Chapter 9: Cluedo

"Wait, say that again." Emmaline demanded, leaning over the table.

"It was the victim, in the drawing room, with the gun."

"How did the victim do it?" Emma sat back and crossed her arms, waiting, and a bemused smirk on her face.

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain when there was a knock on the door.

"Sherlock its Lestrade; open the door."

Sherlock looked nervously at Emmaline and thought of the morphine bottle he had hidden in his bedroom. How could he know? I was careful this time. He stood from his seat slowly and walked to the front door, opening it an inch.

"What is it?" He whispered.

"There has been a murder – we need you at the crime scene."

Sherlock sighed happily and opened the door all the way.

"Emmaline, I have to go to a scene. Are you coming?" He gathered his coat from the closet as he spoke.

"Yeah – let me grab my sweater."

"Is this it?" Lestrade picked a sweater off the back of the couch and held it out.

Emmaline eyed it warily. Yes, it was her sweater, but she had been offered her own items before. And bad things had always happened when she took her things from others. Emma stepped back and closed her eyes, trying to think of something better, something happy. Her mother had told her always to think of something that made her happy when those dark thoughts intruded.

Sherlock. Her mind immediately jumped to the detective. He is safe, a friend. A good person. A friend.

Sherlock watched Emmaline quietly; he approached Lestrade and took the sweater from him. He stepped towards her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Her brown eyes snapped open as her breath hitched. He kept a firm grip on her shoulder and commanded her gaze.

"I have your sweater." He held it up so she could see it. "Do you understand?" Emmaline nodded her head shortly.

Sherlock handed it over and she put it on slowly. Lestrade stood in the back, silently thinking. He had seen it on a couple of occasions, her acting strange like this with every man but Sherlock. He had seen females acting similarly in other cases he had done, in his early days on the force. He would have to do some research to be sure, but Lestrade could guess why she acted that way.

He wondered if Sherlock knew, or if he just knew how to react around her. He doubted the man knew anything about the subject Lestrade was guessing. Sherlock must have just observed her behavior and adjusted himself accordingly.

Sherlock brushed a lock of hair from Emmaline's forehead and glanced at her shortly before standing up straight.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked, holding his hands up.

"Yes. I'm sorry." Emmaline apologized, gazing at the floor.

"No need to apologize, I understand."

Emma's head snapped up at his words. Her eyes pierced the distance between them as she stared, trying to discern what he meant. Sherlock grabbed Emma's hand and tugged.

"Let's go." He led the way out the door, pushing Lestrade to the side and away from Emmaline.

Lestrade watched them walk down the stairs, still holding hands, and a goofy smile spread across his face. He shut Sherlock's door and followed the two down to the street.

"Here's the address." Lestrade handed Sherlock a slip of paper. "Give that to the cabbie and be right behind us."

"Why aren't we going in the police car?" Emmaline asked, looking between the two of them.

Sherlock stiffened and gave Lestrade a look. Lestrade saw. "Sherlock does not like police cars." He shrugged his shoulders and got into his own car.

Sherlock held his arm up and waved, hailing a cab. Emma bit her lip, wondering if she should ask. Sometimes he would answer her questions, and other times not. When they were seated comfortably in the cab and were on their way, she decided to voice her question.

"Sherlock, why don't you like riding in police cars?"

He closed his eyes and thought of Lestrade shoving him in the back of one and dragging him off to drug rehab, for his recreational cocaine use. Another flashed through his mind of being escorted away from his family home in a police car after his father had killed himself in front of his brother, his mother, and him. He had been twelve.

"I just do not."

His icy tone caused Emma to shiver and look away. She knew there was no point in asking again, because he would not answer. The ride to the scene was filled with an uncomfortable silence, the first that Emmaline could remember. Usually when they did not talk it was comfortable and neither were bothered by it. This silence felt wrong. It felt almost like a fight, but neither of them had said much.

"We're here." Sherlock threw some bills at the driver and got out, taking Emmaline's hand to help her out.

Lestrade walked out to meet them, handing gloves to Sherlock.

"You might not want to come in Ms. Johnson, it's a bit messy." Lestrade warned her.

"I will be fine."

After their 'spat' in the cab, if it could be called that, she was eager to prove herself. Emma felt that she had not done anything wrong but she knew that to get back in Sherlock's good graces she could watch him be brilliant and compliment him on it.

