Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Episode 7: The most eligible bachelor
"I fail to see what's so great about being unable to hold a commitment," Sherlock grumbled in the cab.
"Of course, it's silly," John agreed, but still the smug expression didn't leave his face, "but after all it's a good advertising move, and we do get a free holiday out of it." When a popular magazine had informed them that John Watson was in the top five most eligible bachelors of the East Coast, and that they would be glad if he could participate to a cruise with the others so the magazine could make a piece out of it, John couldn't say yes fast enough.
But he'd asked if he could have a plus one, and when they agreed, somehow roped Sherlock into coming. She suspected having been drugged into complacence, but kept that idea to herself. Truth was, he'd asked if he could have a plus two, because he knew perfectly well Sherlock wasn't going to be manageable without Mrs Hudson's help, but he'd kept it a secret from the sleuth. Their secretary had promised to let them have their privacy unless she was needed for damage control.
"It may be good advertising, but I won't like it," the detective insisted stubbornly. "I'd much rather stay home and work."
"You need to unwind, and since you refused my offer of a massage the other day…" the doctor trailed off, shrugging.
"You're impossible, you know?" she bit back, frustrated. Of course she had refused. That would be entirely too much hands on her not to pose an unacceptable risk.
"Pot. Kettle. Black," he replied simply.
When they arrived at the ship (a huge thing, with a ridiculous name like Golden Arrow) and a sailor announced them as Watson and guest while checking their tickets, the sleuth protested, "I have a name."
"And an unforgettable one, but you've wanted me to take the spotlight. That's what I'm doing. You can't get angry at people for that," John pointed out, putting a calming hand on her arm.
"I still have a name," she groaned. She hated this already.
"Yes, Sherlock," he agreed, placating.
Then there was a brown-eyed woman in a dove-grey suit coming to them. "I'm Tilly Briggs, from the magazine's staff. Welcome, Mr Watson. I'll supervise everything, so you can come to my cabin at any time of the day…or the night…if you have any needs. If you'd follow me to the lounge, we'll handle introductions and then depart."
"Of course," John agreed, smiling genially. "Sherlock, if you could please wait for my company until that's dealt with…"
"Of course I will, boss. I'll just stay rooted here so you don't have to search for me afterwards," she uttered demurely. With a completely straight face, the bastard. John knew he was already in trouble, but he hadn't surmised his predicament to be that big so soon. He was doing all this only for advertising, which meant getting more cases, which meant Sherlock wouldn't be bored. Didn't she get it?
A part of the lounge had been hidden by drapers, and that was where Mrs Briggs asked John to stand until his name would be called. He could see the other bachelors, but as no one greeted him he made no attempt at conversation either.
"Welcome, everyone," she said, moving to the open part of the lounge and clearly talking to the public gathered there. "I know, you're all anxious to finally meet these fine specimens of the male figure. Each and everyone here is dreaming to trap one of these hard-to-get gentlemen in front of a priest. Well, best of luck, everyone. You know that the captain of a ship can legally celebrate marriages too, don't you?" Tilly winked. The crowd cheered.
"Now, without further ado, I present to you the five most eligible bachelors of the East Coast. Or, well, the four, because doctor James Mortimer, the famous surgeon of Boston, had to refuse joining us at the last minute. But you know how it is, doctors, always busy saving lives… I don't doubt that he's more necessary where he is now," she added. "But we do have – Butch Staunton, the football star. Please, show yourself."
The public catcalled loudly and enthusiastically at the appearance of the beloved athlete. "Now, Mr Staunton, he really needs no presentation. Especially because here we have someone you know very well. The cheerleaders for your team! I'll have to ask you to pick only one for the day, though, and leave some for the other guests' entertainment," Mrs Briggs said, smiling.
The known player – in every field – picked a slim, green eyed, black haired girl who could barely breath, "Sally…" reverently.
"And now…Eddie Lucas, stockbroker. He loves classical music and poetry. So he's far from being a man only absorbed in his cold numbers, you see. We have a sensitive soul here," Tilly continued.
The tall, grey eyed, black haired man called on the scene smiled and picked one grinning, red haired girl, with eyes of a warm brown and a lovely smattering of freckles. "Tyanata…Tyanata Draven, Eddie. But you can call me Tya," she introduced herself, eyes twinkling.
"My dear ladies, third is…Mr John Watson, the famous sleuth. While he unveils other people's secrets, our Mr Watson is rather reticent about himself," Mrs Briggs introduced him.
John was almost blinded by the flash cameras, but grinned nonetheless. "Well, half the fun is in discovering things for oneself, isn't it?" he interjected. Then he winked. Just because he could.
"Spoken like a true ladykiller," Tilly replied. "So? Who's going to be your favourite?"
"Sherlock," was on the tip of his tongue, but he had to play his part. He picked a petite, red haired, honey eyed girl.
"Milly. Milly Fairbrush," she said, smiling widely and taking his arm.
"And last but very much not least…Pitt Carey, of the Carey and Carey law firm." Once the stern-looking lawyer selected a companion too, and a few more photos were taken, they were invited to enjoy the cruise.
In the meantime, a tall – taller than her, even – blond and grey haired man came to Sherlock's side, asking her, "Why all alone here, Miss?"
"This is not the entertainment I'd have chosen. I can make without watching people behave like peacocks," she countered sharply.
He laughed warmly. "Very true. Young men can be so arrogant."
"And you? Are you involved in this…thing?" she replied. Making conversation as John taught her instead of immediately spitting her deductions. Her boss would be proud. Besides, she was bored. Any company was better than none (fine, she might be a bit desperate).
"Wish I could say I wasn't, but I'm Simon Williams, the publisher. It is a bit of a ridiculous initiative, I know, but it sells. And it allows people to dream, so it can't be all that bad, can it?" he answered, still smiling.
"These kinds of dreams are noxious," Sherlock spit.
"Really? Have you never dreamt the prince charming coming to sweep you away?" the man teased kindly.
"I'm not very much into fairy tales," the detective replied diplomatically. Better not make anyone want to throw her overboard if she could help it. Of course, when John was back she could be herself. If he hadn't already been stolen by that slutty supervisor or some else ditzy girl. It wasn't fair. She'd seen him first. Couldn't they find their own people?
"Oh well – will you let me show you around?" Simon queried, offering her his arm. And while she'd promised John she'd stay put, thinking that he was undoubtedly flirting shamelessly at this very moment, she agreed. Besides, his hair was almost exactly the same shade of her boss'.
Simon led her around the ship, and when they visited the hot tub, Sherlock was tempted to take off her sandals and wet her toes. Maybe it'd relax her.
"I wouldn't do that," the man pointed out hurriedly. "It might scald you. This place is thought like an ancient Roman thermal baths, when you move your way up to this."
"Thank you for the warning," she said. Oh well. They had gone overboard in organizing things uh?
"If you want, we can start with the pool," he offered, smiling.
"No, thank you." The detective wasn't about to get naked in company of this stranger, however kind and charming.
In the meantime, John searched around for his partner (though with Milly hanging from his arm it wasn't really the brightest idea), but he couldn't find her anywhere. Oh well. Sherlock could take care of herself. Maybe she'd found Mrs Hudson and was getting her settled.
So he let himself be dragged from Milly to the pool, where the other were showing off. John, though, refused to. He made use of the sponsor-issued burgundy dressing gown he found in the locker room. He could swim, but that'd mean show his scar and while he wasn't ashamed of how he got it, he didn't like people he didn't trust staring at it. Besides, there wasn't anyone he wanted to show off to, here, and he had enough of the competitive mood already.
That didn't mean Milly didn't dive in, showing off for him. He wished he could tell her how useless that was, but there was no reason to hurt her feelings. Afterwards, they rushed to the hot tub zone, skipping the lukewarm pool, whose point no one had gotten, and John stopped in his track a step beyond the door, seeing Sherlock in a corner with an unknown man. What was she thinking? She just didn't socialize. And now she did?
Staunton surpassed him, teasing everyone, yelling, "Last one in is a sissy!" He jumped in the water…and let out a scream. Something had gone very wrong. There were sparks in the water. The man had been electrocuted.
John and Sherlock ran instinctively towards the dead body. "There. Are you happy now?" he whispered to the sleuth, whose eyes held the well-known beam of enthusiasm.
"I might be," she murmured back, grinning.
Tilly Briggs rushed in, taking the situation in hand and ushering everyone away. The sleuth was surprised by the way the publisher looked like he was trying to pretend he was not there. But perhaps he had a weak stomach.
"Such a terrible accident," the supervisor claimed, once she was alone with the detectives and the dead body.
"It was not," Sherlock bit back sharply.
"How can you say that?" Tilly protested in a high pitched voice, sounding outraged. A bit too much so.
"It was, and you know it," John remarked. He noticed when people lied. He'd done it often enough himself.
"There can't be any link," Mrs Briggs objected, pursing her lips.
"With what?" the sleuth queried sternly.
"Doctor Mortimer. I received a call saying his head had been kicked in by a horse and he was dead. Then a second call said he was murdered. I saw no reason to alarm everyone when we could do nothing, though," Tilly explained, sighing.
"That's two out of five. Did the victims have anything other in common besides being bachelors? You picked them. You should know," Sherlock asked harshly.
"Not to my knowledge. if you're sure this isn't an accident, we'll have to go back to port and involve the police," the supervisor stated grimly.
"Not necessarily. You have the best sleuth on board. He can do better than any policemen," Sherlock interjected. She wasn't going to have police make a mess of this.
"That would be such a relief," Mrs Briggs said, batting her eyelashes at John.
Did women really do that? the detective wondered. She was a woman, but even if she'd wanted to flirt…wasn't that too unabashed? Apparently not.
"Do you realize that you're setting me as bait, Sherlock?" John protested, looking less than pleased with her and ignoring the supervisor completely.
"You at least know that you're in danger. Don't think you can handle yourself, boss?" the detective teased cheekily.
"Of course. Don't be ridiculous," the former thief countered sharply. He had a reputation to uphold – and besides, he was trained to fight. Whoever attempted to kill him would have had a surprise.
"Thank you. Oh, thank you, Mr Watson. Then we'll go on with the cooking trial, to see if you can get to a woman's heart through her stomach too. What was you'd picked? Magret de canard au miel, I believe?" Tilly literally purred.
"Something like that, yeah," John agreed. It was carefully picked to get him to Sherlock's heart through her stomach (he might or might not have asked Mrs Hudson's opinion), but now that there was a case on hand she'd probably refuse to taste it. Bugger. But the detective had picked up the scent, like a bloodhound, and now wasn't going to be sidetracked. He didn't regret the work intruding on the cruise, now. Sherlock looked like she'd finally started to enjoy herself (and would stay away from weasel-like strangers). "Don't worry, we'll solve this."
"I'm going to interrogate the other bachelors while you comply with the show," the detective announced enthusiastically. What Sherlock really didn't expect was to meet Mrs Hudson in a corridor after Mrs Briggs had gone to organize the next part of the event, John obediently in tow. "What are you doing here, Mrs Hudson?" she blurted out, raising an eyebrow.
"Can't leave my babies without supervision. Especially not if John is to cook. He'll need some help don't you think?" the old woman replied, winking.
"Neither of us is a baby since a long time ago," the sleuth protested, blushing, but knowing perfectly well her objections would be totally overlooked by her landlady. "Besides, isn't that cheating?"
"Maybe. But I'll take care of him anyway. He won't stray, I promise. You concentrate on your work and do not worry, dear," Mrs Hudson assured, with a too-wide smile.
"He's free to do whatever he wants, Mrs Hudson," the detective pointed out, even though she was secretly glad for her second mum's plan.
"Of course, dear, of course. Now run. The case won't solve itself," the old woman urged her, with an affectionate pat.
Mr Lucas, the stockbroker, was busy with Stuffed chicken Valentino, when Sherlock hounded him down. "What a welcome interruption," he said, smiling widely and looking at her in clear appreciation.
"Oh, I don't mean to interrupt. By all means, if you're capable of cooking and talking at the same time, do so. I wouldn't want to make you fail," the sleuth replied, looking as if she doubted he could.
"Just a moment then. Let me set the mood," the man replied, going to a stereo in the corner. Vivaldi's Four Seasons echoed immediately. "Much better, don't you think?"
"If you say so," she countered without an ounce of enthusiasm.
"Oh come on. What do you hear?" Mr Lucas prompted, looking disappointed.
"Violins," the detective deadpanned, already beginning to lose her patience.
"Not the flowers in bloom, the song of mountain creeks, the first tiny leaves on the branches, life and love awakening?" the stockbroker gushed, incredulous at her coldness in his passion.
God! He was worse than John at romantic drivel. Sherlock rolled her eyes and decided not to restrain herself anymore. ""Honestly what I hear is someone playing a semiquaver too quick and putting a staccato where it doesn't belong. But I'm not here to talk about music. "
"You play the violin?" he asked, sounding entirely too surprised for it not to be a tiny bit insulting.
"I do. While you never had enough perseverance to learn any instrument," the detective deduced quickly.
Mr Lucas laughed – taking it rather better than most usually did. "I really didn't. It seems you know me. Why don't you tell me more about yourself?"
"How about we talk of Mr Staunton and who could have wanted to kill him, instead? Like you, for example?" she quipped, glaring at him. She didn't really think he could be the murderer, but she'd like him a bit less at ease.
"I didn't even know him. Sure, I met him for half an hour and already thought he was an arrogant prat, but that's not really enough to kill someone, don't you think?" the stockbroker admitted honestly.
"Maybe. And Mr Williams, the publisher? How do you see him as a murderer?" the sleuth queried. She needed more data.
"Him? Christ, no. Everyone else of us, I'd be doubtful, but I'll tell you a secret I've learned at work. Our esteemed publisher's finances are on rather thin ice at the moment. His best asset is owning the team Staunton played in. You simply don't kill the one who's keeping you financially afloat," the man revealed, shrugging.
"Not unless you haven't some strong motivation, I agree," Sherlock concurred, nodding.
"Like what?" Mr Lucas asked, curious, leaning towards her.
"Oh, you'd be surprised by all the reasons people find to justify killing someone," she answered, with an enigmatic smile.
"Professional secret?" he assumed, clearly disappointed at her lack of gossip. She'd come to have information, not to share them.
"Yes," Sherlock simply acknowledged, not looking the least apologetic.
"Fine, I won't mind…if you taste this and tell me how it's coming out," he claimed, holding out a morsel for her on a fork. At least he hadn't gotten into the disgusting idea to hand feed her.
"I'm sorry. I never eat on a case," she said quickly. And she'd never been happier for that in her career.
"Because I'm a suspect?" he challenged, raising an incredulous eyebrow.
"No, because I. Don't. Eat. It slows down my brain," the detective explained. Why was everyone so surprised by it? Perhaps because their brains were already at their slowest?
"Oh come on. That must be the most absurd excuse I heard," the man protested loudly.
"It's not an excuse. Ask Mr Watson," Sherlock bit back sharply. She didn't need any excuse beyond 'I don't want to', but she'd justified herself all the same because men usually didn't know how to take a simple no. And now this idiot objected? That was too much to bear.
"He's not the one who enforced that rule, is it? you could sue him, if he was," the stockbroker asked suspiciously. As if she'd do that out of anything by her own judgement. If she hadn't had the evidence to back that up, no word from John could have made her do anything.
"Of course he's not. He doesn't even share my point of view," the sleuth confessed, angry at the insinuation. But even John could fail. His medical background didn't matter. She knew how her brain worked better than anyone else.
"And you don't bow to him?" Mr Lucas queried, sounding honestly surprised. He apparently didn't get the memo that being someone's boss didn't equate being her master. Or her minder (even though John would always jest he actually was). "Come on. Just a bite. It won't hurt."
"I certainly don't bow to you," Sherlock snarled. Better not inform him that John sometimes managed to get her to nibble on something when cases dragged too long. He wouldn't certainly take a no in that case.
"Fine, I'll taste it myself. Spoilsport," the idiot complained. He tasted the bite…and immediately fell down. Choking. Cyanotic. In a few seconds, before she could even think to call for help, he was already dead. Poison, clearly. Nobody could deny the murder this time. She missed John, busy with that stupid business. Of course, she was an expert on poisons, but his opinion would not have gone amiss.
In the meantime John had been busy with the Magret de Canard au Miel (or Seared Duck Breast with Honey, but everything sounded so much more classy in French), under the careful supervision of Mrs Hudson. He was pretty proud of the results, if he said so himself. The smell was amazing.
Sadly Sherlock hadn't come back still so he was stuck with Milly gushing at him and a photographer who shrieked, "No! No! She doesn't have to eat it – that's ugly! You just have to fake feeding her." Which was a torture for both the poor girl, who seemed honestly hungry, and John, who still wondered why his ladykiller image required him to fake feeding her by hand – under the watchful and clearly disapproving gaze of Mrs Hudson, who flatly refused to leave him alone.
The last photo had barely been taken that Milly's lips closed around John's fingers. He almost choked himself at Mrs Hudson's loud cough.
"Well, now we can finally eat this delicacy – the two of us. I wouldn't mind if you kept feeding me," the young woman cooed, winking.
"Oh, but Mr Watson is busy with the investigation, aren't you, dear?" Mrs Hudson interjected in an 'I dare you to deny that' tone.
"I thought your employee was doing that," the girl protested, pouting.
"Ah, but I can't let her have all the fun, can I?" John remarked, with a lopsided grin, and secretly grateful for his secretary's interference. He was all for flirting, but when it became some sort of duty, the game immediately lost its appeal.
"Fun? A murder?" Milly objected, pretty mouth open in an expression of shock and incredulity.
Oh bugger. He'd spent too much time with Sherlock. He tried to explain nonetheless. "The thrill of the chase, the mental challenge, the…"
"Why don't you at least accompany me to my room and explain me more about your fun on the way? I want to understand you," the young woman cut him in, quickly getting over her surprise to resume flirting.
"John – don't do anything Sherlock wouldn't," Mrs Hudson called sternly, causing Milly to openly glare at her.
"I won't Mrs Hudson," he reassured her quickly. "Make sure this doesn't spoil, will you? we might still get Her Majesty to taste it later." The old woman nodded, clearly pleased with his reply.
"And who is Her Majesty?" the young woman queried, looking seriously put out.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" John teased, without answering. There was no way that admitting this was his nickname for Sherlock would go well. Half reluctant, he followed Milly to her cabin, talking about everything – work, mostly – to keep her from figuring out that while he was technically a bachelor, his heart might not be as free as that title seemed to imply.
She chirped silly replies, insisting on how much she admired him, and rubbed against his side unabashedly in a way he didn't know how to stop without offending her.
When her cabin was in sight, John breathed an internal sigh of relief, This had almost ended. But then she threw her arms around his neck, purring, "Why don't you come inside? You could tell me more… or I could show you what I intend for fun. We might even order lunch in later..."
"Sorry Milly, you're lovely but I really have to get back to work. There's a murderer on the loose," John pointed out, gently unlacing her arms. "In fact, lock yourself in. You will be safer." Sure, she wasn't a contestant, but they hadn't figured out the motive of the murders yet.
She huffed in frustration, but obeyed and locked the door behind herself as he'd suggested. It was then that the first shot echoed.
Sherlock burst into John's room in the hospital wing like a swishing, panicked tornado. "John! John! I heard…What happened? How are you? John!"
"Hey! Hey, relax. I'm alive. This is all…quite embarrassing, really," the patient replied softly, raising a hand in a placating gesture.
