Author's note: Hi everyone!
The end of this fic is slowly approaching, and I admit I'm not looking forward to it! Oh well, there are still a couple more left. Sigh.
Thanks to Rocking the Redhead, Crooney83, Renaissancebooklover108, Crimson and Chrome, SammyKatrz and mrspencil for the reviews!
On to the story...
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"Ah, John! You're up. Good."
John walked in the room to see Sherlock perched on an armchair, fingers steepled as he stared at the door and into space. The doctor didn't need to look into his friend's bedroom to know the untouche state of the bed.
"Now that you're rested you will be better prepared for the day. I can't afford to have you slip up and mess the case."
"Excuse me?" John exclaimed, prickled.
"You aren't allowed your gun and the killer knows about us, so try not to get yourself killed."
"I'll try." John tilted his head. As if he needed to be reminded! "So, What's the plan for today?"
Sherlock raised a finger to silence his friend. Then he stood and walked towards the french Windows that gave on to the balcony as a soft knock was heard.
"Come in." Sherlock called casually, his back turned to the door as it opened.
"Hi. Uhm...Good morning!" Molly said as she stepped in. "You asked to see me?" She turned to John, concerned. "You need a second opinion, you said?"
"Huh?" John's brow rose, then the soldier saw his phone on the coffee table in front of the armchair.
Sure, Sherlock, borrow my phone without asking...Said John, never.
"Oh, yes. Thank you so much for coming. I.." He gulped.
"I tried telling him it's nothing, Molly." Sherlock sighed impatiently from his position at the window. "But he won't be happy until someone else looks at that rash on his back."
A rash?
"Ok. Well, come on, let me have a look. Take your shirt off."
"It might have gotten better." John stammered slightly, trying to explain the absence of any rash on his body "I bet it's probably gone..."
"Ah, there it is. I see what you mean, John, it really is quite red."
What?
"What is it?" John tried to catch a glimpse of his back in the mirror, but it was exceedingly hard to do so whilst trying to hide one's surprise.
"Hard to tell...An allergic reaction, maybe? Is it painful?" Molly asked cautiously.
"Only if you touch it." Sherlock mused, casually walking to Molly's side as he looked at the angry red mark that covered the lower half of John's back.
Molly lightly pressed a finger to a spot. "Did that hurt?" She asked, relief relaxing her face when John shook his head.
"It stings a little, but nothing to complain about..." John's mind was working. "I think it might just be a reaction to the shower gel I used last night..."
"Mmh." Molly nodded. "Well, try to use products you know work for you... I'm going back to the hospital, would you like me to get you some topical cream?"
"No, thank you, Molly. " John replied as he put his shirt back on. "I saw a chemist's 'round the corner, I'll get some on our way out."
"Ok." She stood, looking around, unsure what to do next. "Well, ok. Bye."
"Here's your bag. Oops. Butterfingers." Sherlock muttered as it fell to the floor before she could hold it, the contents falling all over the carpet. "I'm sorry, let me help you." He crouched beside her, picking up her comb.
"Molly." He whispered urgently so that only she could hear, his face lowered as he gathered items from the carpet. "Listen to me very carefully. An accomplice, if not the killer, will approach you today in the hospital. Give them whatever they ask for without hesitation, but do not leave that lab. I cannot protect you if you do. Here you go!" he called out cheerfully. "That should be everything. Thank you for stopping by, Molly. Have a nice day!"
Sherlock handed her the bag and nodded at her as she wordlessly left the room, then he closed the door behind her and walked to the armchair, lips tightly drawn.
"A rash, Sherlock?" Jon began, fuming. "A bloody rash?"
His flatmate simply handed him a sheet of paper which he had previously left on the coffee table.
John read it silently.
It's a combination of toxins I came up with, especially for you. It should clear up in a couple of hours.
Although the soldier seriously wanted to shout at his friend, he somehow found the self-control to scribble angrily instead.
WHY DID YOU GIVE ME A BLOODY RASH?
Sherlock didn't even bother to read the note, and simply handed over a second piece of paper. It was obviously a pre-prepared answer list.
Old building, XIX century. It has a series of floor-level vents, our voices can be heard below...And someone is listening. I needed Molly to come for a plausible reason. I have cold cream. No antidote yet. While you were sleeping. Don't drink so much next time, then! Tea. And meneghina."
"So." John sighed. "You want tea and meneghina for breakfast?"
"What a splendid idea!" Sherlock clapped his hands in approval. He picked up his phone and sent a text to Bonlieu before leaving the room:
DNA tests should be ready today.
Will call this afternoon.
S
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Well, that wasn't awkward at all. Molly thought to herself as the door closed behind her. Then another, more disturbing realisation hit her: maybe today she was going to see the person who killed her mentor. She couldn't decipher the sensation in her stomach... Was it fear? Anger? Anticipation? Dread?
"Good morning." James welcomed her warmly. His brow creased slightly for a moment. Of course, he was reading her... She smiled at him and he nodded in understanding, although the concern didn't leave his eyes, which darted swiftly to John and Sherlock as they walked in.
I was supposed to go to see The Fairfashion collection today..." He saw Molly's blank expression and explained: " It's a joined project: a group of designers from different countries, with endorsements from the respective governments, have worked on it together. The clothes come from organic, fairtrade sources and are cruelty-free, but the designs themselves come from famous names who have donated their time and cooperation. I have personally taken an interest in this project, and this is the very first collection, but I won't go if I'm needed elsewhere." He looked once more at Molly.
