Disclaimer: I own nothing (still).
Episode 5: Watson the beach?
"Remind me again why you're taking this holiday to the other side of the States," Sherlock demanded, a not-pout (but something that was very close to one) on her full lips, "especially since we'd just had one."
"That's not a holiday," John objects, not for the first time (and really, calling 'holiday' the one day not-date he won is atretching things a but far). "It's a publicity move – of some sort. And I was asked to participate, and the cause is good."
"Yes, because the reintroduction in Oregon of sea otters in the wild is such a fundamental issue," the detective snarled. She couldn't simply admit that she'd gotten used to her…boss' (yeah, boss worked) presence and didn't want to have to give it up. But the silly environmentalists had asked for his support, she had no excuse to follow him, and so she tried to guilt him into staying. Simple logic.
"They're cute critters. Having more cute critters in the world can only do it good," he replied, mirth in his eyes. He couldn't mention the reason he'd probably accept to uphold such a cause even without what he'd surprisingly managed to keep a secret from the detective still. Sherlock might very well turn him in if he teased her about the evident likeness between her and said cute critters.
"And if we have a case while you're off gallivanting?" the sleuth countered, using the best bait in her arsenal for the adrenaline addict.
The one John would have fallen for, if not for his little secret. "I'm sure you'll manage," he said instead, shrugging.
Sherlock huffed. Of course she0d manage, she0d always managed before she knew he even existed. But she wouldn't like it as much, if she had to go back to solving cases alone. To her shame, she had to admit – if strictly to herself – that it was different going on a case knowing someone always had her back, no matter what. "Then you better go, or you'll lose your flight," she prompted, flopping on the sofa and giving him a very cold shoulder.
"I'll see you soon," John said, taking his trolley and leaving with a little sigh. Now she was going to sulk – who knows until when? Hopefully she'd forgive him by the time he was back.
A secret smile played on his lips during the flight. The doctor thought back to the emails he'd received, containing no more than otter images and adverts of the project and a signature. The addresses of these emails were very interesting, though. They read Discovered something big, Please Help, More to follow. On paper, Don't wanna get hacked. When he'd received the invitation to participate to the Sea Otter Reintroduction Committee he'd been very pleased indeed.
This was a case. A case he should have mentioned to Sherlock, but he thought that if he could work out a case all by himself, he'd win her admiration. Admiration was a good start for what he hoped.
When John arrived at the reunion of the committee – of which he'd been offered the position of honorary chairman (celebrity brought good things) – he smiled and shook hands and expressed his ardent love of otters. Mostly the members looked like arrogant, stuck-up, possibly obsessive people. He was very glad that he hadn't brought Sherlock along. He could just imagine the effect a few well placed deductions could have had on the company. The only normal and honestly friendly people seemed Bill and his wife Jordan – he was a director and would be making a documentary on the return of the otters in the wild when the project came through. If she wasn't here with her husband, he'd have loved to flirt with Jordan a bit afterwards, but such nice plans were not destined to go through.
John was surprised when a heavily built, bearded mam he'd still not been introduced to physically cornered him. "You're a detective, Mr Watson," he stated, almost growling.
"That's my job, yes," John replied, smiling amiably.
"I am a congressman, I have a reputation. I demand to know if there's even the shadow of a suspect on this project," the man continued, sounding outraged.
"I assure you I'm here only for my love of otters, Mr…" the doctor trailed off. As far as he knew, everyone here was a suspect (of what he wasn't certain yet). He wouldn't discover his game.
"Carruthers. You'll hear of me," the man said proudly.
"I'm sure," John agreed, with another bland smile.
Much more pleasant was the blonde, buxom widow, "Elaine Winter, millions inherited and yet so desperately bored," who smiled, winked at him and suggested sneaking out of the reunion. John agreed – if he heard another arrogant bastard drone about the unfairness of the lack of wild sea otters in the area he'd go mad, no matter how much he liked the critters.
