Chapter Five: Marcus Bell

Disclaimer: Something borrowed, nothing gained.

It's alarming how deeply Watson sleeps. If he thought it would do any good, Sherlock would caution her about it, about her need to cultivate more diligence when unconscious. If someone intended to do her harm, this moment would be prime—curled on her side, her face partially obscured by her hair, one hand tucked under her pillow and the other arm thrown out in abandon—her oblivion to her surroundings almost complete.

When he watches her sleep, she rarely stirs. Or if she does, her motions are small and contained in the world of her dreams. At those moments Sherlock goes stock still, hardly daring to breathe, the note or tea tray or Clyde in his hand poised in midair until her breathing slows again, and then he gently, gently, lowers to the bed or chair whatever he wants her to see on rising and backs out from her room.

But not before taking another moment to appreciate the sight of her asleep.

It's shameless, of course.

Not the waking per se. He never wakes her without having something worth waking for—a breakfast to eat, an insight to share, a place to hurry to.

But the guilty pleasure of listening to her measured breathing, of appreciating the curve of her hip draped by the chenille bedspread, of noting the way the light slips around the edges of the shutters and frames her silhouette. And when he rouses her, the delight of seeing her eyelashes flutter against her cheek, her mind drifting back from the darkness and illuminating her features again.

Of course it's sexual—all voyeurism has, at its core, an awareness of the observer's and the observed's sexuality—but it's also less and more than that.

Less because waking Watson is functional—and therefore justified.

But more because in the moments before he flashes the lamp in her face or taps in Morse code or lifts the bugle to his lips, he longs for something else.

"You wouldn't be sleeping with him, psychologically speaking. You'd be sleeping with me," he told her in London when he accused her of being attracted to Mycroft. "Oh, you've surely thought about it."

He certainly had. Her raised eyebrow was the tell that proved she had, too. He was both gratified and frustrated knowing that.

Most of the time he cordons off that thought in a remote, dusty corner of his brain attic.

But sometimes, like tonight, he is startled to find himself standing motionless in her doorway, driven there by something akin to loneliness or sadness, usually after the euphoria of successfully concluding a case morphs into a predictable letdown—the intense focus of days or weeks of collaboration futzing out suddenly like a poorly made campfire.

That's the most dangerous time for him—after the completed file is turned over to the NYPD and his brain idles down. If drugs call out to him daily, they scream his name the evening after he concludes a case.

The most recent case was particularly challenging—a drive-by shooting requiring hundreds of interview hours and two call-back trips to the morgue to re-examine the victim's body. Detective Bell had been frankly skeptical that the perp could be found, though when they'd presented him with the shooter's name at last, he nodded, as if he had expected it all along.

After their final briefing they'd gotten home so late from the precinct that Watson said she was too tired for dinner and had gone to bed. Sherlock poured a bowl of cereal and then abandoned it uneaten. He pulled down the notes and photographs from the board and packed them away. He even stretched out briefly on the sofa and closed his eyes.

But now he is here, in Watson's doorway, watching her sleep. With no reason—with no plan to wake her—it becomes an unforgivable invasion of her privacy.

Yet he doesn't leave. Instead he does what he often does when finds himself anchored in her doorway in the middle of the night. He does a mental walkabout of all the times she's touched him.

For as long as he can remember, Sherlock has suffered the touch of others. Truly, genuinely suffered them—the sensory overload causing him physical pain.

Not everyone's touch, of course. Or more precisely, more tolerable from some people than others. His mother—he recalls her ruffling his hair or pulling him into a loose embrace. Irene—Moriarity—best not to remember too much there.

He has catalogued the times Watson has touched him, and he pulls those memories out like a careworn notebook as he watches her sleep. Most of the touches were accidental—a finger making an electric contact when she handed him a cup of tea, her hand grazing his when they reached for the light switch at the same time, her palm lifting in the air, brushing past his knee as they sat side by side looking at the laptop. Those moments are catalogued and relished at length, though the few deliberate touches are mulled over in a different way.

