Chapter 5 - Searching for Clues
They found Sherlock Holmes in Camden Market, down the Horse Ramp, a few booths to the left, near the canal, just as their client had described. Actually, they found him lounging against a booth which appeared to be selling orange juice, chatting with the proprietor and thumbing through his phone.
As they approached John heard the vendor say, "—strangest thing I saw today would have to be the chequerboard."
"The chequerboard?" Sherlock raised a sceptical brow, not glancing up from his phone.
"Yeah, some bloke walked through here dressed up as a chequerboard. I mean," the vendor drew a box in the air with his hands, "wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, and all lined up in between he was a perfect square when he was all stretched out. Had two different games in session —one on his front and one on his back. Hands down that was the weirdest costume I've seen yet."
Sherlock didn't look impressed. "What about suspicious activity?"
The vendor's eyes abruptly hooded. "Now, if it's suspicious activity you're looking for you're barking up the wrong tree, mate. I'm a fine, upstanding business man, and my booth—"
"No, no." Sherlock seemed irritated. Then his eyes landed on the trio and he jabbed a finger toward them. "Him!" he declared. "Do you remember seeing him?"
John noticed that their client straightened a little at this as the vendor, with one more suspicious look at Sherlock, glanced casually over at them. His wary gaze abruptly turned into the sort of smile a person reserves for those small children who cheerfully ask the name of every stranger they come across. "Yeah, I do, actually," he answered. "Can't really forget that costume, can you?"
And with that he leaned across his booth and called, "Hey, mate! Did you find Sam?"
The client jerked and then rushed over, tripping a little in his haste. "Why? Is he here?" he demanded.
"You were looking for him earlier," the man reminded him.
The young man's face fell. "Oh," he murmured. "That was a mistake on my part. I don't believe he came here after all."
The vendor nodded just as Sherlock demanded, "Did you see anything suspicious or unusual regarding him?"
"No," the man mused, "can't say that I did. Didn't even notice him in fact until he started calling for Sam, though I don't know how I missed him. That is a gorgeous costume, mate," he added directly to the client (and miffing Sherlock with his lack of attention). "I have never seen better. Did your mum make it?"
A light flush (which John was already noting as a sign of embarrassment) coloured the client's cheeks a little. "No, a-a friend."
"Ah, well," the man leaned closer. "Give my regards to the seamstress. That is gorgeous. Anyone would think that those jewels on the embroidery were real, and the heraldry!" he crowed. "What's it mean?"
Their client's face lost all colour. "Mean?" he faltered, his right hand abruptly moving to the figures on his chest, fingers coiled inward.
"Yeah, the picture on the front on your tunic," the man explained, losing a little of his enthusiasm. "Does it mean something, or did you just pick a pattern out of a book?"
"I - I believe that they just - drew something," the little client stammered, glancing nervously down at the designs in question.
"Oh. A shame that," the man sighed. "But a lovely costume all the same."
"Thank you," the client murmured, still not looking up.
"You didn't see anything regarding him?" Sherlock interrupted.
The vendor sighed, straightening back up to look at Sherlock as levelly as possible. "Look, mate," he snapped, "all I saw was the kid" (the client straightened indignantly) "calling for his friend, and then going off with this bloke." He jabbed a thumb at Lestrade. "That's it."
"Hm," Sherlock mused. "Well, thank you for your time, Mr Walitch. Best of luck with the business." He swung back to the client, his friendly (prying!) smile immediately replaced by an intense, concentrated frown. "Where did it happen?"
The client blinked, thrown briefly by Sherlock's instant change, then answered, "Just over here." And he shuffled over to an area just a few metres away, right near the river. Sherlock's long strides easily kept him inches behind the client, but apparently he anticipated enough of the bloke's moves that he was somehow able to avoid running him over when the young man stopped and began to look around as if checking his bearings.
"I believe this is the spot," he said slowly.
Sherlock's own gaze followed the client's. "Good. Stay back," he commanded curtly as he scanned the ground for clues. John and Lestrade wisely took about two steps back at those words, knowing very well how little Sherlock liked to share a crime scene. The newcomer, on the other hand, remained at Sherlock's side, watching with curiosity as the detective stood motionless, seemingly doing nothing. It took less than eight seconds before— "Shut up."
John grimaced at the familiar words, but their little client jerked as if he'd been slapped, even taking a step backward that looked involuntary as a flash of shock or maybe fear darted across his face. Quickly composing himself he threw a wary look up at the detective again.
Sherlock sighed. "Shut up!" The words were a little louder this time, