CHAPTER 7: VISIT TO THE MIND PALACE
The body had just come in when Sherlock swept into the morgue.
"Hello, Molly." He greeted her, heading straight for the body.
"Hello, Sherlock." She responded, smiling to herself.
Sherlock bent over the body, squinting at something near the victim's hip.
The door creaked open and Molly looked up, her eyes widening when she saw a little girl in the doorway. The girl was looking around the room with a little smile, examining everything with wide eyes.
"I'm sorry, you aren't allowed in here!" Molly gasped, swooping in to try and shield the little girl from the sight of the dead body.
The child smiled up at her. "Hi, I'm Violet. Are you a friend of my daddy's?"
Just then, John appeared behind the girl, saw Molly's face, and sighed, shaking his head.
"Don't ask." He mouthed as Violet slipped past Molly and headed over to Sherlock, who had lifted the body to look at something on the shoulder blade. Violet was standing on her toes to see as well. She pointed.
"Is that a name, Daddy?"
Molly suddenly felt her knees weaken. Daddy?
Sherlock squinted closely at whatever he was looking at.
"Yes, that is a name, Violet. Be a good girl and get my phone out of my pocket for me."
Violet did so, and Sherlock began taking pictures. Once done he took Violets hand, nodded to a still-dumbstruck Molly, and left. John gave Molly a sympathetic look before leaving.
Molly was left feeling as though the world had just dropped from beneath her feet.
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and narcissistic asshole, had a daughter?
…
Once back at Baker Street, Sherlock deposited Violet in what was now her room with her books and went to his own. He sat on his bed and pulled out the folder Lestrade had given him, looking through them.
The code was so familiar…
He winced. Now was not the time to think about that. He refused. Giving his head a small shake, he went back to thinking about the case, combing through the coded messages and ignoring the memories trying to surface in the back of his mind.
Patty Ellis had been twenty-nine years old. The few friends she had told the police that she was shy and timid, with a fear of walking alone at night. Someone had let themselves into her apartment with a key the night she went missing. Her body had been found with several bruises around her neck, arms and face, as though she had been grabbed, choked, and hit about the face. But her murderer had taken the time to try and cover those bruises with makeup, combing her hair carefully over some of those over her forehead and eyes and the ones on the side of her neck, which spoke of remorse. Cause of death: a gunshot wound to the stomach, which her carefully arranged hands had been covering. Another note had been folded and placed in one palm. Sherlock withdrew this note now and looked at it.
MSRRYPTTY
I'm sorry Patty.
So a crime of passion then. It would fit with his theory. No killer took those pains with someone they didn't know.
Sherlock picked up his phone and opened the recent photos he had taken of the crime scene and autopsy.
Patty Ellis had been 5"7, with long straight golden-red hair. She had had blue eyes and a faded tattoo of a rose on her shoulder blade, another of a feather beneath the curve of her hip. A stylized butterfly, newer than the others, was tattooed on her right ankle, with the word FREE making up its body. She had been found with her hair brushed, wearing a sky-blue, form-fitting sweater with a pair of dark jeans and white flats. Her eyes had been closed and makeup applied: red lipstick, pink blush and some pale grey eye shadow. Concealer had been liberally applied to hide the bruises on her face.
She had escaped from someone a long time ago, hence the butterfly. That someone had killed her in a fit of rage as evidenced by the bruises and the placement of the gunshot, but then felt remorse once she was dead, which was clear from the way he had closed her eyes and dressed her in nice clothes, put on makeup to make her seem asleep, hidden the wound for his sake, not hers.
The murderer had been about 6"2, a man, with dark hair, an old wound in his right leg, and most probably a rose tattooed on his shoulder blade.
"How do you figure that?"
Sherlock blinked. For a second he had forgotten he had called Lestrade.
"The height is simple. We saw some evidence of his steps in the path near the house where the body was found. He had quite a long stride. Some simple math will tell you a man with that length of a stride would be around 6"2. The imprint of his right foot is slightly fainter than his left, indicating a slight limp, which points to an old wound, probably from a bullet or a knife. There are some strands of dark hair stuck in the fabric of the sweater which quite obviously do not belong to the body."
"And the tattoo of the rose?" Lestrade prompted.
