Disclaimer: I do not own a single thing. A.N. Columbia University, NY, doesn't have any secret passages to my knowledge – but she does have a Baker Athletics Complex, so Sherlock definitely studied there. Also, sorry folks but next week is rerun – meaning I won't be updating like usual. I apologise.
Episode 4: College days
John didn't mean to pry, honestly. He didn't even notice that the letter was addressed to Sherlock. He saw the sender was Columbia University, and he automatically assumed case. He wondered what problem they might have encountered. Instead, it was an invitation to a ten-years-after alumni reunion. Which meant Sherlock – being twenty eight now, as John had discovered when Mrs Hudson organised her a birthday party (John had got her a book on beekeeping as a gag gift, with the inscription, "To the queen,") – had graduated obscenely early, too. Go figure; she was a genius after all. "So are you going?" he queried, curious.
The detective wordlessly glared at him for snooping into her mail.
"Yeah, sorry about that, I saw the sender and not the address. It shan't happen anymore, I swear. But that doesn't answer my question," the doctor replied, looking properly ashamed.
"No, I'm not going anywhere. And I assure you, I will not be missed," the sleuth snapped, tetchy.
"Honestly, I find that hard to believe. I'm sure you left an impression even when you were so very young. People will be wondering what you've been up to," the former thief objected, with a wide grin.
"Oh I left an impression all right. Only it was usually a bad one. I'm sure that one time I caused that explosion in the chemistry lab has not been forgotten. And being high for most of my last year didn't help my reputation," Sherlock countered matter-of-factly.
"Then you absolutely have to go. Show them all how great a woman you've become. You know how these reunions go – «Whoever tells the best story wins,» as John Quincy Adams said. Well, at least his self in the movie Amistad did, and it fits. We're watching it sometimes. And who can have a story better than yours? You ordinarily catch serial killers," John urged, grinning at her.
"Have you forgotten, John? You are the one who catches serial killers – and eliminates them when he feels like it," she bit back, bitter despite the lopsided smile she tacked at the end.
"Then I'm coming with you. As your plus one. And I'll be spending the whole evening extolling how fundamental you are for the resolution of cases to anyone who'll hear me out," the doctor declared fervently. "Which is simply the truth, anyway."
"You really want me to go, don't you?" Sherlock queried, raising an eyebrow.
"Otherwise people will think you're dead of an overdose long ago, and I need you to prove to them how wrong they are. I hate people thinking badly of you, when you're so bloody amazing," John replied vibrantly.
The detective blushed, still not entirely used to the eager praise of her partner. "I still think it's a bad idea," she declared, pursing her lips. If John followed his plan people would just think she was shagging her boss to have him wrapped around her little finger, but contrarily to John, Sherlock had never cared what others thought of her, so she didn't voice her objection. And God but the man was stubborn! He'd hound her about it until she gave up anyway. So, she added, "But if you're coming I get to pick what you wear. Your dress sense is horrid."
John laughed. "Agreed."
At the actual reunion, people gave Sherlock almost afraid looks and a wide berth. She knew this was going to happen, which was why she didn't want to come in the first place. John was considering if he should leave the detective's side and mingle – he couldn't praise the sleuth if people didn't talk to him.
But then a pudgy man came over to them with a cruel smirk and remarked, "If it isn't Sherlock Holmes! I never thought I'd see you with a boyfriend at your side. Not after Vince…Val… – what was his name again? – left because of his dad's huge scandal. There was blackmail involved, wasn't it? everyone said he was part of his dad's traffics, too."
"His name was Victor, and he was my friend, not my boyfriend. And he wasn't involved with his father. Victor is a better man than you could ever hope to become," Sherlock hissed icily. That explained her hate of blackmailers, John thought – hoping to get the whole story behind Victor someday. "And John is not my boyfriend either. Actually, he's my boss," she pointed out.
"John Watson. Nice to meet you," the doctor said, but without holding out his hand to shake. His eyes were cold, and he hoped this bastard got the message to stop picking on her.