"Embarrassing? You've been attacked by a serial killer," the sleuth pointed out, relaxing after seeing her partner…not well, of course, but certainly not on the brink of death.
"Yes. He – or she, I suppose – shot me when I had my back to him. Luckily for me, the murderer had the worst aim ever, so he just nicked my leg. If he'd had just a bit more skill, or even luck, he could have hit the femoral artery and I've been bleeding out in a random corridor, but he didn't. and I had my gun, too, and I'd be damned if I didn't catch him. Well, that means I'm damned now, but these were my thoughts. He had shot from behind a corner of the corridor, and I ran in that direction, determined to catch the bastard and not too worried about getting another bullet. After all, the idiot couldn't kill me when I was a still, unwary target. Anyway, whether he was afraid of the commotion his shot could have caused, or just unused to victims fighting back, fact is that he fled. All I could see was a vague silhouette running away, already in the lower deck by the time I'd turned the corner. Lower deck because just around that blasted corner there was a staircase I didn't expect. A bit it must have been my rushing, a bit the surprise, and a bit a sudden dizziness caused by the wound, but in the end I misstepped and fell down these damned stairs. Result: one broken leg. As I said, very embarrassing," John related, ending in a weak laugh.
"You broke your own leg in a reckless chase," the detective summarized for him, an amused grin slowly spreading on her face.
"Yeah," he grumbled, blushing a bit. He'd been an idiot, hadn't he?
"If I hear you lecture me again," she remarked, still grinning. Her partner had lost his moral high ground, hadn't he? He was worse than Sherlock.
"I very much will lecture you again," the doctor cut in. "See what could happen? Haven't I been right all this time?"
Before Sherlock could reply, Milly came in without knocking, veritably brandishing a cup of tea. "You have a British accent, Johnny, so I thought, comfort good, tea, surely tea. I feel so guilty. I mean, if I'd consented to let you in my room yesterday, you wouldn't have been shot," she chattered a mile a minute.
John choked on the horrible tea he'd been forced to sip hearing such a blatant distortion of reality. "We haven't finished yet discussing the case," Sherlock interjected icily, "if you could give us a moment, and maybe knock before coming in, Miss…"
Milly looked at John, waiting for his instruction. "I'm still going to solve this case, Milly. If you just give me the time to," he said sternly.
She blushed. "Oh, of course, and sorry, it's just that my hands were full, so…" she stammered, before retreating – but with a glare at Sherlock.
"It wasn't like that! Sherlock, you've got to believe me, I've been saddled with her company for advertising reasons, but I've never tried to – wanted to –" John blurted out as soon as the woman had left the room.
"Relax. It was obvious even to the blind that she was lying. Not that I would have cared," the detective replied. Or at least, she'd have no right to care, and would have managed to pretend to ignore her colleague's amorous activities.
"Besides, I could never fall for anyone who makes such a horrid tea," the British man pointed out, with a grimace that changed into a lopsided grin. He thought that the sleuth might join him in a laugh, but she frowned instead.
"You need to be more careful about what you put in your mouth, John. The stockbroker has just been poisoned. Take only what Mrs Hudson brings you," she advised sternly. She should have knocked out the cup from John's hands. But it all happened so quick – and Milly didn't seem threatening, just still flirting…
"The stockbroker has been…" he echoed, incredulous. This murderer was moving quick.
"With his own recipe. And if I ate during cases you'd have to end this investigation alone," she elaborated, shrugging.
"He tried to hand feed you?" John asked, sounding suddenly incensed. There had been some photographer urging them to flirt more, maybe?
"No, not by hand thank God, but he was very eager for my opinion on his recipe. But that's not the point. Someone poisoned one of his ingredients. And then shot you," the detective reconstructed. What was John getting agitated over? Not the death, it didn't seem so. Her danger? But she'd come out unscathed, unlike him. What then? Oh, no matter. She shouldn't be pondering over his illogic behaviour now. She had a case to solve.
"What about the lawyer?" the former thief inquired. He was the last bachelor standing, after all.
"I still need to meet him. Once I heard that you'd been attacked, well…" Sherlock trailed off. She'd panicked, pure and simple. She should have continued solving the case, shouldn't she? Even if he'd been killed – she'd solved cases alone. "Better to warn him, right? Oh, John! A bachelor serial killer. This is an odd one. I can't get his motives. Or her motives. What does anyone get out of this?"
"What if it is an ABC murder?" John hypothesized, trying to help.
"Are you referring to that absurd mystery series that you forced me to watch?" she replied, raising an eyebrow.
"Poirot is not absurd. It's a classic! But yes. What if it isn't a serial killer – but someone who's covering his intended victim and the obvious motivations for that by turning this into an insensate bachelor murder spree?" the doctor explained. This could make sense. No one could have a grudge against bachelors for being bachelors – no one sane, at least – but these people could have enemies of their own.
"Maybe. We'll need more data for that. I'm going to interrogate that Carey lawyer," Sherlock conceded. She didn't want to leave John (odd, that), but the quicker the case was solved the quicker he'd be safe.
"Be careful," John called after her.