The first one—when he sat slumped in the precinct office waiting to be arrested for assaulting Sebastian Moran. He remembers with exquisite precision how the sofa had dipped slightly under Watson's thigh as she perched on the edge, her hand drifting to his arm, the press of each finger distinct through the fabric of his coat.

And another—this time slumped in a chair in the brownstone, the velvet seat so worn that it felt like silk, her gloved hand probing and stitching and pulling and patting the bullet wound, all the time as she clucked and fussed. His shoulder had been on fire, and only partly from the torn flesh.

The most recent one—her fist contacting with his arm, forceful but still pulling her punch enough to make her point. "What was that for?" he had protested, his eyes cutting to follow the swirl of her dress as she railed about him, about Andrew, about the misbegotten dinner with his father.

He's ashamed of giving in to compulsion this way, of standing in her doorway without her awareness. It's as if fighting the persistent siren call of heroin has left him unable to resist this other, more insidious, temptation.

Not that he will do anything other than stand for a few moments listening to her sleep. "She's safe," he says to himself as he always does, like a mantra. Inhaling deeply, he wills his heart to slow as he steps back into the hall.

In the kitchen he is dumping out the soggy cereal when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Detective Bell—a text asking Sherlock to call in the morning.

"Probably nothing," the detective's note reads, "but I want to run it by you and Joan."

Another case. The relief is almost palpable. For a moment Sherlock considers darting back up the stairs and waking Watson.

There's no reason, really, to wake her now, except to share the news and his excitement, such as it is. Or more precisely, his anticipation. Detective Bell isn't given to flights of fancy. If he wants a consultation, the case is hardly nothing.

Still, the case will be there in the morning. And now he has sufficient time to plan the best way to wake her.

X

The smell is the worst part. As soon as Marcus steps across the threshold of the apartment, there it is—acrid, sharp, with an unmistakable undertone of sweetness like burnt sugar. Someone has died here in a fire.

Or at least was burned in the fire. The M.E. will know soon enough if the knife wound or the fire was the actual cause of death.

As he moves around the scorched kitchen, Marcus lifts his hand to partially cover his nose, not that it helps much. The smell itself isn't as troubling as Marcus' recollection of the same smell for weeks after 9/11. At the time he'd had been reassigned a patrol in lower Manhattan, and although he never got used to seeing the photocopied missing person notices plastered on every wooden barricade and lamppost, it is the smell—or the memory of it—that sometimes wakes him up at night.

He looks up as Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson enter the kitchen.

"Like I told you," Marcus says, "we have the probable killer in custody, but something feels off to me." Pulling out his notebook, he reads, "James Darnell, 32, knife wound to the neck, partially burned. Lived here with his girlfriend, Jessica Wells, and her two kids. She's a nurse at Mt. Sinai, works second shift, so she wasn't home when the fire broke out. Neighbor reported the fire about 7 PM, said she saw a man coming out of the apartment with the two children. She also gave us a description of his car and he was snagged at a traffic stop."

"Were the children with him?" Joan asks, and Marcus nods.

"Man's name is Steven Smith. He used to date their mother."

"And it ended badly? You think he wanted to hurt the children to retaliate?" Holmes says, his eyes squinted the way he does when he's casting about for data. Marcus tips his head.

"Could be. Ms. Wells says she is the one who broke it off six months ago. Smith was upset but has never been violent before."

Holmes purses his lips together and clasps his hands behind his back. "Did he say why he came to the apartment?"

Marcus consults his notebook before answering. "Said he was cleaning out a closet at his place and he found some of Ms. Wells' things she'd left behind. He was returning them to her when he realized the apartment was on fire. Said he heard noise and saw smoke coming from under the door so he broke in, grabbed the kids, and took them outside to safety. According to him, he didn't know the victim was inside."

Joan frowns. "The doesn't seem likely. The kids are how old?"

"Six and four. Girl and a boy. Smith said they were in the front bedroom watching TV when he came in."

"Then an adult had to be there with them somewhere," Joan says. "He's not telling the truth."

While they talk, Holmes circles the kitchen, occasionally stooping to examine something more closely. Once he runs his gloved finger along the edge of the blackened counter and then leans down so close to the stove that his nose almost touches it. Suddenly he stands upright and faces Marcus.