"Is this the first time the collection is shown on the runway?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"No." James shook his head. "It is being presented in every country that has contributed to the project: England, France, Italy first, then on to Germany, Finland..." The ambassador's eyes widened.
"It sounds like a very interesting collection." Sherlock mused. "I would rather like to see it, wouldn't you John."
"Of course." His friend nodded. "It would be a shame to miss it."
Officer Rigamonti soon joined them, along with the men who had accompanied them to the party, and the two who had guarded the lab.
"Ascanio," the consulting detective turned to the Italian. "Stefano and Pietro watched the lab last night, didn't they?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you notice anything unusual?"
The two stepped forward. "No, sir." They replied.
"Well, you've earned your rest. I suspect the killer has given up on our Ambassador and has moved on to a new target..." You should relax, too, Ascanio. You look tired..."
Rigamonti's jaw clenched. "I will have three of my men accompany you, your Hexcellency." he nodded to the Ambassador. "And two at the Istituto Auxologico with doctor Ooper."
"Thank you, Ascanio." James replied calmly. Sherlock nodded at the agente, who excused himself and left the room with the other officers.
"Well, I really should get going..." Molly muttered. "If I want to finish by this afternoon."
By the time She had finished her breakfast, two men waited for her at the entrance. She closed the door behind her and began to walk to the car.
Suddenly Molly turned around and looked up, meeting a pair of ice-blue eyes as they watched her from a window.
For a moment they stood in silence
Molly smiled and waved cheerfully, then bit her lip as she got into the car.
The consulting detective watched her leave, a hand instinctively pressed against the glass as the vehicle turned around the corner.
"Does he really know what he's doing?" James asked through gritted teeth.
"Let's go." Sherlock said, turning his back to the window and putting on his coat. "We have a runway to see."
Milan fashion week is a chaotic mess. The location was brimming with people, out there to see and be seen. Thanks to the ambassador's privileged situation, they were allowed to enter earlier than the others.
"Your excellency!" Someone cried gleefully. A tall, slender youth walked to them, hands outstretched. "I'm so glad you could make it. We've spoken on the phone: I am Micheal Cartney..."
Sherlock looked him over.
Pencil marks on the side of the hand, a fresh puncture wound from a needle, small remnants of 5 different fabrics on his coat
The coat is old and does not match the trousers. He plans to change it at the last minute with the correct one to look impeccable.
Original shirt, with all buttons done. A foulard instead of a tie, kept loose.
"You must be one of the designers!" Sherlock smiled. "The Ambassador has been telling me about this project."
The Young man nodded. "I was really lucky to be accepted, I've only just finished my studies, but I was willing to work for free, just to be part of this... "
"Michael, let me introduce you to Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson." They shook hands."Would it be possible for us to have a quick peek backstage?" James then asked amiably.
"Of course! It would be my pleasure." The designer gushed, and they were swiftly ushered into a whirlwind of hot irons, powders, heels and running models, accompanied by a cacophony of shouting stylists and designers.
"Don't worry, it's supposed to be like this." Michael Cartney assured them sheepishly.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched the mayhem, then his gaze returned to the slender, delicate features of the designer. "Did you ever do Modelling?"
"Why, yes!" The designer exclaimed. "I have untill very recently done modelling to help me pay my way through school, but I would never amount to much: too skinny, you see...Oh, please excuse me." He bowed his head before rushing to the call of a group of confused models and a paniked stylist over a pair of missing shoes.
Sherlock watched two male models as they headed to the hairdressers. One was too tall. The other was going to give up the profession to become a consulting detective looked around again. Water bottles on the table; coat-hangers, hair gel...
"It starts in ten minutes." James looked at his watch.
CRASH!
John and James turned to see one very striking man in one very undignified position on the floor. "Oh, crap!" The other model exclaimed. "Simon? Simon? Are you ok?"
"Ouch! There's some damn hair gel on the floor! What the hell!" The unfortunate model cried. "Help me up, man." He said to his friend, but a short, sharp gasp escaped his lips as he stood.
John rushed to the fellow's side and inspected his leg. "It's a sprain, you'll be fine but you need to rest it..."
"Dude, I'm on the runway in a couple of minutes!"
"Tough." John shook his head. "There's no way."
The model tried to take a couple of steps, then conceded it was truly impossible.
"No!" Michael cried. "We can't get a replacement in time..."
"What about him?" The other model nodded at Sherlock. "He's roughly Simon's size..."
"And he's cute." A hairdresser called from her station. "I can have those curls ready in seconds..."
Michael turned to the consulting detective, eyeing him critically, then pleadingly.
"Mr Holmes, I know it's a huge favour to ask, but..."
"I would be glad to help." Sherlock smiled.
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The results were ready.
Molly quietly checked them, then hid the papers furtively in the other, unimportant documents. She then worked on the results sheet of the hair Sherlock had taken from her head. Now she understood why he had asked her to run tests on that, too...
She jumped when she heard the door knock.
"I swear, by Apollo the healer..." Molly whispered under her breath, turning to see a tall, dark silhouette through the opaque glass of the lab door.