"You know, today we should have discussed the report on the island we want to turn into an otter sanctuary, but our consultant never sent it. What do you say? Shall we go see him and check what kept him? He's my friend," Elaine prompted.
"Sure," John agreed easily. He was investigating this woman, and if she was into threesomes, well that was data, as Sherlock would call it, wasn't it? he very much didn't expect her friend to be the same man who'd signed the emails he'd received, and only barely managed to hide his knowledge of the name. Things were about to turn much more interesting than he'd thought. They rang the bell, but no one answered.
"Maybe he's ill?" his companion queried, frowning. "He always keeps a spare key under the doormat, shall we help ourselves in and check if he needs help?"
"I like how you think," John replied, grinning. He would get some more clues soon, and maybe a full explanation. Of course, he didn't expect to find the owner of the house drowned in his own tub.
In the meantime, on the other side of the States, Sherlock was bored. She'd changed password to John's laptop, just because she could (he'd have to come begging to her if he ever wanted to use it again, there was no way he could guess the apparently random string of numbers and letters), and then checked Oregonian press online. Only to check he wasn't botching things up, obviously. And apparently he was. 'Murder, says boffin John Watson', proclaimed the newest titles. How did he dare go on a crime scene without her? It wasn't fair. They were a team.
Apparently someone else objected to John's behaviour, because soon a meek Mrs Hudson had to introduce (well, the man walked past and almost over her – which made the sleuth not a little angry) congressman – he wouldn't let anyone forget that fact – Carruthers, who demanded a full retraction. He angrily stated this was a ploy to bring shame to their commendable project and that, to boot, Mr Watson was holding onto documents that rightfully belonged to the committee, as in the dead man's diary had been found the annotation that the report on the future otters' haven's condition had been sent to one John Watson.
Sherlock assured him that they were not withholding any documents, illegally or otherwise, and promised to promptly send the report over should their agency receive it, but she also defended her boss' "criminal intuition…errr, knowledge of criminals and their methods," assuring that John had to have serious clues to make such an accusation. At least she bloody hoped so – she was going to have his hide if he was wrong (not that she said as much). But her first instinct was to trust John and his judgement.
The report of the murder victim seemed to be in high demand, because the congressman had just departed that the widow heiress of the Winter fortune came over, cooing about how "dear John" had apparently forgotten to bring it to the reunion and that she'd really like to know why he was such a workaholic that he saw murders everywhere. "And I so tried to help him relax," the blonde sighed.
Sherlock repressed a stab of jealousy – they weren't together, it didn't matter what Watson did and with whom – but firmly gave her the same assurances she'd offered to Carruthers…and then she went to Bellevue, hoping the cute, stammering pathologist there would have some organs for her to play with to lighten her mood. (Yes, she was not above using the man's obvious crush on her. If he was too blind to see she wasn't interested it wasn't her fault.)
Now, she'd never been the most tidy person, but coming back from Bellevue (with a set of five ears which could prove interesting) to find the flat veritably ransacked (and, after a rapid check, both their pc stolen – and only these) made her twitch. She called for Mrs Hudson – more to be sure she was fine than any other reason.
When the old woman saw the mess, she sighed deeply. "Oh, Sherlock. I realise you miss him, dear, but isn't this going a bit too far?"
"Mrs Hudson, it wasn't me. I swear," the detective stated in earnest.
"Oh," their secretary breathed. "Do you think this is tied to whatever case John has started in Oregon that caused all that flurry this morning? Will he be safe?"
"John knows how to take care of himself, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock assured, shrugging.
John would be glad for the vote of confidence, had he known…even if at the moment he'd been slightly kidnapped by a nameless thug and brought to meet 'boss' – which was someone the former thief recognized. "Oh hello Mr Woodley. How are things going after the swindling of the century?" he said cheerfully.
"The papers blew that totally out of proportions," Woodley – who rather looked like a sallow-faced rat – lamented. "And I already paid for that."
"Not entirely, I bet. There are a lot of back taxes to be repaid involved in your kind of crime," John remarked casually.
