Chapter Nine: Notes and Records
Sherlock had hailed a cab to Scotland Yard, and I contained my excitement at finally going to the place I had longed to see ever since I had gotten into law enforcement. They most likely held records on the ammunition I needed traced and the initials I had uncovered, but I would need to wait a bit before asking them. Even if my newfound brother was their consultant, I would not be instantly trusted.
Neither, it seemed, would Sherlock. He was greeted with various scattered groans as he entered, but was mostly ignored. There were a few who actually seemed not to mind him, though I could not imagine why, and one or two even gave me a small smile or friendly nod. It was not a majority, however. Not by a long shot.
"Oi, Holmes! Who's your twin?" yelled a woman lounging against a wall. She had dark skin and black hair, and looked very bored. She had clearly known and disliked Sherlock for a long time, and I honestly could not blame her. From his own expression, I saw that there was no love lost between him and her from either end.
"A year younger than me, actually. Please do get your facts straight," was the reply he threw at her as she stood, astonished.
"What? Since when was there three of you?" groaned a man with dark brown hair and a shockingly low IQ. He had emerged from around the corner, taking a place beside the woman. He, too, was an enemy of Sherlock, though he was more annoying than actually malevolent.
"Will somebody please explain what on earth is going on? And who are you?" The words came from a man in his late forties who had come from an office just around the corner. His hair, despite his relatively young age, was grey and he read as a detective inspector. From Sherlock's ramblings on various occasions, I deduced that he was D.I. Lestrade, of whom John had spoken highly and Sherlock had not insulted. His final question was directed at me, with no hostility but more than a little curiosity.
"Raven Holmes, of the American FBI. Technically Sherlock's sister," I informed him. I was still not completely reconciled with the information after two weeks, but there was little that I could do about it.
"He's got a sister? Oh, that's just lovely." Lestrade sighed. "Now there's two of them. Wait a minute, the FBI? You don't sound American," he said to me.
"I've lived there a while. Kept the accent, but actually haven't been to England for the last half of my life," I informed him. He nodded, seeming satisfied with my answer.
"Lestrade, let's get to the point. I need your assistance for a case of mine, and I believe that Raven might require it as well. Oh, and tell your force to do better on first impressions," Sherlock finished.
"Sure. Sherlock, there's a few men I already have on the case. Just down the hall, thanks. Uh, Raven, why exactly do you need help?"
As we walked, I explained about Demetria and the note, producing it as evidence to him. He pulled out a cloth and took it, stuffing it into an envelope as we made our way into what I believed to be his office. It was affirmed by the marks on the surface and the familiar way in which he sat within it.
"Let me get this straight. The long-lost sister of Sherlock Holmes came to London with a friend. That same friend has now been captured by someone with the initials JM," Lestrade said to me. I nodded.
"Any thoughts?" I questioned him.
"Yes, but it's unlikely that a corpse kidnapped your friend. And she may not even be gone; whoever it was could have seen that she wasn't back, known that she would take a bit, and given this to you to spook you. Based on your descriptions, it seems like a likely thing," he stated. I raised an eyebrow.
"A corpse, Detective Inspector?" I queried.
"James Moriarty, the only one I know of who would pull something like this. He actually did something similar to Sherlock a few years ago, but he's dead. Sherlock watched him put a bullet in his own brain. No body, but it's pretty concrete evidence," he informed me.
"Ah; that makes sense." Still, there was a doubt in the back of my mind that something was not right about the picture. The blond man from earlier came to mind, but it was unlikely that he had any bearing on the case. "So, will you help me? I don't need any of your men, but an extra set of eyes might be good."
"Kidnapping and notes? Why not," Lestrade muttered.
"Good. Thank you for your help, Lestrade."
Outside, I padded up the Sherlock. He turned when he saw me, seeming puzzled with my presence. "Yes?"
"Out of curiosity, what does James Moriarty look like?"
He gave me a puzzled, worried look. "Why do you want to know?" He asked, and concern was laced in his tone. Not concern for me; it had been too soon to form attachments. Concern for my motives.
"An old case from the Bureau. Never caught the guy," I replied. He seemed to accept the answer, but barely. I caught him giving me an odd look as I stared back down the hall, still longing for the records that I needed to help me.
"He's about your height but seemed taller. Dark brown hair and these odd, red-brown eyes. Pale skin. Always wore suits, strangely enough," Sherlock murmured to himself. It was odd that he had not picked up on my use of present tense, especially as everyone else referred to the criminal mastermind as they would any other corpse, and I stored that bit of information in my mind.
"Are we just going to stand here, or are we going to actually attempt to find Demetria?" I said after a moment of silence. Sherlock shook himself from his reverie and followed me out of the Yard, with John Watson parting from us and stating that he had to go. Sherlock merely snorted; part annoyance, part sarcasm at his friend's exit.