I hope all you sexy Brits out there enjoyed your November the 5th.
My heartfelt thanks goes out yet again to Captain Evil for proofing for me yet again. Any mistakes left are mine and not hers and the flying plot monkey's.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked over the top of the divider.
Sherlock looked expectantly at John since he was the one who knew about the supposed "fang master" of London. John gave the address and they spent the majority of the journey in a comfortable silence lost in their own thoughts.
When they reached their destination, the consulting detective's phone pinged signaling an incoming text. Sherlock opened the message and looked quite pleased as he read it over before slipping the mobile back into his coat pocket.
"What was it then?" John asked as he held open the door to the dentist's office for his partner.
The genius strode past him with a nod and answered, "It was Lestrade. Crime scene photos." He didn't offer any more information as they approached the reception desk.
A kind elderly woman looked up at them as they stopped in front of her and welcomed them.
"We're here to see Dr. Jefferies, please. Tell him Dr. Watson would just like a moment of his time if he can spare it," John replied before Sherlock could open his mouth. The woman nodded and quickly went to find the oral surgeon in question.
While they waited, Sherlock took in the reception room, no doubt deducing everything he could about their surroundings. "Well, this certainly doesn't appear to be the working environment of a man known as 'the fang master'," he surmised.
His blogger just shook his head as someone behind them called out, "John Watson! What brings you to my neck of the woods?"
"Donald! How are you?" the doctor greeted with a grin and shook hands with the other medical man. "Looks like business is doing well, yeah?"
The dentist shrugged in a self-depreciating manner and responded, "I can't complain. What brings you here, mate?"
John spared a quick glance at Sherlock before saying, "Umm, we're actually here on official police business, Don. Do you mind if we talk in your office?"
"Of course! Yes," Dr. Jefferies agreed and ushered them down a short, sterile hallway and into a much warmer space filled with books, photographs, and a large mahogany desk. The dentist took his seat behind the desk and motioned for John and Sherlock to take the chairs across from him.
Once they were all comfortable, John gave his fellow doctor a brief description of the murder they had been called to that morning and it was then that Sherlock pulled out his phone and handed it over to the oral surgeon.
"We were wondering if you could take a look at the pictures of the victim and either help us identify him or point us in the direction of another dentist who might do similar work," John finished.
Dr. Jefferies flipped though the photos and pulled a face. "He was one of mine. The name he went by was Dimitri."
"I'm assuming that was chosen and not his given name?" Sherlock pressed, leaning forward eagerly. There was nothing he loved more than getting that next clue.
"You're correct—not his given name," the dentist concurred as he handed the genius back his mobile. "If you give me a moment, I can get you his full name and address... It's a shame, he was a good kid. Only did his work about two months ago." He turned to his computer and started tapping away on the keyboard. Without looking, he reached for a sticky note and a pen and began scribbling down the requested information in a patent doctor's scrawl. "His proper name is Chuck Werthnor and here is his address."
"Thanks, Don—can't tell you how much this helps," John said as he stood up to shake his colleague's hand. Sherlock followed suite and even offered a smile.
"Anything I can do to help," Dr. Jefferies stated and showed his guests out. "Please let me know if there is anything else I can do for you."
John agreed and they were back out on the street in no time.
"Well, at least that was productive," the older man declared as he attempted to flag down a cab.
Sherlock had once again pulled out his mobile and answered, "Indeed," before holding the device up to his ear. "Lestrade—we have a name and an address for you. Have your least irritating officer meet us there."
So once again they found themselves in the back of a taxi, this time headed toward the East End and the flat of their staked vampire. The entire ride over, John contemplated the astronomical amount of money they had just spent in cab fare that morning alone—and it wasn't even noon yet. He sighed internally and sat back against the seat to stare out the window. At least the consulting business was going well and they had more than enough money in their joint account. He also remembered Sherlock saying something about a sizable Holmes trust fund—which was good considering John was no longer practicing medicine in the traditional sense.
Not that John really minded at all—running around London with his mad best friend was much more entertaining than the work he was doing at the surgery when he had left. There were only so many colds and flu jabs he could take before wanting to pull out his hair. There was a reason he had gone into the army after all. He had recently been offered a position at one of the local A&Es, but had yet to give them an answer. While it would afford him the rush and unpredictability of the battlefield, he would be putting in long hours and would have significantly less time to devote to Sherlock and their cases. Wait—did I just say 'less time to devote to Sherlock'?! he thought and then realized that was precisely the phrasing his mind had supplied. God, I'm so far gone! I'm pathetic.
"If you're thinking about the money situation again, I hope you're aware that there is no need to worry. Business is going well and I have more than enough in my inheritance to sustain us for quite some time," Sherlock reminded him, reading his thoughts.
The doctor sighed and continued to stare blankly out the window. "It's not just about the money."
"What then? Was it the cemetery? I know how you feel about them, but you didn't seem that bothered by it this morning," the genius concluded.
"No, not that. It's just—you know what, never mind."
Sherlock observed his companion with a keen eye and it dawned on him. "This has to do with the other night, doesn't it? Your drunken confession as it were."
The detective watched his blogger's jaw tighten in his reflection in the glass. "I was merely drunk. I have no idea what I said and you can't hold that over my head, so can you please just drop it? It's really of no concern one way or another."