"How sweet of you to worry over me, Mr Watson. But don't worry. I have my ways, and my funds, and there is something even for you if you do not cross my plans," Woodley replied, insinuating.
"Let's talk business, Mr Woodley. How much would I be getting? And in exchange for what?" the doctor asked, perfectly conscious that antagonizing him would only worsen his position.
"I like your attitude, John," the swindler declared, grinning. "25000 dollars for the report on the island that's to become the new otter sanctuary. You won't get a better price."
"You of course understand that I don't have it on me," John pointed out reasonably.
"Naturally," Woodley agreed. "Oh, and a friendly warning, John – don't let yourself be fooled by Elaine. She's the treacherous sort. When I found her she was a rough diamond, and I polished her, made her into a lady – but did I gain something from her? Oh, no!"
"Thank you for the advice. I'd get going, if it's all right with you and Brawn," the former thief responded, keeping a polite smile on his face.
"Don't call Dom Brawn. He was a priest once, you know? He knows Latin and all that jazz. Then he found his true calling," Woodley scolded, ending in a laugh.
"Of course. Sorry, Dom. Bye, everyone," John acknowledged, leaving with a certain hastiness. His plan to solve a case by himself had just crashed. This was something he couldn't solve on his own. If Sherlock had been the first on the crime scene she'd have solved it on the spot, he didn't doubt it. What had he been thinking?
Besides, the victim writing he'd sent John the report would send any rivals or accomplices Woodley had back home. He owed Sherlock at least a warning (and fine, yes, he missed her already – he very well couldn't tell her as much, though).
"As Dorothy would say, there's no place like home…" he proclaimed, entering the flat back after a long flight full of questions. "…Or not?" he concluded, looking around at the chaos, much worse than the sleuth's usual clutter.
"Mrs Hudson says she's our landlady and secretary, not housekeeper," the detective complained loudly. "Apparently being robbed doesn't warrant any help. To be fair, her hip has been bothering her more than usual lately."
"We've been robbed?" John echoed, in an undignified yelp. But hey, he was shocked. And worried. Sherlock seemed certainly fine, but what if she was not?
"Yes, keep up, John. They took just our laptops, though obviously they searched for something more, but never mind that. What matters is that. You. Took. A. Case. Without. Me," the sleuth scolded, clearly outraged.
"Yes, well, it sort of came up," John stammered, clearly apologetic. Better not disclose his earlier projects, lest Sherlock decided to punish him somehow. He'd already thoughtlessly endangered her (what had he been thinking?) and making her more cranky was not in his best interest. What was certain was that the warning he'd come to deliver was a bit late. So instead he prompted, grinning, "Come back to Oregon with me. We have a hornet's nest to stir."
"Obviously," the sleuth agreed, popping into her room and coming back with an already packed suitcase.
John had to participate to the next reunion of the committee, anyway, and smuggling in Sherlock so she could covertly observe all them – and presumably divine which were involved in the murder (which had to be only the last link of some sort of bigger, more devious plan) probably by how they buttoned their shirts – was fun.
When he saw that the committee was already debating, at his arrival, whether to buy congressman Carruthers' island to convert into an otter sanctuary, he interjected quickly. After a short, passionate and altogether rambling rant about the necessity of protecting otters for future generations' sake, he smirked and dropped his bomb. "And anyway, I've got your consultant's report on the island. Don't you want to see it before investing so much money in it for the otters' good?"
If Woodley wanted it, he bet that anyone involved in the murder would want it too, and just looking on while it was mentioned Sherlock should be able to figure something out.
A chorus of voices agreed with John quite enthusiastically.
"I've got an offer of 25000 dollars for it. Someone wants to top that offer?" he challenged the room, grinning.
All the same voices this time rose in outrage, but none higher than that of congressman Carruthers, who promised lawsuits and due retribution for this clear attempt at blackmail.
John left the reunion without replying to any of them. "So?" he asked Sherlock, joining her in her hideout.
