There was Christmas music playing in some distant office- something with a lot of jingle bells and children singing. The sound was small and tinny, coming from a small desk radio that someone had left on when the shots were fired through the seventh-storey window of the hospital. Elliot Hilton's office lay open, cordoned off only with a few strings of white-and-blue police tape down the hall.
"Window was open. Again."
Sherlock was standing as close to Donovan as he could without making his intentions obvious to anyone else. It was making her uncomfortable. She wouldn't look at him in the eye- her apology was almost more despicable than what she was apologising for.
She could almost be forgiven simply because she wasn't the type to feel the need to pull him aside and voice it in words- he liked that about her.
It was the only thing he liked about her.
"The building next door is only six storeys high. They'd have to have an impeccable shot."
"Well it's a good thing we've already established that they do, then, isn't it?"
She glared at him.
"You and Lestrade go over on the rooftop, see what you can find. If it's another envelope with your name on it, I swear to god— just don't open it this time."
"He wouldn't put anthrax in two envelopes, that's boring."
"Well, then it's dirty needles in this one, Jesus. Put your hood up- I don't need this on the news."
It was different- the atmosphere of the crime scenes. Something had happened with the way that Sherlock could just waltz in and have the entire force at his command- he had to run every single thing by Donovan first, which was no small annoyance. Lestrade would, at least, let him do whatever he wanted.
Though that was probably why the former Inspector was seen as little more than the coffee boy to the other officers these days.
Which was where he was now- after a few near-fights in the past Donovan had been forced to order Lestrade out for coffee, just to appease the rest of the team. The rest of the team sat rather smugly in their knowledge that they could boss around the person who implied they were incompetent by bringing in someone who would blatantly tell them that they were.
Instead of acknowledging the fact that all of his actions affect everyone around him, even the smallest insult, Sherlock decided to make it clear that he would blatantly tell all of them that they were incompetent, no matter who was Detective Inspector.
"Jesus, who performed these ballistics reports? Do you bring these worthless pieces of paper to court to defend innocent lives? Or are you asking for a retrial? Not enough courtroom drama on the television?"
Donovan had allowed him the confidential files on the first two cases to compare with the more previous three— secretly, temporarily. He could not take them home, he could not take pictures. . He wasn't happy that she didn't give them all of them.
She was even less happy that she'd offered to bring him here in the first place.
The woman snatched the files from his hands-
"Listen, if you're just here to insult us-"
"Of course I'm not just here to insult you, I'm here to gather the data that I've been withheld from for months- data you're still withholding from me-"
"- We're withholding it from you because you don't need it! You're not qualified, you're not even supposed to have these-"
Their arguments never carried louder than a harsh whisper.
"- If I'm not qualified-"
"- Yes, then you can just leave! Please, do!"
He straightened up. Pushed the papers into her chest.
"Fine."
He spun on his heel, getting as far as the door before Lestrade stopped him.
"Sherlock."
Instead of trying to push away from the man— shorter, but bigger, more physically present, and altogether friendly— Sherlock gave a sigh to indicate his disapproval. All the same, he stopped, turned to face him.
"Lestrade, if you want to apologise for Donovan's actions, the motion is appreciated but worthless."
The older man shook his head, almost in disbelief.
"No, you— No."
He ran a hand through his hair— it had looked silver before, shone in contrast to his tanned skin, but in the past few months and especially in the winter it was an unmistakable grey.
"Donovan hasn't done anything to you, except do you a huge favour. Sherlock, you need to be careful. She's taking a huge risk, having you back here."
"Really? Because it seems the bigger risk would lie in your entire police force dancing around the obvious fact that Moriarty is behind all of the murders, and that the murderer is a very talented sniper. Seeing as all anyone around here wants to do is deny these facts, I seem to be the best choice."
He looked down at Lestrade, glaring at him. It was extremely difficult when the man was giving him that familiar look— the one he'd seen countless times when the drugs busts had actually been needed. Greg cared, and unlike any of the other people who had cared about him before, he didn't mind letting it be known.
Sherlock would not back down, though, and someone had to give.
Greg sighed.
"That's why you're here, because you are the best choice. Even after everything that's happened, she still has to admit that you're the only way we're going to be able to prove any of this. But you have to make this easy on her— well, easier. It's not easy at all, hiding you from the rest of the Met."
Sherlock opened his mouth— whatever it was he was about to say, he decided against it. He took a step back. Lestrade looked thankful for it. He continued—
"Listen— I'll see if I could get some of the old cases out for you. I'm not promising anything, but I'll try."
Sherlock tried to smile. It came out lopsided and too small, more like the one he used when he wanted to seem pleasantly surprised. It was useless, he supposed, to put any sort of smile on in front of Lestrade— the other man just quirked an eyebrow, opened his mouth as if to ask if he was all right.
And Sherlock couldn't have that.
"I'm going home now. Text me the details."
He was crouching under a porch, shining his light into the dark when his phone started ringing.
He scowled- it was Donovan, of course. He didn't need to check to know that- she was the only one that called him.