"You've never been one to run from things and I refuse to let this be the one time that you do," the younger man snarled dangerously, catching John off guard by the ferocity in his voice. "Clearly something is bothering you, and whatever it is will surely start to effect your work—therefore it is very much my concern. So do not think for a second, John, that this discussion is over."
The older man snapped his head around to look at his best friend, but Sherlock was clearly done with the conversation at the moment since they had just arrived at Chuck Werthnor's flat. The consulting detective threw a wad of bills at the driver before sliding out with all the lithe grace of a jungle cat.
Dimmock was waiting for them at the door to the building, standing about with a bored posture. He gave John a half-hearted salute as they approached and pulled out a set of keys from his pocket.
"Mike! What do we owe the pleasure?" the doctor asked. "How were you lucky enough to draw this task?"
"It seems everyone else was busy so I got the job, not that I wasn't busy with my own stuff," the DI answered with no small hint acid behind his words.
Sherlock, as usual, was oblivious to it and as soon as the door was unlocked, he waltzed in without a word to his companions. He started flitting about the small flat as soon as he was inside, taking in everything there was about the victim's life. Dimmock and John followed behind at a much slower pace.
"Well, seems like he was a bit of a dark soul," Michael stated as he looked around the sitting room, which was painted black. There were cheap brass candelabras set around the room with candlesticks that melted down, and were in various stages of use. All the furniture was upholstered in a deep burgundy velvet that definitely had seen better days—probably well over a decade ago. When they glanced in the closet, they found it filled with very little regular clothing and many more outfits like the one they had found on the body. The rest was nothing but black jeans and shirts.
"This is taking the vampire thing a bit far, don't you think?" John wondered aloud as he rifled through the papers on the small desk in the corner. The only answer he received was Sherlock's hum of ascension.
He was about to give up on searching through the disorganized files when he unearthed a bright orange flyer beneath all the mess. "Hey—look at this!" the doctor called out to his partner. "I think this might have been where our victim had been going last night…"
Sherlock stepped up behind him to read over his shoulder.
Haunted Hotel Halloween Party
Come as your Alter Ego
The festivities begin at 8pm.
It will be a night to DIE for…
"I'm guessing that this is where Dimitri—or rather, Chuck—was going last night," John declared, turning his head slightly to look at his flat mate.
Still regarding the flyer, Sherlock replied, "I think you're right…at what would you say was the time of death?"
"I'd say…around two this morning," his blogger supplied. "So it's highly likely that he made it to the party. Perhaps the killer met him there?"
"Highly possible, yes," the genius agreed.
"Do you think we should take a trip out to this place?" John asked as he pointed to the address on the bottom of the flyer.
"No—I don't think that's necessary. Besides, I've been out to this mansion before. It's actually condemned. I'm honestly surprised it's still standing," Sherlock answered.
"So this just tells us where's he's been but nothing really of use."
"Essentially, yes."
"Maybe if we found who else was at the party that could help narrow it down— maybe someone saw him leave with someone?" the doctor suggested.
With a shake of his head, the detective responded, "I doubt anyone is still there at the moment and we really have no way to find the other people who partake of this fetish."
"Well, maybe this is something," Dimmock, who had been silent up until this point, spoke up. He was sitting at the small kitchen table with the victim's laptop open in front of him. "Seems to be the last thing in his browser history—it's a link to a vampire coven…guess that's what they call themselves…there's a meeting tonight supposedly but there's no address given. Seems you need to know someone to get in."
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John and asked, "Still know that girlfriend?"
"Ha! No—haven't talked to her in years. That was before I was deployed," John told him.
"Well, either way I've sent the link to Greg—maybe he can figure something out," Dimmock said.
"We might as well leave—there's nothing more to be gained here," the genius told them.
The DI bagged the computer as evidence as well as the party flyer before they all exited the flat together about ten minutes later. John squinted against the brightness of the daylight as they stepped back out onto the street. It seemed like an entirely different world compared to the darkness of the flat.
Only seconds later, Sherlock's mobile rang. "Ah, Lestrade! Already been over the information Dimmock sent you?"
"Hey, Sherlock. Yeah, I have. And I'd like you to come down to the Yard. There's someone I know who can help us out with getting into this cult," Greg advised. "I've just phoned him and he should be here shortly."
"Excellent! John and I will head there in a moment." And with that, he hung up.
At the doctor's inquisitive expression, Sherlock explained, "Lestrade's found someone who can help. He needs us to come in."
"I can give you a ride to the station," Michael offered. "I just need to stop off somewhere first to follow up on a lead to another case."
The genius was about to decline, seeing how he absolutely hated riding in the back of a panda car—it brought back too many memories of a time when he was ruled by the drugs he had fallen slave to. But the expression on John's face said enough to convince him that he needed to put his discomfort aside and take the proffered ride. He knew that his blogger was concerned about their money situation—which was completely unnecessary—but Sherlock didn't wish to get into another domestic about their finances. So instead of spending the extra cash to be comfortable, this one time he sucked up his pride and took the offered ride.
Good news! The next chapter is done! I just have to reread it to make sure its fit for public consumption. You will have it shortly, I promise :)