"You can wipe that smirk off your face, Sherlock," I grumble. "You won. Congratulations. Now shut it."
My flatmate glances at me, smug expression transforming into one of amusement. "I didn't realise that we had a contest, John. You made a suggestion, and I chose to consider it, presenting my conclusions to you afterwards. It was your choice to – as you had phrased it – 'call it off'. And my expression, if that's what you are referring to, has nothing to do with the discussed subject, I assure you."
"Then what are you so happy about?"
"Lestrade texted the details about the case. Sounds interesting. Not ordinary, at least."
"Oh," I say, my mind latching onto Sherlock's words excitedly. "What did he say about it?"
"Not enough data yet. But Lestrade is quite sure it's one of the funny cases I love so much," Sherlock replies with a derisive snort. "His message says 'unidentified van' and 'gold paint'. Very eloquent."
"Well, maybe he doesn't want to jump to the wrong conclusions. He's good at what he does, you know."
That gets me another amused look from my friend. "I do not doubt him, John, there's no need for you to become all defensive about it."
"I'm not defensive, it's just…"
"John," Sherlock says with exasperation. "Could you please stop doing that? It's annoying, and I need to concentrate."
"Okay, I'll shut up."
"Thank you. We're almost there. And I expect to hear your opinion on the case, so I suggest postponing our discussion about personal matters until we get home. Agreed?"
"Absolutely."
"Good. I already can see Lestrade across the street; let's not keep him waiting any longer."
Our cab slows down and stops not far from the bunch of police cars, and Sherlock gets out his wallet. He pays the cabby, pushes me out of the car and towards Lestrade, falling into step behind me. It feels strange, because usually it's me trailing after him, not the other way around; but I'm not going to make a fuss about it right now.
Not when Sherlock is practically glowing with excitement.
"The game is on, John," he whispers in utter delight, and I look at him over my shoulder, picking up the pace.
'Not enough data', my ass. Okay, let's see what it's all about.
Lestrade POV
Sometimes there are days, when I feel that getting out of bed was my biggest mistake. Especially because of cases like this one.
First of all, there's a van without registration numbers, which managed to stay unnoticed for more than twenty-four hours, despite the fact that it was parked near the Battersea Service Station
Second – the two unfortunate blokes, who attempted to hijack that vehicle and were caught in the process.
Third – the discovery of a strange cargo inside the van resulting in me calling Sherlock to the crime scene.
And finally, on top of all that – Sherlock asking if John's presence would matter this time.
The last one definitely outweighs the previous ones. For me, Sherlock and John became inseparable long ago, and hearing Sherlock ask such a question… It simply screams WRONG for me.
The feeling of wrongness hits the high point on my scale when I spot them getting out of a cab. Because never in my life would I have imagined the day when I see Sherlock FOLLOWING John to the crime scene. Usually it's the good doctor, who is in tow, almost breaking into a run to keep up with Sherlock's brisk pace.
Not now, though. Our consulting detective firmly stays one step behind, and it's obvious that John is not at all happy about it. A couple of times he stops and tries to get Sherlock to sidestep him and continue walking, but the tall genius also halts and waits for John to start moving again. I can see that it irritates John, and by the time he finally gets near me, his jaw is set tight and his eyes are blazing.
Unlike his companion, Sherlock is calm and collected; his steely gaze with a hint of amusement is set on John, which seems to irk the doctor further. No wonder that a few moments later John finally snaps, squaring his shoulders and rounding on Sherlock.
"Will you stop it?" he hisses, glaring at his flatmate.
"Stop what, John? I'm not doing anything apart from walking after you," Sherlock answers.
"Exactly! Stop doing that!"
A corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up. "Is there a problem, John?"
"Yes, there is! And you know full well..."
"Gentlemen," I interrupt. "Could you please choose another opportunity to sort your problems out? We are kind of having an emergency here," I say pointedly, causing them to stop their bickering and to look at me. John's face adapts a guilty expression and Sherlock merely shrugs his shoulders.
"My apologies, Detective Inspector, that was very unprofessional of me," John says tensely. "What kind of emergency are we talking about?"
