Of course, John thought to himself, he was just being stupid.
He loved Molly. Charlie had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. But strolling along the midnight beach, he had a sudden thought: this is like it used to be.
Like it used to be was, once John thought about it properly, quite a short window of time—the eighteen months between that first meeting in the lab at Barts and Sherlock's apparent suicide from its roof. John sometimes referred to this period as when I was living at Baker Street, even though he was living at Baker Street now. Mrs Hudson had been alive, and Molly, for John at least, had been a shadowy figure—a dark-haired, girlish woman who was painfully shy and idolised Sherlock Holmes to the point where they were the only ones in the world who didn't find it embarrassing; and the only reason Sherlock didn't find it embarrassing was because he was largely oblivious to it. And Molly had been completely oblivious to John Watson: She forgot my name once, he thought in some amusement. How do you forget a name like 'John'?
But despite Molly's best efforts, and a string of what could loosely be called 'girlfriends', both John and Sherlock had been bachelors in those days, prepared to rush out the door on a case at the drop of a hat. Once, literally, the drop of a hat. John had never written that case up. The Adventure of the Dropped Hat wasn't going to sell well to the public, even though the twelve-year-old boy who'd arrived at Baker Street to tell them his uncle had randomly picked up a lost cap at Waterloo Station, and he didn't know why, had almost sparked an international incident before Sherlock could stop the Prime Minister from being kidnapped.
Too late for all that now. The blog was ancient history, still up as a sort of period piece, a monument to the Old Adventures. The New Adventures were different, and it wasn't just that now John had to take Molly's and Charlie's schedules into account before participating in them.
John Watson had idolised Sherlock Holmes. He still idolised him, and trusted him… to an extent. But he had never quite got beyond Sherlock's betrayal. Molly's betrayal. He felt it every time he took his shirt off and saw the ugly scar under his left-hand ribs. He'd felt it when Sherlock had taken a case in Bolivia, and he'd been denied travel insurance and stayed behind. There were still nights he left Molly sleeping, put on a jacket, and went out to walk those feelings off. And there were still mornings when he returned in the half-light to get ready for work or for a day with Charlie, and was still angry.
Neither was Sherlock Holmes this unchanging, unchangeable thing; the ruthless constant in John Watson's world that he'd once been. His mind was still racing, constantly racing; liable to explode into rage or substance abuse if it wasn't used enough. He still sharpened his tongue on people he thought were idiots (and this, still, was practically everybody). He still vacillated between impeccable upper-class manners and childish tantrums, between weeks on end where he barely got out of his pyjamas and cases where he sometimes didn't sleep for days or eat in a solid week. But his stride was a little slower when he had John with him, his hands more steady. His smile appeared more often, and when it did, fine lines crinkled around his eyes and mouth. In the past few months, a few wisps of silver had appeared in the curls above his ears.
According to Sherlock's calculations, the wind and tide could have deposited jetsam from the Marie Celeste somewhere in a four-mile stretch of coast, roughly corresponding to two miles north of the village and two miles south. Bearing that in mind, Lestrade and McMannis had divided into two teams. Lestrade's had been tasked with searching the sands, rocks and cliffs from the Ship Inn toward Lamorna Cove in the south. McMannis's team of detectives made their way to Newlyn in the north.
Lestrade had definitely drawn the short straw for their route. Rocks dropped straight into the sea in places, forcing them to sometimes make their way inland through thick ocean scrub that braced against the freezing offshore winds. But Sherlock, at least, didn't seem particularly bothered by the landscape, nor by the limited capabilities of the torch he carried, and John was more than capable of keeping up with him. Sherlock was more methodical than most of the searchers, but he worked faster, and before long the two of them had outstripped the others and were walking alone in the darkness. Silence passed between them for a few minutes.
"Well," John finally said. "I needed the exercise."
Sherlock grunted in vague assent.
"Are we looking for anything in particular?"
"What do you think of Derrick Rice?" Sherlock asked, as if he hadn't heard.
John collected the thoughts he'd gained since going through Rice's house and talking with Rose. "Dunno," he finally said. "Definitely something wrong between him and Sadie. Were they having an affair, do you think?"
"Always the romantic angle with you, John, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't exactly call that romantic," John said. "But even if he had it for Sadie, why kill Brett? His best mate? And what's Beryl got to do with any of this?"
"What indeed?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow.
"I didn't like her either," John said, double-stepping to keep pace with Sherlock. "But for her to have killed him-"
"There are more ways to kill someone than you might think."
John turned to him, surprised at the gravity of his tone. But Sherlock was searching the sand, moving the beam of his torch in long sweeping motions, apparently absorbed in what he was doing.
"All right," John said. "So she—oh, God!"