Another ring in his pocket.
"Sherlock Holm-"
"If I didn't know your damn name, I wouldn't call you, now, would I?"
Donovan's phone- but it was Lestrade. She was driving. Probably quickly.
"Are you busy?"
Sherlock scowled.
"Of course I'm busy, you sent me to Fulham. I suppose you don't remember?"
"Stop being a smart arse and get to Kensington."
He stopped- stood quickly enough to feel dizzy. That didn't stop him from whirling on the balls of his feet and taking long steps across the pavement to get to the main road.
"There's been another murder."
He didn't ask. It was obvious.
"Yeah- bloke died within the hour. When can you get there?"
"Eight minutes. I'll be there at twelve sixteen at the latest."
Lestrade didn't bother with surprise— of course he could get there in eight minutes. London bowed to Sherlock Holmes
"Good. Hurry."
The saddest, most boring building Sherlock had ever seen- the walls were all concrete, the curtains all pulled. One bare lightbulb positioned itself slightly off-centre above the front door (4.9 centimetres to the right, but if he got on a ladder and looked more closely he would like to think that he could determine it to the thousandth decimal point).
Only two windows in the entire block were lit- one, a bedroom with the glass shattered off the window; the other, the dull, comforting glow of Christmas lights.
It was fourteen minutes into Christmas Day, and a man had been murdered before he could see it.
His body lay mere flights of stairs away from Sherlock, but he had to wait for the police to get there to get into the door- that was the agreement. No trespassing, and he could join them to help. He needed their permission as much as they needed his insights, as much as he hated to say so.
Where could they be?
He was about to call them when he heard the sirens from the distance- they took a strange way, coming from the east. Had they been out of town?
They certainly took their time getting out of the car. Donovan and Lestrade had driven together, but the rest of the team followed shortly from some other direction- they had been somewhere else. Maybe relevant. Possibly not.
Finding out wouldn't get Sherlock in the crime scene any faster.
He must have looked impatient, because Lestrade came to stand next to him, scrunching his shoulders into his ears as he tried to warm himself up-
"There's no rush, Sherlock. It's all still going to be there."
Sherlock frowned. Instead of continuing his whinge, however, he pointed to the front door—
"Signs of forced entry."
"What?"
"Something's wrong here. This murder- it's different than the others ones."
"But the window's shattered-"
"And there's glass everywhere outside."
Lestrade positively tilted his head.
"That's... Sherlock, that's what happens when glass breaks."
"Yes it is."
His pauses were systematic; he remained silent just long enough for Lestrade to figure out that he wasn't going to keep going, then continued just before the older man felt obliged to ask the question implied in the melodramatic pause.
"The force was from the inside. Someone broke the window from inside to recreate the scenes of the other crimes. Whoever's in there, Inspector... He's not the one who lived here. They brought the body from elsewhere."
Both men looked up at the window- yellow light pooled out from the room, the curtains blowing out softly into the night. They were a light purple- the heavy material of a person with a drafty window and the sense to know how to fix it.
Sherlock glanced at the other man, then at the other group of police officers. The landlady had kept them waiting so she could get dressed- she exited now, wrapped in her only coat. She kept it unbuttoned, even with the cold, so her nice blouse and skirt were visible— dhe looked disappointed when she noted the lack of cameras. She fidgeted with the key in her hand, chattering gravely to Donovan as she relayed the scene, inviting the group into the building.
"Oh, I just— I heard a commotion— I wouldn't 'of if her flat wasn't right underneath mine, eh? Loud noises. A man yellin'. I didn't call the police right away- things like that happen all the time here, no reason to get uppity about an argument— but I knew Amy, I didn't think she had many loud friends so after it had died down I went and knocked on the door. But I noticed the blood on the floor— I just took a peek in, and, well, there he is, lyin' in the bedroom— blood all over the carpet, bloke's been shot in the head—"
No one saw how it happened but Sherlock had found himself in front of the group— he bounded up the stairs, easily taking three at a time with his long legs and newfound energy. He shouted down information as he deduced it to the officers below—
"Three men, average build, carried a body up using— probably an old blanket, maybe a plastic bag to keep the blood from getting everywhere. Note where they failed on the second storey,"
Currently on the second storey, most of the officers stopped and played a half-second game of spot the bloodstains— by the time they'd found the slight smear on the wall of the stairwell, the ever-distancing bass bellow had spoken up again.
"Victim was still alive at this point, but well-subdued. Note— oh, never mind."
Donovan scowled at the voice—
"Holmes, you have to wait for us. You can't just go waltzing around like it's your scene just because we invited you to come and observe."
He pointedly ignored her— she doubled her pace, handing the case she'd been carrying to Lestrade to catch up with the eternal pain she'd affectionately named Holmes.
"They had the key to her flat- but not the building proper. No signs of forced entry."
The door was already open by the time Donovan had finally caught up to Sherlock— on his coattails, it seemed, as he was just ducking into the sitting room.