"To tell the truth, we are not sure yet," I reply, gesturing towards the van. "I think you should see it for yourselves."
Sherlock nods, sidesteps John and strides to the vehicle, John following him with the triumphant grin. I shake my head and start to walk after them. With these two around, my life is never easy; but at least it proves to be quite entertaining sometimes.
Like now, for example. There's certainly some sort of disagreement between them at the moment, and it affects John more than Sherlock. Our consulting detective is his usual unperturbed self, whereas the good doctor is putting a considerable effort into keeping his cool. I'm positively sure that were it not for social norms, John would've given his partner a thorough dressing-down right here and now; but I also know that the good doctor is TOO good to do such thing on public. So instead John plasters his 'everything's fine' expression on, swallowing his irritation and concentrating at problem at hand – as he always tends to do in situations like this.
Oh boy, is Sherlock going to get it when they return to Baker Street...
We reach the van simultaneously and take a peek inside, its content rendering us speechless for the moment.
"Elegant," Sherlock utters finally. "Looks like..."
"Except it's not," I manage to force out, shaken to the core. "What is she, twenty?"
"Most likely," Sherlock agrees. "The gold paint was obviously sprayed on after her death ."
"Poisoned?" I enquire.
"I doubt it. Sedated. Overdosed. What do you think about the pose, John? Strange, isn't it?"
"Yes," I mutter, not being able to tear my eyes from the view. "As if she's the part of some composition. A statue."
"Quite right. Italian."
"How can you tell?"
"Not her, John. The sculpture. I've seen it recently."
"When?" I frown. To my knowledge, he hadn't been to a museum in ages.
"During the last case."
Lestrade pipes in. "Our last case? As far as I remember, it had nothing to do with sculptures, Italian or otherwise."
"The other case. It wasn't in London, Lestrade. John, have you noticed the part of the scarf?"
I barely hear him, my thoughts going miles a minute.
Outside of London? The other case? Had seen it recently?
Everything clicks into place.
"He knew all along, didn't he?" I ask slowly, and Sherlock turns to look at me, raising his eyebrow.
"Who knew what, John? What are you talking about?"
"Mycroft. When he was giving me a lift, he already knew. You were working for him then, weren't you?"
"John, I have no idea what are you talking about, but..."
Anger wells up inside me. "I think you bloody well do, Sherlock," I answer coldly, turning around and stalking away. "Don't you dare to follow me!"
Unsurprisingly, he doesn't.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
I flag down a cab, get in and all but slam the door behind me.
"Hey!" the cabby eyes me with suspicion. "None of that stuff in my car, mate, or you going out."
"Sorry, I'm just... Upset a little, I guess," I say, feeling my face grow warm.
"Gave you the cold shoulder, didn't she?" the driver smiles knowingly.
"No, the problem's work-related," I answer, already lost in thoughts.
"Whatever you say. Where to?"
It takes a minute for me to understand what he is asking me about.
"Oh. Nowhere in particular. I just need to think for awhile."
"Sorry, mate, can't have that. Give me the address, or you'll be thinking outside."
I struggle to remember a place that's as far away from here as possible. "Um... 79 Greencroft Gardens, please."
The cabby glances at me curiously. "You don't strike me as a person who would need to stay at a B&B."
Oh, great, another well-wisher.
"Well, that's none of your business," I grumble. "Just drive."
He looks hurt for a moment, then turns away, and I find myself feeling bad for upsetting him.
"Alright, alright! 221B Baker Street. Take the longest route possible, will you?"
He smiles, looking at me through the rear-view mirror. "You don't remember me, do you, Doctor Watson?"
"No," I answer carefully. "Should I?"
"Well, it wasn't a cab I was driving that time; it was my own car… And if wasn't for you, I would've lost my family in that car crash a year ago."
"Oh," I mutter, trying to remember the mentioned event and failing miserably. "I'm sorry, but I can't quite…"
"That's okay; it's simply one of the episodes in your line of duty. I don't mind you not remembering it. I just wanted to say 'thank you' once again. And, by the way, here's my card. If you ever need me, I would be glad to help."
"Thank you," I take his card and pocket it. Because, let's be honest, what can you possibly say to that, apart from expressing some gratitude of your own?
