It had been a long night for John, sitting in the kitchen with his fiance sifting through hundred of pictures and files taken from the suspect's flat. He had made them dinner, which was primarily untouched on plates shoved to the side of the table. Funny thing about obsessive depression, kills the appetite. When they first started seeing each other they'd put up the pretense of eating, going out to restaurants and shoving forkfuls of unwanted food into an untasting mouth. But the closer they got they both understood each other, and subsequently were constantly forcing each other to eat.
While John had been surprised by and thankful for the new break in Trisha case, he was anxious on the effects it might be having on Mary. He was worried that it might be producing some false hope in her, the kind you don't want to admit is there, but still stirs you into desperate action. Mary had been unknowingly drifting away from the cooling case for some time, but with the suspect covered in Trisha's tattoos, she'd recommitted herself fully to the investigation. Now she was once again completely submerged in the case, diving head first into the murky waters, out of reality. Which offered the doctor plenty of distraction from his own demons, but those distractions came with subtle reminders of how much of a difference there was between Mary and his previous puzzle solving partner. Grant it, most of these were positive, like she'd let him in on what she was thinking, include him in the research and hardly insulted his ability or intelligence. But he even found himself missing those aspects as they sat together silently in their flat, searching through the pictures they had taken at the suspect's apartment.
"Mary, honestly, I think its time we call it a night," John gently urged. They had been at this for hours, her disappointment becoming more and more prominent.
"But there has to be something, right? Bullshit it's just a coincidence. But this guy is too clean. There's not a single aspect in his things or records to connect him with any illegal activity."
"Besides the drugs in his car," John commented, causing Mary to smile weakly.
"Well, yeah, besides that."
More silence. More photos. More endless trains of thoughts. More pictures of books, empty cabinets, wrinkled sheets, beer stains, rumpled clothes, cluttered countertops...
"Wait a minute," she perked up, reaching for John to hand her a picture on the far side of him. He picked it up and handed it to her as she asked "what does that say on his badge?"
"Uhh... Mumford Halls," John read then looked up at her, "It said in his bio he was some kind of a night guard at this place. Why, does that mean something to you?"
She thought for a moment, then met John's eyes.
"I couldn't place it before, why the name sounded so familiar. I thought it was just somewhere I must have went to in school...but now I know why that sounds so familiar," she frowned putting down the picture.
"Care to share?" John prompted. She looked uncomfortable but rolled her eyes at being rushed and continued.
"Trish always had her weird ways about her. Sometimes she could get cold as ice. A little while back she felt like she was drifting away, and it terrified me. There was always something else on her mind, something she had to do. She'd come home late and never call back. Then she wouldn't talk to me for days, like we were just flatmates or something, nothing more. It hurt, so I figured I deserved an explanation, even if I had to get it myself. She always hated when I read her body language, saying it was cheating, that it wasn't fair. But I couldn't help but read anxiety and distance from her. I figured if she was going to leave me, I should search for some closure, yeah? I went through her things on a night when she couldn't be heard from. In the trash can I found a bunch of empty gum wrappers rolled up with a napkin. The napkin had that same logo on it as that badge." It was clear in her tremoring voice that it was hard for her to talk at such lengths about these painful memories. But John listen closely, loyal as he is. He knew Mary and Trisha had their ups and downs, and this wasn't the worst of the stories he'd heard from Mary.
"Did you ever find out what she was there?"
"Well I never asked her, we were fighting a lot back then, money was getting pretty tight. But I followed her there once. Oh don't look at me like that, you would have too. Anyway, when she went in I was a little confused, it looked just like a museum or something, nothing swanky. So I let it go. Figured she'd picked up another job. I trusted her."
John didn't think this was a sufficient enough reason to not find out what she was doing, but he wasn't about to argue about it.
"Well, I guess we have somewhere to go tomorrow then," he said, standing up with their dirty dishes in his hand, intending to pad into the kitchen.
She stood up as well, and all but rushed over to her coat.
"Or tonight," she said with a wicked smile and was already out the door.
John stood alone in the room, surprised and unsure what to do next. He stared down in confusion at the left over pasta crowding the edges of the plates. Running out in a rush was a very Sherlock thing for Mary to do, and it's been a while since he had to deal with this type of behavior. While it did hurt in its own way (as nearly everything did these days), he was beginning to feel a trickle of adrenaline swishing in his chest. Something he hadn't felt in too long to remember.
Mary's head popped back in the door.
"Are you coming or not?" She asked, with uncharacteristic impatiences. He sighed and put the dishes back down. Housekeeping would have to wait. Like it always used to.
"Yeah, hang on. Let me grab my gun," as he spoke he realized it was more with excitement than anything else. When did that start happening?
"Hurry," she barked and was out the door once more.
"What, were you expecting, it to be open?" John teased, as Mary glared at the closed and locked doors of the immense building. It was a chilly night, the clouds stunting any hope for seeing the moon.
The building was of ancient looking white stones, the kind one sees when touring the historic section of a city. It had beautiful architecture and seemed to go on forever on all sides. As it turns out, it wasn't a museum but a type of library, a hall of public records. It was also completely closed down, as most public buildings don't stay open til midnight. The grand white stairs leading up to the building shined in the light off the street, being made of some type of marble John guessed. They were currently standing in front of the main entrance, Mary debating what to do next.
"Look we should just come back in the-"
"I'm gunna go around back," Mary interrupted, turning abruptly to go down the stairs. John threw his hands up but quickly followed suit.
"Mary honestly what are you expecting to find?" he called, as he caught up to her.
"I dunno, something. We're close John, I can feel it. Trish wouldn't come here for the books. There has to be something double-sided about it." She was whispering, though without much warrant to John. They seemed to be the only ones left on the planet.