"Someone definitely lived here— woman, late thirties, alone. Of course she lived alone— everyone in this damn building lives alone, this is a place for anyone who can't actually afford London nor are they charismatic enough for a flatmate—"
Donovan was half-listening to Sherlock as she tried to tune out the landlady— she noted his silence, though, and went searching for him.
"Holmes? Have you found something?"
She left the Landlady in the sitting room, winding through the tiny hallway to get to the bedroom— this was hardly a flat, merely two rooms separated by a thin wall and a bead curtain. There was a tiny kitchen in the corner— one armchair and a small television. A fishbowl with a small red fish with impressive fins on the side table.
"Sherlock?"
She pulled the beads out of her way, stepping into the tiny bedroom. Room enough for one bed, a desk, and—
"Oh, for the love of—"
—And laying on the carpet in a pool of his own blood, a very familiar man— a short man with greying blond hair, a soft face lined pre-emptively with wrinkles...
It took her just under five seconds— one to mentally label the body, two to feel nauseous, one and a half to come to her senses.
This man could not be John Watson. John Watson died in May. It was December. It was Christmas, For Christ's sake.
Good God. Sherlock.
He was staring at the body, wide-eyed— he was staring at the body the way a body was meant to be stared at. Confusion and—
Terror.
They'd dressed the body up in a soft beige jumper, for God's sake.
"— Someone get him out! Now!"
It was Lestrade who peered his head in from the curtain- Lestrade who, taking half a second to look at the body, understood.
"Sherlock—"
The taller man didn't turn from the body— his eyes never left the floor.
Greg put an arm on his shoulder- Greg had been bracing for Sherlock to lash out, resist movement, but he followed the gentle touch passively. He alternated between many expressions— as if he couldn't decide how he should be feeling. Eventually, he settled on something in between a dull blank and a grimace. His mouth kept twitching into a half-smile.
Lestrade sat him down on the sofa. Some of the officers were watching curiously— he glared at them until they left them some peace. He may have cursed at them.
"Sherlock, it's—"
"I completely disregarded their appearances. They were all becoming more and more physically alike. Each victim. I should have known that this wasn't just for his game."
"This isn't a game, Sherlock."
A long moment. Sherlock took a deep breath— in, out. When he spoke again, his tone was more quiet and harsher than a whisper—
"I know it's not."
Lestrade said nothing more. The two men sat on the sofa, waiting for anything as the rest of the team bustled about taking pictures, eventually bringing the gurney up to take the body away.
Sherlock got a long look at his face as he passed. He stared— he did not blink.
"He's not a doctor— so he's military, obviously. Lives alone, probably from the other side of the Thames. He—"
The room had been taken by surprise, held captive by his surface deductions. When Sherlock stood, Sally stepped forward.
"Sherlock, you don't have to do that."
And for a moment, Sherlock felt his eyes close— he felt shaky, buzzing with adrenaline. At the same time, he was exhausted. Terror, he called it. I am terrified. When he felt himself faltering, he pulled himself back up— perfect posture, hands behind his back. Curious eyes never meeting hers.
"I do."
The silence of the statement caught him off guard— it seemed to work for Donovan, though. In her eyes shone a— a comprehension. Not Pity.
He was grateful for that.
He deduced.
"He owns dogs, has a child. Was never married— no, had his first child when he was very young, and while he wasn't around to raise him— no, her, of course— while he wasn't around to raise her he's tried to be a bigger part of her life in the past few years. Has a girlfriend, but he's not very interested in her. Not interested in the mother, either. In the military- never made it past private, I don't think."
He looked around the house, around the police and the tracks they'd made and the beating of his heart—
"Calloused hands. One of them is American— the other is left-handed. Two men— the third must not have entered the flat. One of them smokes a sort of cigarette sold predominately in India— the left-handed one. Leather gloves, of course— no fingerprints, and you'll find that any footprints will not be an accurate show of their height or past locations."
He stopped, looked around, then nodded to Donovan. That's that.
"That should be enough."
Slowly the room found its motion; the gurney brought the body away, more photographs were taken.
He sat back down, receding into the sofa, feeling the weight of Greg sitting next to him. His eyes swept the space directly in front of him— something caught his attention, distracted him for a moment.
Sherlock leaned forward, reaching an arm to the coffee table— he grabbed an envelope positioned in between two candles, familiar in the weight of the paper and colour of the ink that held his name. The S was large, extravagant- the H miniscule so as to keep from detracting attention from it.
He opened it slowly- he could imagine Jim licking the adhesive himself. Kissing it before handing it to whatever lackey he sent to deliver it.
Whatever lackey he send to kill some poor soul whose only crime was to look like John.
Inside was a Christmas Card.
Plain- it was red, with a green cartoon tree with blue cartoon ornaments and a yellow cartoon star.
He opened it slowly- no music, this time. The entire inside of the care was empty, save for one small line written in black pen, neatly, precisely—
Loosely, heavily, he passed the card to Greg, open so he could read the inscription.
HE'S HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS 3
Greg gently laid a hand on his shoulder, grounding him- Sherlock's breathing hitched just once, a palpitation in his chest, before composed himself.