He drew his sleeve up over his nose and mouth. There was no mistaking the smell that had just slapped both of them in the face. It seemed to drift not from the ocean, but from an apex of rocks toward the cliffside part of the beach, forming a sort of tiny cave. In front of it was a small bundle, swathed in kelp.
"John." Sherlock laid his hand on John's arm. "Stay here."
"What-?"
"Wait for me here."
John knew better than to argue with what amounted to an order, and stayed put. As Sherlock made his way over to the mouth of the cave, he heard a shout over his shoulder from further down the beach. Halloran, if he'd heard right, though he hadn't made out any words. He turned and waved the torch in his hand to signal him, just as Sherlock turned his own torch off and crouched down beside the stinking, kelp-riddled mass.
"Why'd you turn your... oh, God-"
John began to make his way over, but had only taken a few steps before Sherlock practically bounced to his feet. "Nothing to worry about," he said cheerfully, flicking the torch back on and gesturing with it. "It's just Brett Holland's head."
John sank his heels into the wet sand and let out a breath. "I'm going to live to regret saying this," he said, "but I've never been so thrilled to find someone's disembodied head before. Cause of death."
"Yes," Sherlock said shortly, just as Halloran jogged up to them; from the rocks at the other end of the beach, Lestrade hailed them with a shout. Neither the time nor the place for John to express his gratitude: Sherlock had thought they'd found Maisie Holland's body, and tried to shield him from it.
After the gruesome, but not entirely unexpected, discovery of Brett Holland's head, John had been sent back to the resort to get some sleep. Most of the main suspects in the case were due to arrive in the village in the morning, sans Derrick Rice, presumably sleeping the sleep of the virtuous up at the Old Coastguard. As he brushed his teeth and turned the ensuite light out, John wondered to himself if Derrick knew his best mate's head had just been found, abandoned on the sand like a piece of garbage. But the investigators, and most of Mousehole, had already known Brett was dead. There was nothing immediate to suggest he'd suffered more than they'd first thought.
John slept soundly for the rest of the night.
~~o0o~~
By half-past eight, he and Molly had managed to get themselves and their daughter organised. Molly dropped him at the promenade in Mousehole, as arranged, while she took Charlie into Newlyn. The rain had broken up for the time being, and while the beaches around Mousehole were still closed, she was determined to take Charlie for a play in the sand or a feet-chilling paddle somewhere. John kissed her goodbye a little absently, getting out of the car and watching it take off again and turn the corner before crossing the road to where Sherlock and Donovan stood waiting.
Sherlock had a cigarette in one hand, and Donovan's hand in the other. Although John expected Sherlock to maintain his ruse in public, he still had to force himself to not stare as they rounded the corner and wandered a few steps up one of the winding cobblestoned lanes. Once they were out of sight, it was difficult to tell whether Donovan wrested her hand from Sherlock's or he shoved it at her.
"Okay," John said. "You said it was important. What am I doing here?"
"Gathering information." Sherlock ashed his cigarette on Donovan's shoes. "There is a place," he said, "where everyone in a small village goes, and where the staff know everything about all of them. They know who's got weak arches and who's a Type 1 diabetic. They know which brand of cigarette everyone smokes; who's taken up the habit and who's quit. They know who's started buying condoms and who's stopped buying tampons; they notice when a man buys flowers or a woman changes her brand of shower gel. They know when someone moves here or moves away, when they're born, when they turn eighteen, when they retire, and when they die. Behold, John." He waved one hand at the stone wall opposite them. "The humble corner shop."
John's gaze made its way toward the main road, coming to rest on an open doorway festooned with colourful plastic streamers. At this junction, an old man in a knitted vest and tam emerged, carrying a sandwich board advertising ice cream.
"So we're interviewing someone," Donovan said flatly.
"Oh, that's such a boring word for it. Donovan, you and I are going to go in first and pretend to be browsing. When I start talking, I want you to agree with everything I say. John, you wait out here for a minute or two. When you come in, pretend you don't know us, and contradict everything I say."
"I'm on it."
Whether Donovan was 'on it' too was apparently not Sherlock's problem. He took one last drag of his cigarette, crushed it under his heel, and practically dragged Donovan toward the open shop doorway.
John chuckled to himself. Contradict everything I say. That was never much of a challenge.
There was no way he was resorting to actually counting, but when the minute flipped over on his watch he made his way over and ducked through the streamers in the shop doorway. He found himself in a gloomy, over-cluttered shop with small windows, reeking strongly of damp carpet and old books. The first thing to hand on his left was a revolving rack of postcards, and he pretended to peruse them, keeping an ear out. Near the front of the shop, he heard a sort of coquettish female whine before realising it was Sally Donovan. Glancing over, he saw she and Sherlock were standing next to the ice-cream freezer.
"I want this one," she pouted, pointing at the frosted glass.
"Why can't you just take a bite of mine?" Sherlock wanted to know.