"I have a theory, but I still lack some data. I'm going to bully the victim's autopsy report out of the local pathologist. I'm trusting you. If you're accosted – and I think you will be – just follow your instinct. It's served you well until now," the sleuth replied, smiling.
"Thanks. I will," the doctor assured, smiling back. He'd have liked to know who was he supposed to particularly look for, but he'd started this case without telling her so he couldn't very well complain for her reserve now.
The detective had just departed, when Elaine Winter came to find him, a serious look on her face. "Oh John, I'm so glad I finally found you. I need some information, and I hope you will tell me – we've become good friends, haven't we?" she said, winking at him.
"I will tell you something for free, dear. Stop using me," he declared, more harshly than she clearly expected.
"What?" she yelped, faking shock admirably.
"Look, I'm not saying you've killed that man or anything, but you're definitely more involved than you want to admit," John replied. One didn't have to be Sherlock to figure that out. The way she'd 'pulled' him, brought him to 'check on a dear friend'…they were all very deliberate actions. "I'll even bet that you wanted me to be the one to claim – following all the supposed evidence – that it was accidental death. I'd be a stranger, an independent witness, and that fit your plans nicely. But I messed your plot by recognising the murder. I'll tell you again – you can't use me."
"No, apparently not, but you can use me instead," Elaine murmured, touching his arm. "And even if you don't like me as much as I thought, and I'll have you know that jury's still out on that, I'm worth millions. I can be properly grateful to you for your help. Fine, I won't ask, I'll tell you – it's Woodley who offered to buy the report, right?"
"Got it in one, sister," the former thief admitted, smirking. Sherlock had said to trust his instinct, not keep his secrets at any cost. "He said you have a past," he mentioned airily.
"Yes, we do. When I was young, foolish and naïve. Oh please John. I loathe that horrible man. He's been trying to have me in his power for years. Whatever you do, do not give him the report. I can't explain, but I need this initiative to go through. Please, my dear. Be my knight in shining armour – and you might get the princess," the widow cooed.
John barely held in a snort at the idea of this clearly coguarish woman as a swooning princess. "I've not given it to Woodley yet. I promise I won't act rashly," he countered.
She pouted – and unlike Sherlock, she really couldn't pull that off. She looked ridiculous – probably because her ruby painted lips were clearly filled by a plastic surgeon. "That's not the promise I want."
"It's all you're going to get…for now," he replied, shrugging. He abandoned her, unheeding of her further attempts to either persuade or seduce him. The former thief was all for a bit of seduction on the side of any job, but he did not take desperate people who were clearly trying to manipulate him. Even he had standards, for God's sake. Instead, he went back to the crime scene. Where – like he expected – he found and excited Sherlock.
"John! John! John I got the autopsy report. I have to praise your instinct. Sure, you didn't properly deduced what happened, missed most of everything that happened to you, but you always point me in the right direction. You're a light conductor, John, and a magnificent one, at that," she ranted, clearly eager.
"Thanks?" he replied, not really certain if he'd just been praised, insulted or both.
"Anyway, I've been around here to check for clues, but I'm done, and I suggest we move to the true crime scene," the sleuth prompted, dragging him by the arm.
"The true crime scene?" the doctor echoed, unsure of what she meant.
"In the water inside the victim's lungs there were traces of chemical compounds. Pcb, to be precise. Polychlorinated biphenyl. They're not normally present in your tub's water," the detective revealed, eyes shining with glee.
"The area the victim was analysing – the one he had to write that blasted report about!" John exclaimed, figuring it out.
"Obviously," she agreed. "Come on, John, we have a trip to make!"
They realized soon that they were being tailed by someone in a plum colored car, but that only made them both giggle like teenagers. A few daring manoeuvrings afterwards – Sherlock would definitely not pass any driving safety tests, but John didn't mind – they managed to shake their tail. "I love…how you drive," John blurted out.