"Her tattoo is clearly part of a matching set. If you'll notice, said tattoo has been faded very badly, especially along the base by the stem. It was once a name: the letters A and T are distinguishable. She clearly tried to get rid of it. I suspect, if this was a crime of passion, that the same tattoo with her name is somewhere on the killers body."
Lestrade was silent for a while before saying "I'll put that in the report. Thank you, Sherlock."
After hanging up, Sherlock sank back onto his bed and let out a long sigh, staring at the ceiling. He could hear Violet humming to herself in the next room and a tiny smile curved across his face. Kristy used to do that…
He let out another sigh and decided to visit his Mind Palace.
Mycroft knew something was up. Sherlock would not stay for a month in America under normal circumstances. This had better be one hell of a case.
He decided to go see what on earth was going on.
Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had laughed so hard.
Kristy had dragged him to the movies again to see a comedy. The movie was just dumb enough that its jokes amused him, but he was more amused by watching Kristy watch it. She was laughing so hard that she kept burying her face in his shoulder, grabbing his arm, trying to muffle her giggles. She had changed perfume, he noticed: less citrus, more vanilla. He muffled his own laughter against her head and breathed in the mixed scents of her perfume and her shampoo.
After the movie, they were walking around the park towards her apartment and Kristy calmly slipped her hand into his. Despite her calm posture and expression, a tinge of red stained her cheeks. He smiled at her and laced their fingers together, saying nothing of it. Her smile grew a little bigger, but she said nothing either, and they continued to walk, hand in hand. It was a clear, cold night, and a slight breeze had picked up, causing her nose and cheeks to turn red and her hair (down again, and loose) to blow out behind her. He saw her shiver, and she snuggled into his side as they walked, eyes closing slightly.
Once they reached her apartment, she turned and smiled at him.
"I had a good time tonight. Thanks for coming with me." Her voice was soft in the night air, and her breath puffed out in a white cloud into the space between them.
"I had a good time too." Sherlock said, just as quietly.
They stood there for a moment before Kristy smiled up at him.
"Good night." She whispered, and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, just as she had done the first night they met. And before she went inside, Sherlock stopped her and kissed her cheek.
And he would deny it to anyone who asked, but he was grinning like a loon as he walked to his hotel that night.
What he didn't know was that Mycroft was standing on the other side of the street, watching him.
The next day, he got a call.
"Hello?"
He had to pull the phone away from his ear at the sudden explosion of noise on the other end.
"…really have no idea what you think you're doing but I do NOT approve…"
"Mycroft?"
"Yes, Sherlock it's me. When were you going to tell me about her?"
Shit.
"Never, I guess."
"Sherlock, we have discussed this. Love is not for men like us. It is the grit in a sensitive instrument, as you always say. It clouds the mind and dulls the senses."
Sherlock could feel himself getting slightly angry.
"It's not like that, Mycroft…"
"I saw you kiss her last night, Sherlock."
Dammit.
"I'm arranging for your flight back right now…"
"No."
Mycroft was really mad now. "What do you mean, no?"
"I'm staying here."
"Like hell you are…"
"Aren't you the one always telling me that I need to be more normal? I'm twenty- two, Mycroft. One does get tired of being lonely sometimes."
"Sherlock…"
"I'm not leaving, Mycroft. I'm finally something that I never thought I could ever be."
Mycroft's voice held a hint of grudging curiosity. "And what is that?"
"Happy."
"Daddy?"
Sherlock blinked and turned his head. Violet was standing beside his bed, head tilted. She seemed to be able to tell he didn't want to talk and held out the book she held, a children's science book about human anatomy.
"Will you read to me?"
Anyone who knew Sherlock Holmes even slightly would swear up and down that the man would never be caught dead reading a book to a child. But those people were missing a piece of the puzzle: Sherlock Holmes would do just about anything for people he loved. Not Mycroft, not his parents, but for his daughter?
Sherlock would walk through fire drenched in gasoline for his little girl.
"Sure."
Violet beamed and climbed up beside him, snuggling into his side and opening the book. She could read by herself, but she also loved being read to. It was a kid thing.
"All right." Sherlock said once she was comfortable. "This part of the brain is called the frontal lobe…"