John coughed explosively into one sleeve.
"Because I don't like mint," Donovan said. "Please, Billy? For me?"
Sherlock pulled the fridge open and reached into it, then took both ice creams up to the counter, where the elderly shop assistant they'd seen earlier was patiently waiting. "Sorry to take so long," he said cheerfully, plunking the ice creams down and fishing into his coat pocket for his wallet. "I should know to never argue with a pregnant woman who needs her fix of salted caramel."
John glanced over in alarm, but though he could only see Donovan's back, she didn't seem to falter.
"Yep," she said, sighing deeply. "Well, who's fault is that, then?"
"Guilty as charged." Sherlock took his change and handed one of the ice creams to her. She ripped the packaging open then and there before Sherlock, glancing at the dour-faced shop assistant, offered, "awful, isn't it, this murder?"
"You could say." Judging by his voice, the shop assistant smoked four packets of cigarettes a day. "And they've not caught who did it, neither. For all we know, there's a deranged maniac in the village."
Through the rungs of the postcard rack, John could see him fixing Sherlock with a stern eye, as if to suggest that he was probably the deranged maniac.
"I heard the mother did it," Sherlock said casually. "His mother, I mean. I heard she was down here the day it happened."
"I suppose she was," he conceded with a grumble. "She was certainly in here on Thursday, having a right old row, right in my shop, while I was trying to get the fruit and veg delivery in here."
Sherlock looked up. "What, she was having a row with her son?"
"With Brett? No, with his mate. I dunno what his name is, but he sticks out like a sore thumb—the three of them did, what with the accents."
"So that's how you knew it was Brett's mother? Her accent?" Sherlock sounded dismissive. "Anyone can bung on an RP accent."
"Oh, she's been down a couple times, though I haven't seen her in a while, actually. Real ball-busting bitch—sorry," he said, glancing at Donovan, who had a mouthful of ice cream and gave him a thumbs up. "The whole village knows how those two got on—I heard they came down here in the first place to get away from her, but she kept showing up anyway. But there's no call to go saying she killed him."
"Excuse me," said John, clearing his throat and moving out from behind the postcard rack. "Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't help overhearing. The murder on the boat, right? A Brett somebody? I heard his sister did it."
"Where in God's name did you hear that?" the assistant demanded, staring in disbelief. "The sister's a good sort; down here all the time. Sian, her name is, or something like. Mad keen on the water."
"She was into boating as well?" Donovan asked, poking a sliver of chocolate into her mouth.
"Oh, the whole family, as far as I could see, and that mate of theirs. But if you reckon his sister battered him to death and cut off his arms and legs, I'll say you've got rocks in your head. A woman wouldn't hurt a little one like that anyway—especially not when she's got one herself." He glared at John. "You going to buy something, or what?"
John swiped a couple of items off a nearby shelf and put them on the counter, not looking at Sherlock and Donovan as they left. When he came out of the shop himself a minute later, they were nowhere to be seen. Walking up away from the shore, he found them in the lane behind, apparently working their way up into a squabble.
"What the hell did he mean by that?" he interrupted them. "Siobhan has her own kid?"
"No, she doesn't." Sherlock scrunched the wrapper of his ice-cream up in his free hand; automatically, John reached out and took it before Sherlock could decide to throw it on the ground.
"But Beryl was here," Donovan said.
"Yes, I thought she was," Sherlock said. "Like I said, this is all back to Beryl. But if I'd gone in there and asked him directly if she was here last week, he'd have lied to me."
"Why?"
"Suspicious of strangers. He was almost about to accuse you of murdering Brett Holland, John. But now we know that Beryl was here about the time of the murder, probably with Chris, and that anyone in that family, with the exception of Maisie, could probably have handled a small boat. Especially if they weren't working alone. We also know that there's at least one independent source in Mousehole who thinks that while Siobhan wouldn't murder and dismember Brett, Beryl might. Well." He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hands. "We're expected at Penzance Police Station at ten to interview Adrian and the Hollands. I'll explain our strategy on the way. Come on—and you'd best give those to Dyer, John," he said, glancing down at the box in John's right hand. "I'm fairly sure your horse has bolted."
John looked down and realised that, as well as a box of sticking plasters and a bottle of hand sanitiser, he'd absent-mindedly bought a pack of condoms. "Sure," he said. "Good idea. I'd offer them to you and your girlfriend, but apparently it's too late for that, too."
"Yeah, thanks a lot." Donovan gave Sherlock's shoulder a hard shove. "You're not funny. If any of this gets back to Lestrade-"
"Consider it a tax," Sherlock said, "on the amount of money I'm spending on you."
"You're not actually pregnant, though, are you?" John asked her as they started to walk back to the car. "I mean, obviously not to your boyfriend Billy here…"
She looked disgusted. "God, no," she said. "I'd neck myself."