"You too," she bit back, repressing the urge to frown in worry.
"Don't worry. I have my gun," he reassured, taking it from under his pillow and aiming playfully at her. She relaxed. Oh yes. Much better. Still…
Milly was still in the waiting room in front of John's room, waiting not-so-patiently. "You can go keep John company…if you dare. They've already tried killing him and are likely to want to finish the job," the detective told the young woman, with a challenging tone.
"They won't do that if he's not alone," Milly remarked, raising from her chair, adjusting her clothes and taking a brave step towards John's room.
"Possibly. Trust only Mrs Hudson and myself. And I realise that for someone wanting to trap an husband the choices here have been drastically reduced, but I wouldn't attach myself to John too much. He's a charmer, but he bores easily," the sleuth warned. It was a friendly warning, and an honest one, too. John liked to flirt, but he was a bee, flitting from flower to flower, taking the best and moving on. And he really bored easily. Any adrenaline addict did.
"With you, maybe," Milly countered sharply, before putting a besotted smile on her face and entering John's room. Oh well. She'd warned the girl. She'd been kind. Let her get stung if she really wanted to. She' understand in the end that John went back to Sherlock. Because she provided cases. Adrenaline fuelled chases (hopefully not always ending in broken legs). Because she was bored, too, and entertaining herself she entertained him with what he really needed. Which was not sex, no matter what John thought.
Pitt Carey gave her a slimy smile when she joined him on the deck, where he was sunbathing (thank God in swimming trunks. "What are you doing here, beauty?"
"Investigating three and half murders," she snapped coldly.
"Half?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow in incomprehension.
"Mr Watson is still alive, not for lack of trying by our criminal. You're the only bachelor whose life has not been threatened yet. Why, someone might even deem that suspect," the sleuth explained, looking down on him.
"Oh well. I'm sure that oversight will be corrected soon," the lawyer joked, with an arrogant grin on his face. He didn't feel very threatened, clearly.
"I agree," the detective remarked, serious. "You might want to be on your guard."
"Oh I will," he assured, but stretching like a lazy cat at the same time seemed to belie his words. "Why is this all happening though?"
"That's the question isn't it? The methods are clear. The opportunities are present for almost everyone on board. The motivations, not so much. Do you know anything that could make someone want to kill even only one of you candidates?" Sherlock inquired, crossing her arms.
"If it was just Staunton I'd have bet on Mr Williams, but like this, I have no idea," the man replied lightly.
"I've been told that Staunton was Mr Williams' best asset," she objected, frowning.
"I was his lawyer. Staunton's, I mean. He had received some juicy offers and had given Williams a letter of intent. Intent of leaving the team, that was, if you aren't familiar with the term. He was the best player. The soul of the team. Its results would have crumbled without him. Instead, with his death, Williams will cash in the insurance premium he had on him. Five millions," Carey revealed nonchalantly.
"Well, that certainly makes for a motivation," the detective agreed, smiling down at the man. "And about the others? Did you know any of them?"
"I'd heard of them naturally, but I can't say that I'd met any of them before," he stated, sounding bored.
"Thanks. You've been useful. Take care," she advised. With the new data, things started to make sense.
"Don't you want to stay and protect me?" Carey queried, opening his legs to make space – as if any sensible bodyguard would sit between them.
"Go back to your cabin and lock yourself in," Sherlock snarled, leaving with great, angry strides.
She went back to John's sick room and recounted all the new information. It helped calm her. "Williams certainly had the opportunity to rig the ship with deadly traps. Nobody would have protested seeing him touch something. And he made sure I didn't trigger the hot tub before it claimed its intended victim – one of you bachelors," she added. There was no doubt about that now.
"You've almost died twice in a day?" John yelped, his voice a tad higher than usual.
"One of my best days, don't you think?" the sleuth replied, winking.
"You are crazy," he laughed. "But the point here is that we know, but we do not have any evidence. We need Williams to make an error. As the tagline for Hitchcock's Rear Window's said – a movie singularly apt to our situation, I'd say – 'it only takes one witness to spoil the perfect crime.' If only someone of our office might locate a witness of, say, doctor Mortimer's demise…"
"We don't have a witness, and the whole of our office is on board, for some odd reason," the detective pointed out.
"But the murderer doesn't know it. He can't be absolutely sure, now can he?" John replied, winking.
"When are we springing the trap?" Sherlock queried, an impatient light in her eyes.
"Tonight. He'll be half-asleep and more easily manipulated. Until then…we do are in a first class cruise ship, and it can't be that everything is a deadly trap. I have to stay here, but why don't you go and make use of some of the amenities? Or just check that Mrs Hudson isn't terrorising any of the girls?" the former thief proposed, smiling.
"Sure. If you don't want me around. Should I send for Milly?" she bit back, quite annoyed.
"It's not like that, and you know," John groaned.
"See you tonight, John." Of course, she didn't check the amenities of the ship. She wasn't here to play. She got to her cabin, locked herself in and slipped into her mind palace to clean things up. She needed to be perfectly clear-headed for tonight.