His companion laughed, elated. Not even the two flat tires they got not long afterwards (and isn't two a bit too much, even with the sleuth's wild driving style?) can dampen their enthusiasm. They found a garage a garage only a few metres far. A garage who should have been closed years ago, since it didn't even have tires to change theirs. But apparently these were of an odd type of tires (first time John heard that). anyway, they were offered a courtesy car, and if it seemed like that should be rather heeded for the breaker's yard instead, well, beggars can't be choosers. John even thanked the man who ran the garage, to cover for Sherlock's spiteful glare.
They went back to the steep road they were on, all turns, down the cliff towards the rocky beach underneath…only to discover at the second turn that the breaks didn't work. "Out!" Sherlock yelled urgently. They'd barely jumped out of that wreck that the car tumbled down off the side of the road, crashing.
"Someone do not want us to get there, and is going to a lot of trouble to ensure it," John remarked, still a bit breathless. Their tires hadn't become flat on their own – someone had to have left something sharp on the road.
"Stop stating the obvious, John, and start walking," the detective prompted, huffing.
"Of course. At least the sight is good," he replied, smiling. And if he was looking at her instead of the breathtaking scenery when he said it, nobody remarked on it.
There was a small village nestled near the beach, in front of the future otter sanctuary island. Sherlock walked all over on the beach, randomly getting to his knees to examine God knew what. John hoped she had found some clues, as he certainly couldn't see any – it seemed a perfectly regular beach. But when she declared the victim had been drowned in a particular cove, her companion knew not to doubt her. Nothing was on the beach – but if she said so, it certainly had been.
Afterwards the detective strode with purpose into the village and to the mayor's office, demanding to see the local land register. John – and his undeserved fame – backed her up, so they were allowed to. The sleuth clucked her tongue but didn't seem surprised to see the page relative to the island had been torn off the book.
A quick description of the people involved to an helpful employee revealed that Elaine Winter had consulted the same book only a week ago. It was time for another chat with the widow – and this time, John would have had Sherlock at his side.
He texted her – she'd given him her number as soon as they met – and was invited back at her villa. "I didn't think you'd bring anyone. Our dealings were meant to be…private," she purred, managing to sound insinuating.
"Yes, well, that was before you tried to have us both killed," John grumbled, glaring at her. There'd been absolutely nothing between them – he didn't want Sherlock getting the wrong idea.
"What? No, I didn't! It must have been Woodley – he's the villain in all this!" Elaine protested loudly.
"Oh, he's certainly involved, more than John thinks maybe, but he's not alone in this. Allow me to state things for you, if you're too embarrassed for it," Sherlock interjected coldly.
"State what?" Elaine queried, suspicious.
"The island was yours. You need this project to go through because you need money to give Woodley to pay back his taxes and can't use your money, as most of it is in a trust fund you can barely touch. Now, why would you pay him? You have a past. And Woodley keeps around a former priest. I'd bet it's the priest who married you. You've never been Mrs Winter, were you? Not legally. I don't think a bigamous wife should inherit by their second husband. But congressman Carruthers is helping you in your scam – what does he get out of this? No matter, we'll find out soon," Sherlock revealed.
"Are you a witch?" the widow accused, paling like a sheet.
"No, just a bloody magnificent detective," John replied, smiling proudly at the sleuth. "Why involve Carruthers, anyway? Couldn't you sell the island?"
"To the committee I founded? How would that look? Woodley found Carruthers for me, and I followed his plan. I bet he's the one who murdered my poor friend!" Elaine whimpered, pleading for them to believe her.
Sherlock took an envelope from her purse and waved it under the widow's nose. "The famous report," she announced cheekily. "But we'll need to solve the murder before giving it up. Please organise a meeting with all the people involved in this silly little scheme for tomorrow at noon. As soon as the case ends satisfactorily, we'll stop holding onto this. Also, we want our laptops back."
Elaine tried to snatch it out of her hands, but failed. "Fine. I suppose that's a reasonable request – since I am innocent," she huffed.
"See you tomorrow," Sherlock added, leaving regally, John on her trail. As soon as they left the widow's villa, the former thief queried, "Now you can tell me. What was in the envelope?"