My point exactly.
"So, 221B Baker Street, the longest route?" the cabby – Stephen, as indicated on his card – enquires.
"If you don't mind."
"Not at all. And just so we clear – you have a permanent discount, and that's not debatable."
"Stephen…"
"John," there's a warning note in his voice, and I wisely decide to shut up. "Good. Now sit back and enjoy the ride…"
All the way to Baker Street my thoughts are whirling around the recent crime scene. Now that I'd calmed down from the outburst towards Sherlock, I can think more clearly. And I can't shake off the feeling that this horrible sight of a dead girl, spray-painted with gold, is not the last we're going to see. Sherlock did say 'a sculpture' after all. Not 'a statue', so that probably means there are another parts in this 'composition' – at least two more, judging by the position of this girl's arms. Which, in turn, means that if we don't do anything soon, another two (at least) dead girl's bodies might be discovered somewhere.
Okay, what do we have so far?
A dead girl, around twenty, no identifications, body totally covered with gold paint, made to look like a sculpture. Clearly unnatural death, but, according to Sherlock, she was sedated rather than poisoned. Death had occurred more than twenty four hours ago, the body manipulated into a required position before rigor mortis took place – must've been one hell of a task to keep her that way, so possibly some sort of ropes and contraptions configuration.
The van is lacking its registration plates, scrubbed clean, so doubtfully Lestrade's team will find something incriminating inside or outside. So, check the registration number on the engine, run it through the database. Check the records on security cameras nearby; see if something (or someone) interesting shows up.
That's pretty much all that I can come with by now; Sherlock surely has much more than that, but since I left, I can't know for sure.
Speaking of Sherlock – what the hell was I thinking, storming out like that? It was a personal matter, and my flatmate made his opinion clear on that account. And more importantly, I had agreed with him.
So what's wrong with this picture?
Ah, well, there's only way to find out.
"Stephen," I call out with determination, and he glances at me through the rear-view mirror. "Change of plan. Take me home, please."
"Aye, captain, you wish is my command," he jokes, turning the car around and setting the course to 221B Baker Street…
The lights are out in the living room, and that means Sherlock hasn't returned yet. Probably he's still at Scotland Yard, harassing Lestrade about the case, or at Bart's, trying to charm Molly into showing him the girl's body. Anyway, that's a good thing; it gives me some time to prepare for our conversation.
I get my wallet out, and Stephen manages to look thoroughly offended. "Don't even think about it, John," he warns, looking at me pointedly. "Consider this trip as the sign of my gratitude."
I hesitate, still unsure as what I should do about it, and he huffs in exasperation, pushing my hand away. I nod and pocket my wallet, getting out of car. He lowers the side window, and I lean down to look at him.
"Thank you, Stephen," I say warmly, reaching out to shake his hand.
"You're welcome, John," he grips my hand and gives it a firm squeeze. "Don't hesitate to call."
"Okay, I will," I promise, giving him a small wave and watching him turn the wheel. The car smoothly pulls into the traffic and half a minute later disappears from view.
I fish my keys from my pocket, open the door and step inside, unbuttoning my jacket on the way.
Everything happens in a flash the moment I take a first step forward. Two hands latch onto my collar, starting to pull the jacket down, and I react instinctively, kicking back with my left foot. My attacker yelps in pain and releases my collar when the heel of my boot crashes into his knee, and right after that I throw myself backwards, slamming my body into his and head-butting him along the way. He grunts painfully and we topple to the floor, him grabbing onto me and me kicking and shoving at him to pry his hands off.
After a brief struggle I break from his grasp and immediately roll away, propping myself up on my elbows in order to get a good look at my attacker.
Only to see Sherlock huddled on the floor, clutching his knee and giving me the death glare.
"Glad to see you too, John," he says sarcastically, mindless of the blood trickling from his nose and staining a pristine white shirt. "Excellent reflexes."
He closes his eyes and his whole body just sort of slumps down.
Oh crap.
Well, in addition to Sherlock and John trying to settle things out between them I now have a case thrown in for good measure... *sigh* What can I say - life is never boring at 221B Baker Street...