It was at one am that John finally decided it was time for their call (since Sherlock had arrived at eleven pm they had carefully not talked about how they'd spent the rest of the day).
Williams answered at the fourth ring, with a big yawn. "Who the hell is at this hour?"
"Sorry but I have just received interesting news, Mr Williams. You can stop pretending," John replied entirely too cheerfully.
"What?" the other man grumbled.
"Already forgotten shooting me? Am I that not memorable?" the doctor joked, a smile that his interlocutor couldn't see spreading on his face.
"Oh yes, you broke a leg. Did they give you drugs?" the publisher insinuated spitefully.
"We have a witness for doctor Mortimer's murder. You have been seen. You might as well turn yourself in. Maybe the judge will be clement," John continued, his tone conversational.
"You've had a nightmare and confused it with the truth. Go back to sleep, Mr Watson. So will do I," Williams insisted stubbornly. Oh well. Plan failed.
"John we're idiots," Sherlock cut in, with a frustrated groan.
"Why?" he queried. Fine, the man hadn't confessed, but it hadn't gone that bad, had it?
"If he destroys the letter of intent we have no evidence for his motive. I'm going to go and get it," the sleuth declared. John grabbed her by the clothes before she could run away.
"Well, we have the lawyer's statement about it. If he's not an idiot he'll have destroyed it already. And besides, you can't sneak in and search his room now. I've just woken him up," John objected hurriedly. The man had already killed many people. Did Sherlock really lack self-preservation at all?
"He'll have to fall asleep again sometime," she replied, freeing herself from his hold and leaving, heedless of the man's protests.
When the sleuth broke in his cabin, Williams was indeed asleep. Never to wake. There was a bullet hole in his right temple. No letter of intent in his room, though – she searched. Instead, a marriage certificate. To one Milly Fairbrush?! Why was she fawning over John, then? Really all for the article it'd come out? Or did she want a lover? Or…She went back, frowning. She needed to get Milly out of her mind. She had a case at hand.
"Why so unsatisfied?" John asked, once she explained her findings. "Sure, I didn't think I was quite so dreaded that telling someone I'd discovered their game would make them kill themselves on the spot, but at least the murderer won't hurt anyone else."
"It wasn't suicide, John. Williams was left-handed," the sleuth pointed out sharply. Nobody could be in his room and not notice it. "He wouldn't have shot himself on the right side."
"Then you think someone else killed us bachelors – and then him?" the former thief queried. Did they need to restart everything?
"Oh no. Our reconstruction was exact. Williams killed these people and attempted to your life. He was stupid enough to steal his criminal plans from a widely known book. But he hasn't killed himself. Someone else was aware of what was going on. And I suspect that Williams was always meant to take the fall for it," Sherlock hypothesized. It was the only thing that would explain all the facts.
"Who, then?" John asked, clearly very curious.
"I need more evidence. And I still have to find the letter of intent. If this was the partial solution they wanted us to find, it's very possible that it is still somewhere," she stated, nervous energy making her walk up and down the room.
"I wish I could come with you," the hurt doctor groaned from his bed, frustrated.
"Why don't you keep flirting instead?" the detective proposed blithely. Or at least sounding so.
"Sherlock…" he pleaded. He hadn't come here to flirt with anyone but her, no matter what he'd been obliged to do. And he didn't get to do any of that. It was exasperating. And she was needling him. As if it wasn't bad enough to be stranded here with a broken leg.
"It might keep you entertained," she countered, leaving without even looking at him. "I'll let Milly know you're available."
She did, with great pleasure of her (not rival – she wasn't interested) and then went to Tilly Briggs. "Mr Williams – where could he keep some important documents if not in his room?" she inquired without preamble.
"Why don't you ask him?" the supervisor replied, raising an eyebrow.
"Hard to answer when you're dead don't you think?" the sleuth snapped sharply. She needed answers now!
"What?" Tilly yelped, shocked, at her blurting out things like that. Less shock and more usefulness. Wasn't the woman supposed to have gotten her pulse on the situation?
"The documents. Where?" Sherlock insisted harshly.
"He has a private office in the third deck, but why – how – who?" the woman stammered, still not having recuperated all her bearings clearly.
"Murder, of course. Do not worry. We'll catch the responsible. Even if I wouldn't be so anguished if I were you. Did you know that you were just his bit on the side?" the detective explained. She was being kind, wasn't she?
"What are you saying?" Mrs Briggs blurted out, outraged. Oh God please not denial. Denial was so boring.
"He was married," Sherlock replied coldly. Facts were facts.
"No he wasn't!" Tilly objected, her voice entirely too high-pitched for what the banal situation required.
"His marriage certificate is in his room. I've not removed it," the detective pointed out, shrugging.
"That bastard!" the woman hissed, charging towards his room. She'd handle the dead body too, hopefully.
It was easy to locate Williams' office on the third deck. Sherlock was surprised at finding the door already ajar, but she slipped in, not questioning good luck. Only she realized immediately she wasn't alone. Pitt Carey was examining the desk's drawer.