"Our electric bill," the sleuth admitted, smirking. "Kudos for realising I was faking it."
"I'm starting to know you, my dear," the doctor replied, an odd mix of smug and fond. He loved Sherlock's talent for acting. Why hadn't she become a Hollywood star was a mystery (well, not – she'd be bored to death).
The following day saw them all – Woodley, Dom, Carruthers, the widow (though John supposed she was Mrs Woodley, but bigamy made things confusing), John and Sherlock. Their stolen laptops sat on the table.
"The report," Carruthers growled, frowning.
"After the case is solved. Who's going to take the fall?" John replied, smirking.
"Not me. I have a gun. I wouldn't have drowned the victim," Dom hissed, showing his weapon and waving it around without impressing anyone.
"Or just ensured they fell off the road – do not worry, no hard feelings. But it is true, I don't think you could know where the victim kept his spare key," John agreed, nodding.
"It wasn't me!" Elaine yelped immediately. "Do not try to pin this on me!"
"Of course not," Sherlock snorted. "You're not strong enough to haul a waterlogged dead body taller than you back to his home, and while you've been all together in the scam, the way you're accusing each other means this wasn't a concerted act. You'd have prepared alibi at least. Among four people there should be at least two functioning neurons to rub together."
"Hey I just wanted my money, I couldn't care less about the details. I didn't even know the committee had hired a consultant," Woodley protested loudly.
"A consultant found with PCB in his lungs. Which means the area he was examining is polluted. PCBs are deadly to otters. How would it have looked for a leader of conservationists to try to sell a poisoned land as otter sanctuary, congressman? Not exactly good publicity, is it? But you had to go through with this project – Woodley has some hold on you," John explained, suddenly realising.
"Where do you think the congressman found the money for his campaign?" Sherlock pointed out, contemptuous. "And as an eminent member of the committee, he had every occasion to befriend the victim. I'd say his built is adequate for carrying a body, too."
"I'm not – you won't," Carruthers spluttered, before trying to flee. When John punched him the man went down like a sack of potatoes.
"The plan is not going to go through, is it?" Woodley sighed.
"No it won't. But you have a choice. You can leave your wife alone and stop blackmailing her or whatever other associates you're trying to pressure into helping you and run – we'll give you a couple of hours. Or you can explain what you were trying to do to the police. I think being on the run – and you better not try to come back – might be punishment enough of you," the detective stated sternly.
"Thank you. I won't forget that," Woodley said eagerly. "Come on, Dom!"
"And me?" Elaine queried tremulously.
"If a man is too stupid to check his love isn't already married before the wedding, it's not our business. I expect that without your husband around you won't have a reason to commit more crimes. If you do…" the sleuth trailed off her warning.
"I'll have you to deal with. I know. It's been a pleasure, John," the widow acknowledged meekly.
"If you hadn't tried to use me, I'd even say it back," he replied, shrugging.
They took their laptop, warned the local police, explaining in all the details they could the reason for the murder, and soon John and Sherlock were on a flight home.
"You're too soft-hearted with criminals," John remarked amiably.
"Are you seriously going to complain about that?" she bit back, raising an amused eyebrow.
"You let Woodley and his wife go – and here I thought you hated blackmailers," he pointed out softly.
"I do, but Elaine was hardly an innocent, helpless victim – her whole life and wealth had been built on lies. And we couldn't expose him without exposing her," the sleuth replied, shrugging.
"So you spared Woodley because you sympathised with the widow?" John queried, curious.
"I don't sympathise with anyone, John," the detective bit back, as if it was the worst accusation she'd ever heard.
"But you know something about building one's life on lies," he pointed out matter-of-factly.
"Not as much as you, John Watson," Sherlock countered crisply.
"No, not as much," the former thief agreed good-naturedly. "It must be fate that united us when we're so well matched, don't you think?"
"Don't be an idiot," she replied, half-mumbling – but her cheekbones were stained pink.