"Sebastian Wilkes," the git replied. "Oh. Now it makes sense. I was surprised to see the Ice Bitch with someone."
"Why, Seb, I didn't remember that you fancied me. then again, you've never been particularly memorable," the detective countered, smiling.
"Oh, I didn't. I was just trying to be kind," Wilkes declared, shrugging.
"Kind?" John queried sternly, raising an incredulous eyebrow.
"It's true, Ice Bitch was her nickname from those who wanted into her pants, and didn't manage to. All failures, but Vic – but he didn't brag, so I guess you might even be saying the truth that he never had you, too. He really should have boasted if he'd won you over. Anyway, I thought it was kinder than everyone else's moniker for her," Sebastian said, with a half-smile.
"Freak Holmes," Sherlock interjected, before Sebastian could say so himself. At least it'd be mentioned without Wilkes' hateful smugness. Let John know. The man had seen her experiments. It's not like he didn't know she was a freak.
"In our defence, with that trick of yours you used to announce who'd slept with whom and all our other dirty little secrets, you deserved it. It's not a surprise that no one dares to come near you. They must be terrified of having their flings exposed," Wilkes pointed out, laughing.
"While you're proud of what you are, and here you come flaunting it. and have a dull enough life not to have any secrets whose exposure you fear. How do you not die of sheer boredom?" the sleuth replied, scornful.
"You have to pity him, Sherlock. Not everyone can get an adventurous life like yours," John finally interjected.
"Hey you!" Wilkes protested loudly. He couldn't imagine being pitied.
"Sherlock's 'trick', how you call it, has made her the pillar of my detective agency. Why, she solved that serial killer case just two months ago. She was the one who figured out the killer hunted through his cab. Not me, and certainly not the police," the former thief stated, maybe a bit too loudly than strictly necessary but he hoped someone else but this git would overhear him.
"Wait – are you saying you are the detective Watson? The one who solved the serial killer cabby and exposed Magnussen's blackmailing?" Sebastian blurted out, shocked.
"I am, indeed. And in both cases, it was Sherlock who did most of the work. I just reap the compliments. Without her keen eyes and logic mind I wouldn't have solved half the cases I did. She's just too modest to claim her due laurels," John declared in earnest.
"I'm not modest," the detective grumbled, rolling her eyes.
Suddenly all conversations were interrupted by a high-pitched scream. Sherlock and John ran outside, and saw a tall, redhead woman clearly traumatized by the human body hanging from the tower. From the spire of the tower of Teachers College to be precise.
Sherlock's eyes shone with excitement. "Aren't you happy to have come now?" John whispered teasingly in the ear of his companion.
"This awful reunion just turned interesting!" the detective replied, fixing the dead body with enthusiasm.
John took control of the situation, walking over to the screaming woman and saying, "I understand your shock, but please, calm down. I'm John Watson, of the Watson detective agency – you might have heard of us – and between mine and my best colleague's efforts _ Sherlock Holmes, I think you might know each other – this mystery will be solved in a flash. Now, do you have an idea about the identity of the victim? Did you know him?"
"It's Hector. Hector Alistair. But he should have been in the game lab, not up there. But what did you mean mystery? Didn't he hang himself?" the hysterical woman queried.
"Hector might have been a self-centred jock, and I think he didn't change much with the years, but agreeing to meet you in private to renew old flings and make you find him like this instead sounds oddly rude, even for him, don't you think so too, Lynette?" the sleuth interjected flatly, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm a married woman! Who says I was looking for a hook-up?" the woman – Lynette – hissed indignantly.
"Sherlock does, and I've learned to trust her completely. I'm not a priest. I won't blame you. But you'd agree that looking forward to imminent sex is not the mindset of a suicide. Do not worry. We can solve this. Just let us do our work."
While they went to examine the body, John whispered excitedly, "We're going to do things in reverse this time. I'll solve the case and you'll take the credit. It's high time we even things out a bit."