"What are you doing here?" the lawyer demanded arrogantly, as if he had any right to be here.
"I could ask the same don't you think? If it wasn't obvious that is," she sneered, lips curling in distaste.
"Obvious?" he echoed, disbelieving. Did he really think his actions weren't entirely readable? Please. She was better than that.
"You smell, Mr Carey. You smell of a certain new widow. Not going to be single much more, are you? but aren't you scared of wedding someone who's killed her first husband? Unless of course it was you that pulled the trigger. I thought you were the type not to dirty his own hands, but maybe you didn't want to risk her messing up. As for what you want here…was she stupid enough to sign a prenuptial agreement? Of course she did. And this way none of you would get any of the five millions, that would go to some other heir. Pointless committing or inspiring so many murders, right?" Sherlock deduced, her words rapid-fire.
"So the great sleuth continues to solve cases even from his sickbed. I thought Watson might be prevented by his injury from detecting, but it seems I underestimated him," the lawyer spit out.
"No, I solved it," she pointed out, raising an eyebrow. Hadn't the man heard her? What more did he need?
"Don't make me laugh. You're nothing more than a pretty-looking lackey. Call him. And say exactly what I'll write on this notepad. Not one word off script," Carey bit back, drawing a gun. There was no doubt that it was loaded.
She obeyed. Gaining time, as it was. "Mr Watson," she said as soon as he answered the call (on the second ring). "I'm sorry, your theory was wrong, and the evidence you sent me to search for in Mr Williams' office isn't there. Williams worked alone. Nobody else is involved. Respectfully saying, you were wrong, sir." Then, at a nod, she ended the call. "Satisfied?"
"Yeah. Now let's go on the upper deck. Someone is going to have an accident," he promised darkly.
Of course, hearing that, John panicked. This wasn't Sherlock's style. It wasn't at all. She was under duress, no doubt. With no time to lose, and a useless leg, he was forced to ask Milly's help to leave the room. She was very accommodating. Naturally it was then that John realised he had no fucking idea about where Williams' office was. Fuck.
"Oh, don't worry dear, I know," Milly chirped, directing him towards the upper deck.
Once John saw where she'd dragged him, he protested vehemently, "Wait! It can't be here. I need to get to Sherlock right now, don't you get it? she's in danger!"
"And what can you do?" Milly objected, derisive.
"Fuck off, Milly, I'm not letting her die! Be reasonable!" he yelled. Then his blood ran cold, when he understood. "Oh, but why am I asking you? You're the widow. Tibi prodest. You evidently have an accomplice, but you're part of this!"
"Very clever, detective," the young woman praised, but with ice in her voice. "Pity that now you're going to fall overboard."
"You think I'll let you?" he growled, drawing his gun. He didn't expect Milly to react quickly, kicking him, making him lose his equilibrium and twisting ferociously his arm until he was forced to drop the gun.
Just then Sherlock and Carey came up from another hatch. Seeing John like that, Sherlock decided it was time to stop playing with Carey and kicked the man's gun swiftly out of his hands. At least evening out the odds. Ignoring the angry lawyer, she charged at Milly.
An angry scuffle later, including three shots (both men had recuperated the respective guns) and an impossibly quick to follow exchange of punches, kicks and even scratches, both criminals were subdued (though John was pretty sure he'd broken his other ankle).
The chaos had attired the attention of people, and some heavily-built sailors took Carey and Milly and would hold them in the best approximation of a cell they had until they got back to New York and the prisoners could be handled by the police.
"My piece is entirely ruined!" Mrs Briggs, who'd rushed to see what the problem was, wailed pitifully.
A day later, finally back at their flat after a run at the hospital (John's self-diagnose had proven correct – one leg and one ankle broken), the man had been instated on the sofa with both Sherlock's and Mrs Hudson's help. The older woman had puttered away, murmuring something about tea and scones. John expected the detective to murmur something about an experiment and leave him alone, but she loitered around, a distinctly guilty expression on her face.
"It was my kick that broke your ankle," she finally confessed, looking properly disconsolate, "I was aiming at that woman, but she moved too quick for me to stop myself."
"But you saved my life," John replied, unable to reprimand her further when she looked like that. "I'd underestimated Milly. I'm starting to think she might have thrown me overboard. Panic at being discovered makes people do awesome feats."
"Well, you saved mine too," Sherlock pointed out, clearly not feeling better. "I still need to apologise. I promise I'll be your nurse until you're well. But – I don't know how."
"You can start by playing something for me if you're in the mood?" he proposed.
"Of course, John," she agreed promptly, taking violin and bow. The supposed holiday-with-seduction might have gone to hell, but the former thief would never tire to admire his flatmate swaying gently to the music, eyes closed. Breaking something was worth it if he got proper concerts instead of nightly cat strangling (or so it sounded).
P.S. Tibi prodest is Latin and means "You benefit from it." I used it because when asking oneself who might have committed a crime the first question is, "Cui prodest?" Who benefits from it?