"How did she know his car?"

"What?"

"The neighbor. You said she gave the police a description of his car."

"I guess she saw him getting in it," Marcus says.

"She was the one who called about the fire," Joan says, looking at Holmes. "When would she have had time to notice his car? Maybe she doesn't remember it from today, but earlier."

Holmes takes a step toward Joan. "Mr. Smith has been here before. He may, in fact, be a regular visitor."

As often as he's seen them do it, Marcus is still caught by surprise at this telepathy thing Joan and Holmes seem to have, this instant, invisible give-and-take when they are following a lead.

"You think Ms. Wells and Smith were still an item? That she wasn't telling her current boyfriend that she was seeing her ex?" Marcus asks.

"That, or he was keeping an eye on her," Holmes says. "Watching her."

"A stalker."

"Or a watcher," Holmes says with some asperity. "Perhaps he meant no harm but needed to see her."

"Like I said, a stalker. I'll ask the neighbor if she's seen his car before. And I can check with Ms. Wells about their relationship."

Holmes is unusually quiet on the ride back to the station. When he interviews Steve Smith in the precinct holding cell, however, he bounces as he speaks, as if he is agitated.

"You said you were returning some of Ms. Wells' things when you noticed the fire," Holmes says. Steve Smith, a tall, thin man with dark hair and moustache in obvious need of a trim crosses his arms and stands close to the bars.

"That's right. Some of her clothes."

"And you didn't notice them in your closet for the past six months?" Holmes' tone is frankly skeptical. At his side, Joan shifts position.

"You see why that's hard to believe," she says. "The very day you decide to return her things, the boyfriend who replaced you ends up dead."

"I didn't kill him!"

Marcus has heard this before. With a huff of impatience, he says, "Why don't you stop wasting everyone's time and tell us the truth?"

"What else can I say?" Steve Smith says, throwing his arms in the air. "I didn't kill him! I don't even know how he died!"

"Medical examiner says he bled out from a knife wound to the throat. Whoever killed him then set fire to the place to cover his tracks. Fortunately for us, the fire didn't destroy the body as you planned."

"I didn't plan anything! I didn't do it!"

"Right. Because you were busy returning some of your former girlfriend's clothes."

From the corner of his eye he sees Holmes pivot abruptly toward the stairwell. "We're done here," he calls back over his shoulder. Catching Marcus' eye, Joan shrugs slightly and follows.

"You want to tell me what you found?" Marcus says when he catches up with Holmes on the top of the landing.

"Absolutely nothing," Holmes says. "Except that he's lying about returning something to the apartment but telling the truth about not murdering anyone."

"You realize that's not particularly helpful information," Marcus says, frowning. Anyone else might bristle at the sleight but Holmes twitches his shoulders like someone brushing off a fly.

"Not yet," he says. "But it may be, in time."

He heads toward the elevator and Joan says, "We'll let you know if we find anything else. You want to come grab some dinner with us? It's getting late, and there's a new diner I've wanted to try."

"Thanks," Marcus says, "but I have an errand I need to run."

As soon as the elevator swallows them up, Marcus checks out and heads to the garage where his car is parked. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he dials his brother Andre. The phone rings for a few times before he picks up—and then Marcus has to strain to hear over the noise of some machinery.

"You still at work?" he shouts into the phone. "You guys are keeping long hours."

Andre laughs—a rare enough sound that Marcus finds himself smiling, too. Andre's new job is nothing glamorous—part of an outside lawn crew—but he seems to love it. Or at least to love not being shackled to a short order grill frying burgers all day.

"You'd be surprised how many trees there are in New York," he told Marcus once. "And grass and bushes and flowers—and they all need attention. What more could I want—steady work and fresh air!"

"Yeah, well, you might not be so happy come January."

"Wrong," Andre had pronounced with certainty. "I love cold weather."

"Then tell me again how you love trimming hedges in July."

Andre had slapped him on the back then, the way he sometimes had when they were kids. The slap was both affectionate and dismissive, the kind of touch older brothers employed to keep their younger siblings in check. Marcus rolled his eyes.