"Yes, well, thank you John, lovely thought, but…" Sherlock whispered back, holding in a laugh at the ridiculous idea.
"You don't believe I can solve a case. I've studied your methods, you know? I'll make you a wager: I'll solve this case before you, my dear consulting detective," the doctor declared hotly.
"And what would this wager entail?" she queried, curious.
"If you lose, you come with me for a weekend to Paris. You've not taken a holiday since I've known you, it's time for you to learn how to relax. And you? What do you want as your prize?" the former thief countered, with a winning smile.
"A year of your life," the sleuth quipped with a lopsided grin.
John shook his head in fond exasperation. "Sherlock…I hate to have to inform you that indentured servitude is out of fashion like deerstalker hats."
"Not that, silly. I get bored, and you have so many tales to tell, but insist behaving like a tight-lipped British man. I want to know what you've been up to for a year of your life. I can deduce that you've had such an interesting existence, but I can't deduce the stories. And I want them," the detective explained cheerfully.
They examined the body – who could decidedly not have hanged himself. And that's what they declared to the crowd who'd naturally formed when they got back. Murder. Sherlock tried not to be too enthusiastic announcing it. It was hard to do.
Lynette took them to a corner, and said, looking nervously around, "So Hector's been really murdered? I have to explain why I didn't want to believe it. Ten years ago, we were the best of friends – Hector, Crazy Jim, Declan Parker, Alice Abbington, and I. We were always daring each other to do absurd things – anything not to be bored. Then one day Jim came up with the idea of invading Teachers College, mess up the rooms and conclude it with fireworks from the roof. He loved fireworks so much. But while we were still messing around, he ran further along than us – and when we found him, he'd hanged himself from the tower, just like Hector was now. Jim had never been the most stable person – they didn't call him Crazy Jim for anything. That's why when I saw Hector there – well, I had a terrible déja vu, so I thought – it's happening again."
"Thank you for sharing this with us, it certainly sheds a new light on the case," John said politely. Then he grinned at Sherlock, adding, "Let's ditch this and go to Paris. I've solved it. It was the ghost. After all, Hector wouldn't have brought anyone with him since he anticipated sex, and if he was alone but that can't be suicide –"
The detective laughed. "You'll have to do better than this to earn your holiday. I don't believe in ghosts."
John pouted. "And what would you say if I told you I have a ghost in my family? An Army captain."
"Heroically died in war, no doubt?" Sherlock teased.
"Actually invalided home, became a serial gambler for the thrill of it and eventually knifed down in the back by someone he'd lost a wager against he couldn't pay. Waiting for one of his descendants to win an impossible wager," the former thief admitted, grinning.
"Does cheating count?" the sleuth asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Definitely."
Just then Declan Parker, white-faced, went over to them and mumbled, "There's a ghost haunting us, I tell you. I wandered into Teachers College – you know, memory lane, I used to date a girl who studied there, we always met secretly in the art room – and then I heard a scream. It might have been Hector, of course, but it didn't sound entirely like him. It sounded – oh, you'll think me mad. And then I saw a shadow, and it was - I can't say who it was, but I've been popping anxiolytics since then."
"Thank you for the clues, Declan," Sherlock sighed, extending her hand, while John looked smug.
"No, no, that's how the feds get you, poisoned needle hidden in the palm," the man raved.
"But we're not feds, are we?" John interjected, in his best placating tone. "John Watson, consulting detective. We only want to find the truth, not threaten anyone."
Declan's eyes shifted, uneasy, as if he didn't believe him at all. Then he grumbled, "When you show me documents and fingerprints, I'll believe you."
Sherlock couldn't help the shadow of a smile from playing on her lips. She'd never got around to knowing John's true identity. She could take his fingerprints from the flat and covertly run them through the police's database, Lestrade would do her the favour, but she didn't want to pry. She wanted him to be open with her – to fully trust her. She didn't even understand why she did. She shrugged. "No matter, thanks, we really have to keep investigating now." John trailed behind her.