"Alright." Lestrade's lips formed a thin line but he handed her a pair of gloves as well.

Sherlock entered the shabby apartment and walked straight to the body.

"Who is this?" A man with brown hair and glasses turned to question Lestrade, pointing at Sherlock.

"This is Sherlock Holmes; he consults with us on cases." Lestrade explained.

"We don't need someone to consult. We know this is a rubbery gone wrong."

"WRONG!" Sherlock pronounced, still studying the body.

Emma swallowed the lump in her throat as she joined them. The shabby apartment was dirty, how the occupant kept it. Blood was splattered on the white walls and the man lying on the floor had clearly suffered. He had multiple lacerations to the face, stab wounds to the chest, and fingers missing.

"How the hell is that a robbery gone wrong?" Emma asked her voice shaking.

The brown-haired man turned to look at her. "And who the hell is this?"

"She works with Mr. Holmes." Lestrade said.

The Detective Inspector watched carefully as Emma took in the crime scene. She clearly was disgusted by the gruesome nature of the crime however, the room was full of police men walking near her. She shuddered when one brushed her arm walking past her. Lestrade observed as she darted quickly into the room to stand by Sherlock, effectively avoiding everyone else in the room.

"And who are you?" She retorted once she was safely by Sherlock's side.

"I'm Dr. Anderson, the forensics expert around here."

Sherlock snorted and stood. Emmaline turned her face into her shoulder and closed her eyes, trying to clear the sight of the body from her memory.

"This was not a robbery – it was a crime of passion. You should contact this man's friends and find out who he was seeing – it was most certainly a lover."

"And how do you know that?" Anderson asked, staring Sherlock down with cold eyes.

Sherlock stood up straight and stared smugly down at the new man.

"This was not a robbery – nothing here has been removed. You can tell because dust is on everything and nothing has been disturbed. Based on the size and depth of the slashes you are looking at someone with a manicure, probably gets her nails done regularly too. The depth of the stab wounds implies a kitchen steak knife was used – and that the attacker was relatively weak, adds to the female theory. The number of injuries assumes that the attacker was in a rage."

Emmaline peeked at Sherlock staring down at Anderson. He seemed proud, and vengeful; this was where he thrived, putting others down for not noticing.

"Manicured nails, an inebriated victim, no robbery, the injuries inflicted here, it all points to a jealous female." Sherlock peeled his bloody gloves off and threw them at an officer.

"What makes you think he was drunk?" Anderson crossed his arms and continued to question Sherlock.

"There are four beer cans on the coffee table; condensation still on the side and their dust patterns have been moved."

Sherlock turned to the bemused Lestrade. "Please get a competent staff."

Anderson snorted and threw his hands, walking outside. Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see a timidly smiling Emmaline.

"Let's go; the police have what they need."

"Thanks for coming down Sherlock." Lestrade yelled as they left.

Emma turned her head back and waved. She hurried after Sherlock and got into the cab he had hailed. The first few minutes were passed in silence. Emmaline looked out the window, and Sherlock stole glances at her every few moments. He felt bad for having snapped at her on the way there.

"Emmaline…I'm sorry."

She turned her head at his voice and cast her eyes on his sincere expression.

"You have nothing to apologize for; you didn't want to talk about it and that is fine." Emma patted his hand.

Sherlock looked down at it before she removed her hand to her own lap.

"Are we going to resume our game of Cluedo?" He asked as they neared her street.

"Of course." She smiled at him. "You still have to tell me how the victim could have done it."

Sherlock found himself smiling back. She pushed his shoulder playfully before looking back out her window, the smile still on her face.

ᶓ

That night when Lestrade got home he ordered takeout and pulled his laptop out. There was no way he could know for certain, since he had no access to Emma's records, if there were records, but he could Google and make assumptions.

He spent awhile fiddling around on the internet, checking different sites and even emailing a doctor friend of his with some questions about Emma's behavior. When the reply came in Lestrade's mouth opened wide and he ran his hands down his face in shock. That was certainly a possibility…and one he had not thought of. If that was what was going on with her, what had happened to her, and Sherlock did not know…Lestrade sighed. He doubted if Sherlock would even understand what it all meant. And Emmaline still had not told him. Lestrade wondered if she ever would.

A/N: Ahh, Lestrade thinks he knows!