"Thought I'd meet you for dinner," Marcus shouts into the phone, but Andre tells him that he has to work late.

"Tree trimmer broke down," he says. "Miguel and I have it in pieces right now."

"Then I'll catch you later," Marcus says, closing the connection. He swings his car left at the next corner and heads directly to Andre's new apartment. Parking on the street is almost impossible, but a spot opens up as Marcus circles the second time around the block. Pulling a key from his pocket, he lets himself in—and then he begins to snoop.

He doesn't think of what he's doing as snooping—not exactly. As soon as he steps inside he takes a deep breath—something Holmes routinely does whenever he enters a room. No unusual scents. Nothing indicating anything was smoked here recently. Good.

A quick sweep through the tiny living area, then a check of Andre's drawers in his bedroom. Nothing there that shouldn't be there. Marcus takes another deep breath and scans the kitchen. Not much in the fridge—some soft drinks and a half-eaten prepared casserole. Not a single vegetable and only one plum. As he locks the apartment door behind him, Marcus makes a mental note to stop by in a day or two with some healthier groceries.

He tells himself what he always tells himself—that he's doing this for Andre's own good, that when he's certain that Andre is really and truly settled—with a steady job and friends who won't try to steer him on the rocks—he'll stop making these occasional look-arounds. But after all, trust has to be earned, right?

In the meantime, he just wants to keep his brother safe, even if that means doing things that would make Andre furious if he found out.

XX

The new diner is a disappointment—too expensive and pretentious for the neighborhood, tiny portions fussed over unnecessarily. Meatloaf made with foie gras? Seriously?

"Why go to the bother of decorating a restaurant like a diner if you're going to serve upscale cuisine?" Joan asks, picking at a scant cabbage and kale salad.

Sherlock has been quieter than normal all afternoon, ever since Marcus met them at the burned apartment to show them around. "You okay?" Joan says. "You haven't said much."

"Thinking," Sherlock says.

"About?" she prompts. He scowls at her but says, "Why would Steven Smith just happen to be at the apartment of his ex-girlfriend the day her current boyfriend is murdered? The reason he gave was patently false, but why lie?"

"Because he's embarrassed about his real reason," Joan says. "Maybe Marcus was right and he's a stalker. Maybe he hasn't been able to move on and he's keeping an eye on her."

"What would be the point? She's made clear their relationship is over."

Lifting her fork, Joan says, "People do irrational things all the time. If he loves her, he might have trouble letting her go."

She sees Sherlock's expression flicker and she knows he's thinking of Irene.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, Joan idly watching the cook behind the counter assembling a piece of cake on a decorated plate. As the waitress starts to pick it up, the cook adds a birthday candle and lights it. Sherlock lifts one eyebrow and says, "What can we deduce from that?"

He says it with forced good humor, as if he is determined to be better company. It's touching, this attempt to mimic normal social behavior, like watching a child practicing some tricky skill doomed to frequent falls, like roller skating or riding a bike. Shaking Mason's shoulder, for instance, while he ran tests on the box the banned stock trader Colin Eisley planned to splice into the transatlantic fiber optic cable dubbed Ruby. Or the three times Joan has seen Sherlock smile recently—brief, awkward flashes of his teeth after asking a favor from someone.

They watch as the waitress carries the cake to a booth where a man sits with a small girl. Divorced dad taking his daughter to a meal on her birthday, Joan thinks.

"It must be hard," she says aloud. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. "That father. Who takes a kid out for birthday cake alone? A father who doesn't get to see her every day."

She puts her fork down and looks again at the little girl eating the cake. Something clicks and Joan sits up.

"The kids," she says. "Steven Smith was there to see the kids. It might not be his girlfriend he's missing but the kids. He drives by to keep an eye on them—he probably took care of them if their mother has always worked second shift. Maybe he doesn't trust this new guy to be their caregiver. That's why he was in the apartment building that day,"

"That doesn't rule him out as a murder suspect," Sherlock says. "In fact, it gives him more motive, if he believed New Boyfriend was harming the children in some way."