The Dean had arrived, as well as the police, and he came straight towards John, frowning. "You're the one who denied it could be suicide?" he uttered confrontationally.
"Because it wasn't," the former thief said firmly, "I'm a doctor and a detective – I know these things. John Watson, pleased to meet you."
"But have you been informed that there's already been a suicide there? Are you sure you couldn't have misinterpreted the clues?" the Dean queried, stubborn. He didn't introduce himself. He assumed everyone inside his university would know who he was.
"Yes, but why don't you tell me your side of it?" the doctor prompted, more amiably, hoping to appease the man, outraged by the possibility of murder in his university.
"It was a nightmare. The day before, my wife's most precious ring – musgravite, rarer than diamonds – had been stolen. Then, we had the suicide in Teachers College – by a student who should not have crossed its threshold at all. Then one of our art students' pieces who'd been left to dry in the art room – it was a ceramic piece – disappeared, and then the following night, once again, the Teachers College was invaded at night and its rooms devastated. I very nearly searched for a new job," the man sighed.
"I'm glad you didn't. You might have shed a great light on the case," the doctor thanked him warmly.
"Umm…John? Didn't the police take the body down already?" Sherlock interjected then.
"They said they would," the Dean confirmed.
"There's a body up there now. Our killer might be more daring than we'd surmise. Or does the Dean want to state it's another case of serial suicides?" the detective sneered, spiteful. "It doesn't surprise me than the murderer managed to act under the policemen's nose. Oh, John, it's great!" she added enthusiastically.
There was, indeed, a second body hanging. Seeing it made the Dean faint. As for captain Gregson, who'd just arrived on the scene, he blushed a brilliant crimson when it was pointed out to him – and agreed with a sigh to accept their help. The new victim was no one else than Declan Parker.
They went once again to examine the old and new crime scene, and after a second, John took Sherlock aside. "Paris, here we come! Case solved," he whispered excitedly. "I found a name tag. Clumsy killer, uh?"
"What does it say?" she queried, clearly disappointed. Where was the fun in solving things like that?
"Jim Hawkins," he declared, smiling.
"That's the man who died ten years ago, John," the sleuth pointed out, a satisfied gleam in her eyes.
"You sure?" he whispered.
"Crazy Jim Hawkins stalked me for a while, back then. I've been relieved when he died, honestly. Very sure," she revealed, shrugging.
"And do they know that?" John quipped, starting to believe once more his preternatural theory. They discovered soon that the place was rigged, so whatever sound or shadow had scared Declan made sense at least. The culprit was a woman, of that much Sherlock was sure, but he still needed a clue to put a name to her.
When they noticed a blonde, petite woman trying to get away, John stopped her. "Sorry Miss, but we are to remain here until the police has interrogated us."
"Like hell! My body's gonna be the next up there. I'm not staying," she hissed angrily.
"What makes you say that?" Sherlock queried calmly.
"Because before I was Candy Sheen, I was Alice Abbington. Someone doesn't believe we don't have it, I think. Though why so late is a mystery. I'm next, I tell you!" the woman grit out, fear mixed with her rage.
"Black widow Alice Abbington?" the detective asked, an enthusiastic gleam in her eyes.
"That was a complete misunderstanding. Had to change my name when it became infamous, though," the blonde replied, shrugging.
"So you're…a ghost," John pointed out, looking at her suspiciously. He didn't believe her claim about the mysterious 'something' the killer would be searching for. That looked like a red herring.
"Not yet, but I will be if I don't leave," she reiterated stubbornly.
"Don't worry. We'll solve this case before it can happen," the doctor assured, grinning.
Sherlock rolled her eyes at her boss' antics. What made John so sure? If they didn't find the last clue – it's true that what happened ten years ago was clear now, but who was killing tonight?
