyes seeming to shine a little brighter. She really didn't trust him.
Sherlock then remembered that he had to keep Molly happy if he wanted to keep using the labs. Damn it, he thought irritably. "Nothing. Um, hey." He made up on the spot.
"Hey," Replied Jim, knocking over a metal dish as he moved his hands again. "Sorry. Sorry!" He apologised, bending down to pick it up again. Chuckling in a forced fashion, he moved over to Molly again. "I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox. About six-ish?"
Molly brightened again, nodding to him. "Yeah."
"Bye." Jim said, looking at Sherlock rather than Molly.
"Bye." Molly replied, but soon caught on to his behaviour.
"It was nice to meet you." Jim carried on, still looking at Sherlock, who gave no reply, and no intention of doing so.
Rose looked between them, feeling a little protective of her friend. She gave Jim a hard stare again as she spoke for the both of them. "You too."
Jim gave her a look that was meant to look jealous, however there was a dark spark of life in his eyes that chilled her. Feeling a sense of foreboding, she watched carefully as Jim left the room.
Molly soon spoke up. "What so you mean, gay? We're together."
Sherlock looked up to her. "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."
Molly just looked defensive, trying to stay strong. "Two and a half."
"No, three." He said, correcting her correction.
Rose saw the look on her face and though she didn't trust him, Molly did and she seemed quite happy with him. "Sherlock." She warned quietly, the action becoming somewhat of a habit.
"He's not gay!" Molly said loudly, starting to loose it before she caught herself. "Why do you have to spoil…? He's not!"
"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock argued.
This was one explanation Rose did not understand however. "Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" She questioned. "John puts product in his hair." And they all knew John was most definitely not gay.
Sherlock looked over to her, raising an eyebrow. "John washes his hair, there's a difference." He shook his head, counting off his deductions with indications with his hands. "No, no - tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired, clubber's eyes." He looked towards Molly for the last one. "Then there's his underwear."
"His underwear?" Molly asked, both women wondering how he noticed the other mans underwear.
Sherlock nodded. "Visible above the waistline. Very visible. Very particular brand." He turned to retrieve the paper under the dish that had been sent sailing to the floor. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here." He showed Molly the paper, turning back to her. "I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."
Molly looked between Sherlock and Rose, one looking as though they just helped tremendously, the other looking torn between hitting the man and nodding in agreement. In the end Molly just turned and ran out the door, heading to her office to sort things out in her head.
Sherlock just sat there looking quite confused at the woman's reaction. Hearing a loud sigh, he turned to Rose. She was looking at him as though he had done something wrong, but there was a silent agreement in her eyes. "Charming, Sherlock. Well done." She told him sarcastically.
He frowned. "Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"
Rose just sighed and went back to her seat, folding her arms slightly. "No, Sherlock." She sounded defeated, having accepted that it would be her to teach the man yet another lesson in social norms. "That wasn't kind, though I'm still glad you did it." She gave him a small smile to his confused expression.
He just sighed, once again not understanding the woman. Deciding to change the subject, he pushed a shoe over to her. "Go on, then."
She looked at the object suspiciously, then looked up to Sherlock, an eyebrow raised in question.
He just sat back, crossing his arms. "You know what I do. Off you go."
He wanted her to…She didn't even know what to call what the madman did, but she was sure she couldn't do it - at least not yet. "So you can humiliate me?" She asked, though she knew she would do it anyway.
"An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me." He told her. She just snorted in disbelief. He saw she didn't believe him and caught her eyes, holding her gaze. "Really!" Their gazes held for a few seconds more before she gave in.
"Fine!" She picked up the shoe, concentrating on the every little detail. She spoke as she worked, turning the object around in her hands. "They are a pair of trainers." She started off slowly, then started to build a little more confidence in her deductions. "They're very clean. I'd say new but the sole has been worn down quite a bit, so the owner wore them a lot, and even then they'd have to be quite old. So the owner really liked them; kept them clean, wore them a lot. Looks like a retro design."
"Good. What else?" He encouraged her, taking out his phone. She knew he was still listening though.
"Well, from the size and design, I'd say more likely that the owner was male, but not many mature men would wear something like this, more likely choosing a pair of shoes or just plain trainers over something like this." She told him.
"And…" He said, wanting a bit more from her.
"And…" She checked the other shoe quickly, finding something on the inside of the material. "…there's traces of a name inside. Felt tip marker, but its been smudged. Teens are much more likely to write their names on their belongings so they don't get nicked. So the owner was a male in his late teens, going by the size of the things. The bomber probably smudged the name so we had less to go on." She placed the trainer down on the table again, looking back to Sherlock.
"Anything else?" He asked.
"I'm sure there is, but I'm no Holmes." She told him, getting a half smile from him. "So, how bad did I do?"
"No, you did well, Rose. Really well. I mean you missed almost everything of importance, but, you know…" She smirked at his words, placing a trainer into his outstretched hand, waiting to see how the professional did it. She wasn't disappointed.
"The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean. Whitened them where they got discoloured. Changed the laces three…no, four times. Even so, there are tiny traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. The shoes are well worn, more so on the inner side, which means the owner had weak arches. British made, twenty years old." He concluded, picking up his phone.
"Twenty years?" She asked, wondering how he got to that conclusion.
"They're not retro, they're original. Limited edition - two stripes, 1989." He showed her the phone's screen. It showed a brand new pair of trainers, almost identical to the ones they had as evidence, if not for the hazards of time.
"There's still mud on them though, and they look new." She pointed out.
"Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex with London mud overlaying it." He told her.
She glanced at the screen, recognising some of the images. "Pollen?"
He smirked slightly. "Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind." He frowned at the end.
"But if he loved them, he wouldn't just forget them, leave them behind by accident." Rose said, frowning as well. "So, what happened to him?"
Sherlock sighed, looking from the trainers to her and back several times. "Something bad. He wouldn't have left them filthy either. Wouldn't let them go unless he had to. So, teenager with big feet gets…" He trailed off and Rose knew he had remembered something. "Oh!"
"What is it?" She asked.
"Carl Powers." He whispered , whether in reply or simply voicing his thoughts she didn't know.
"Who's that?"
"Carl Powers, Rose." He said, the name sounding less like a name, and more like a code word for something.
"What is it, Sherlock?" She asked, seeing that he was more than just confused or shocked.
"It's where I began." He said simply making her eyes widen a fraction.