"But the kids backed up his story. In the report, they said they heard Smith break in the door right before he took them from the burning apartment."

Sherlock taps the counter, musing. "They are young. They could be confused."

Their waitress appears and takes their plates. "Coffee?" she asks, but both Joan and Sherlock shake their heads.

"Let's say that Smith is telling the truth," Joan says. "He had to break down the door to get in, and he took the children outside right away. The M.E. said that the new boyfriend died from blood loss from the nick to his carotid, not from the fire. He would have already been dead by the time Steve Smith arrived. Could someone else inside the apartment have killed him and then escaped from a window?"

"The apartment has a nominal fire escape at best. I checked. It has not been engaged in so long that the hinges are rusted. No one left that way."

"Could the killer have been inside the apartment until after Steve Smith took the children out? Then he could have left through the door."

Sherlock's tapping on the counter increases. "Possible, though by then the neighbors were in the foyer. No one reported a stranger except Smith exiting the building."

Once between her junior and senior year of college, Joan had caught a ride home from Ann Arbor to New York with a girl she knew from an advanced biology class. Halfway through the ten-hour trip—somewhere outside Youngstown—Joan looked across the flat prairie horizon and saw a dark gray funnel cloud reaching down from an ominous sky. For several heart-stopping minutes she'd watched as the tornado raced toward them, leaped over the highway in front of them, and then sped away, skipping and bobbing like something alive.

Both she and the driver wept and laughed in equal measure for a quarter of an hour, their car pulled into the median as they gathered their wits and said, over and over again, how lucky they were to be alive.

The rest of the drive was euphoric, every other pleasurable moment in her life held up to it later and found wanting. The tornado became a touchstone of sorts, a yardstick to pull out whenever she needs perspective on what she's feeling.

Sitting in the diner with Sherlock, waiting for the check, becomes such a moment. With the clarity of mind that sometimes makes her physically shiver with pleasure, Joan says, "I know what happened. New Boyfriend killed himself."

Sherlock stops his tapping and leans forward slightly.

"He didn't mean to, of course. I don't know why I didn't think about it before," Joan says, almost breathless in her hurry, "but I saw something similar back when I was a resident. A guy was cooking over the stove, a knife in one hand, and he reached for a hot frying pan. He didn't know it was hot and he jerked his hand back, stabbing himself. In that case the guy didn't die, but he did give himself a nasty cut on the chest."

"It would also explain the source of the fire," Sherlock chimes in. "I noticed a definite grease residue on part of the counter and wall, as if a pan had been lifted and then suddenly dropped, splashing grease."

"There were pans on the floor," Joan says, "but I assumed the fire fighters knocked them down when they put out the fire."

"That doesn't mean that one of them wasn't already on the floor after being dropped by New Boyfriend."

"It should be easy enough to prove," Joan adds. "Now that we know what to look for, we can measure the length and angle of the wound and tell whether or not New Boyfriend was holding the knife that stabbed him."

She knows she sounds triumphant. Sherlock flashes his teeth—a slightly more successful facsimile of a smile than his other recent attempts.

That night after she settles in bed—after Marcus reports back that the M.E.'s findings corroborate her theory, after Steven Smith admits that he's been keeping a surreptitious patrol over his ex-girlfriend's children, after he's been released and sent home—she stretches out and allows herself a moment of self-congratulation. As much as she once thought she'd always miss the thrill of surgery and the satisfaction of helping patients, this is just as thrilling. An innocent man is free tonight because she put all the pieces together. In the dark she smiles like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

Hours later she wakes suddenly. Without opening her eyes, she knows that Sherlock is standing in her doorway. Some slight scuff of his shoe, some alteration in the flow of the air, some unknowable something alerts her when he's watching her.

He won't stay long. Sometimes he's there less than a minute. She should probably mind but doesn't. In some ways it makes her feel safe, knowing she is watched over so closely. He needs this—and as she feels herself drifting back to sleep, she thinks about how she does, too.

A/N: My attempt to explain...and perhaps justify, as much as it can be...Sherlock's penchant for waking Watson. Thanks for reading.