And then, while the doctor was still occupied reassuring Miss Abbington, she disappeared. Go figure. John's past career had luckily made him sharp-eyed enough to notice the well-hidden entrance of a secret passage. Bet there was where she'd gone. He dived in and, as expected, reached Sherlock in the tight, dark corridor. "Does this reach Teachers College?" he whispered, instinctively keeping his voice low.
"Among other places, certainly, given the inclination and turn of it. I guess that our esteemed police had some justification for not noticing the killer coming and going," she replied, shrugging.
John and his gun (why had he even brought a gun at an alumni reunion?) passed in front, with some maneuvering and brushing against each other in the small passage (if she held his breath was only to make herself smaller and help him pass, not because she liked it, oh no).
"I have a proposal," he murmured in the dark, searching her hand.
"What?" Sherlock queried, curious as always.
"Let's cancel the bet and just give each other our prizes," John offered, grinning.
"You'd give away a year worth of your secrets?" she countered, surprised.
"For a romantic weekend with you? Gladly," the former thief replied honestly.
And the sleuth was flattered, and wanted – oh, she wanted to give in. But he was a charmer, no doubt with a girl in every corner of the world, and she wouldn't be just his last conquest. So instead she bit back, "And leave your ancestor to suffer? Shame on you, John. We're seeing this bet to its end."
After a few moments, "I'm stuck," he complained, blushing in awkwardness. His foot had caught on something and now their advance was impossible. The detective flicked her lighter to see and help…and they were from the darkness further down the passage. John shot back, while ducking, Sherlock flattening herself on top of him. (Mmmm…that was nice, thought the ex soldier. Might need to be shot at more often.) Then the shots died down, quick steps running away. With a last tug, his foot came unstuck – and his trousers' hem ripped. They ran forward, giving chase, blood singing in excitement…and found Lynette once again.
"Caught you," John declared sternly, gun pointing at her.
She yelped loudly. But her body language was all wrong for a trapped assassin. Sherlock quickly patted her down. "She doesn't have a gun, John. And we didn't find one on the way here," the sleuth announced. "There must have been some other exit we haven't noticed on the way."
"Of course I don't have a gun," Lynette protested vibrantly.
"Then what are you doing here?" the doctor blurted out, trying to understand.
"Hiding! I'm not stupid. Jim told me of this place – he and his little sister found it by chance when they came to visit the university the first time. And this has something to do with Jim – which makes me a target," the woman explained, as if it was most obvious.
"Of course it has to do with Jim. You and your friends stole the Dean's wife's ring and then you killed Jim. Did you have a falling out? Did he not want to share the loot with you all? That's clear enough," Sherlock agreed, looking almost bored.
"He hid the ring and told us that was going to be his little sister's dowry, and that we wouldn't see a cent. Declan and Hector got angry and killed him. We got scared and ran then, but afterwards we went back to Teachers College – he had to have hid it there, as it was not in his room or his locker or any of his usual hideouts – and still, we never found it," Lynette admitted quietly.
Of course she said the already murdered people had killed Jim. Sherlock was pretty sure they'd all ganged up on him, but ten years later there'd be no evidence. (And anyway, hadn't she been happy of the news at the time – somewhere in the drug haze after Vic leaving? The drug had kept her from even thinking about investigating the matter. A sliver of…not guilt, but disappointment in herself surfaced, but she quickly shot it down. Not now.)
"Well, someone knew or suspected. Maybe she searched for evidence until now, maybe she was otherwise busy, or she thought now was the perfect moment to act – anniversaries, sentiment, something like that," the detective explained for John's benefit. Just in case he hadn't followed.
Someone who had lost an earring – she'd noticed it, a sparkle of dark green in the shadows of the passage, and it wasn't Lynette's. She wore agate.
They went back, found the exit their murderer must have used – and they were soon in the middle of the party. Apparently the people had decided that two puny murders were not reason enough not go on with their plans of drinking, showing off to each other and having a jolly good time. Why, they'd even gone on with the election of the Homecoming Queen.