The two of them crept around the side of the building, after much walking to get to the damn corner. The side was closely lined by another building, creating a darkened ally way leading to what looked like a wire fence.
"This looks promising," Mary whispered, pulling out a flashlight. John disagreed with her word choice.
They slowly made their way down the ally, pausing only to look at the bins of rubbish. It was darker than you'd expect it to be between the two buildings, and John felt as if there was someone (or something) following close behind, breathing down his neck. The end of the walk through the ally couldn't come sooner, but as they entered back into the open air they were greeted with nothing but an old truck looking like it was parked eons. The farthest side of this area was another wall, John couldn't guess what it was attached to, but going by the creepy state of the rest of this corner, it was probably a morgue. He inwardly groaned at his word chose, unwillingly reminded of the first time he met Sherlock. Who moves in with someone who hangs out in mortuaries with riding crops?
"What the hell is that doing there?" Mary asked exasperated, clearly giving up the whispering. John was pulled out of his thoughts and walked slowly to the truck.
"Decaying, by the looks of it," he commented, peering into the window. Nothing but old leather and an empty cheap bottle.
Mary walked over to the bed of the truck, and upon seeing nothing, sighed and ran her hand through her hair.
"What are we even doing here?" she asked, leaning against the truck.
John smiled and walked over to where she was, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Investigating. Hey come on, don't be like that. We found out about one side of the hall, but funny thing about buildings- there should be about three more sides we can walk around, and an inside tomorrow."
She smiled at him through the silence, appreciating his willingness to put up with her fruitless antics. She always wondered somewhere in the back of her heart if he was comparing her to his old crime fighting partner. And every time she failed or messed up she could practically see what he would be thinking in his tired eyes: "Sherlock would have done it."
Attempting to brush away her insecurities, she tried to let his advice sink in and rally herself into having hope for the other sides.
They both pushed off the truck and began heading down the ally way, Mary feeling embarrassed and John trying not to acknowledge the sinking disappointment in his chest. They had made it amlost half way into the ally. Mary noticed the unexpected rustling behind them a second too late. John had just enough time to turn and face the large rag punched into his face as he was violently shoved against a stone wall. Despite his panicked struggles and military combat training, what ever he was unwillingly inhaling hit his consciousness will full force, stuttering his racing mind to a hallow stop.
"Look, we already have enough on you to put you away for life. Cooperating with us could shorten your sentence, maybe even by half. Is the rest of your life really worth less than this man you're protecting?" Lestrade sat across the same desk Mary had earlier, overly exasperated and tired of dealing with the suspect. It was day three, and they could tell he was beginning to give, beginning to forget his unexplained fears.
The American glanced down at the table, studying the birds on his wrists.
"And how about the woman's whose life hangs in the balance, yeah? Is she worth less than you, and your boss? You know there are a lot of people missing her right now."
The suspect's face twitched, giving Lestrade the encouragement to push further.
"You know her name? Trisha. Trish has a fiance you know. She's a damn good woman and you-"
"I had nothing to do with her." The suspect's American accent carried enough anxiety to keep a man up for days.
Lestrade stared back at him and after a moment of silence told him, "I don't believe you, Joshua."
The man slammed his fist against the desk and shouted, "fuck off." Which prompted Lestrade to calmly lean forward, "Why don't you give up this tough guy thing, huh? It not fooling anyone and it's going to cost a woman her life!"
"Damn it you people know nothing!" This Joshua called person barked with a humorless laugh.
"Yeah? I think we've got it down pat. Tell me where I go wrong: you're part of The Funding, an illegal gambling gang. You meet a woman there, your boss takes a fancy for her. He kills her and has you to take her place to fill in his fuck fantasies." Lestrade was edging him on. Joshua stared back at the detective, trying to conceal the fear on his face.
"He ain't gunna kill Trisha!" he hissed.
"And I'm supposed to take your word for that? What's she doing then, on a holiday? Do you really not care about her at all? About what he could be doing to her, as we speak?" this causes Joshua's eyes to soften, and face to falter.
"She's being taken care of." he said, seeming to loosen his grip on his anger. Lestrade didn't answer, instead kept up an intense stare of the suspect. Who sighed and looked around nervously.
"Yous better just count her as fuckin' gone. Now look, she ain't dead and I had nothin' to do with anythin' he does with her. But the boss is a fuckin' mad genius, extra on the mad. And there ain't nothin' that will pull him away from his damn bride. And...I can't tell you more." The man looked like he was going to cry, regretting every word he was saying, both for revealing secrets as well as what those secrets were.
Lestrade didn't say anything back, instead kept a glare plastered on his face. The bile was rising in his stomach thinking about what his friend was going through. He stood up, not looking at the suspect.
"Well, I hope you enjoy prison life, Joshua," he told him calmly as stood with a turn to leave.
"Wait! Please! I talked, okay! You said you would-"
"You didn't say shit!" Lestrade roared over him with an animal like ferocity as he turn back to the man, "you let us know that some psychopath has my friend's fiance. Big fuckin' help. So unless you start saying something actually useful, I am not lifting a finger for you!" The DI's anger seeped through his words and right into the terrified heart of the inked up drug dealer.
"Please. Please," his face was crumbling into a pathetic mess as he put it in his hands, "please, they'll kill me Mr. Lestrade. They'll kill me."
Lestrade opened his mouth to respond but was distracted by a single ring from his cell phone in his pocket. He shut his mouth to give Joshua one last look of disgust before turning his back and walking a few paces away from the table. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked down at the screen. A new text message from an unrecognized number. He gave it a read over, causing the strangest mix of excitement and confusion.
Behind Mumford Hall downtown.
Basement door leads to The Funding's underground hide out.
Might need back up.
SH