She was on stage, wearing a diamond tiara that was at odds with her own set of emerald jewels…a set which lacked an earring.
"It's her!" John whispered excitedly, but minding his promise to let Sherlock have the show, pointing his gun at the woman - but, of course, the sleuth had already noticed and didn't need any prompting to yell so.
Gregson, who'd left the crime scene and wandered around in search of clues (and maybe was a bit too much interested to the queen candidates, considering how close he was to stage) was quick to act and arrest her.
Then the police captain asked the hows, and whys, which were answered partly by Sherlock and partly by his own loose-tongued prisoner (who still had the gun on her, and if the captain hadn't been so quick to obey them and handcuff her there could have been a showdown with who knows how many collateral damages).
Janine Wells (she'd taken her mother's last name), little sister of Crazy Jim Hawkins, had gone to his same university, investigated the matter of the death of her beloved brother who'd been 'betrayed' by his friends and finally concocted a plan that seemed perfect to her to give them all his same death. She was just sorry that she couldn't find them all before being caught.
Later on, back in the peace of their own home, Sherlock complimented her flatmate. "You're really starting to become good, John. I purposefully didn't point out to you that earring, but you noticed anyway."
"What? Which earring? What are you talking about? No, no. I noticed she had a gun. It was well hidden, I'll give you that, but I've been in a warzone. As a soldier, I was trained to notice supposed civilians who hid weapons – they might be terrorists," John explained, looking taken aback.
"You'll have to train me in that," the sleuth demanded at once. She noticed a lot, but she hadn't noticed the gun. Mummy was right. She still missed things she absolutely shouldn't.
"Sure," the doctor agreed amiably.
"So we solved it at the same time from different clues. It's a draw," Sherlock added. She was disappointed. But because she hadn't won…or because she hadn't lost?
"Six months of tales for a day holiday in a place of my choosing?" John offered, solomonic.
"Seems fair," the sleuth agreed, smiling. Then she added, "We are detectives. We should solve cases if we can right?" But she sounded oddly…displeased.
"We just did," the former thief pointed out, puzzled.
"Yes, but I can solve it entirely," she remarked, pursing her lips. "At least I think."
"What?" the doctor queried. What was unsolved yet?
Sherlock took the teapot from the back of the top cupboard. This was not their usual teapot. This was the teapot of the grand occasions, when she had guests she wanted to creep out (Mycroft hated it), or if she was down and wanted something beautiful to cheer herself up. This teapot was an anatomically correct heart, in a reddish-brown colour, complete with aorta and vena cava. And John stared at it with the same charmed wonder Sherlock herself felt for this beauty. It broke her heart to have to do this.
"I stole this from the art room of Teachers College ten years ago. It would have never been as appreciated by anyone else – that's what I thought. And well, I had spent all my allowance on drugs and couldn't buy it from the author. I was still convinced I was making the teapot a favour – I love it," she explained, putting off the moment to act.
With that, she deliberately dropped it to the ground, where it broke in dozens of pieces…and there, stuck in the vena cava, was the blue-green musgravite ring of the Dean's wife.
John let out an exclamation of wonder. It was like a magic trick! He gently took the ring – they'd give it back with some fabricated explanation and their already sterling reputation would become that of miracle workers.
"They realized that Jim had hid his loot in Teachers College and ransacked the art room…but I had already popped in and taken the teapot I'd instantly fallen in love with by then. Jim must have seen that it had yet to harden completely and hid it inside, thinking such a peculiar art piece would be easy to keep track of, but he didn't consider how angry his partners in crime would be. Pity it's broken, though," Sherlock remarked, sounding honestly sad over the ruined crockery. It was silly of her, of course. But it had been beautiful!
"Yeah well, good thing I'm a surgeon. I know how to put back a heart – even one in so many pieces. Do we have any superglue?" he said cheerfully. The hopeful, grateful look on Sherlock's face was worth of a much greater feat than this.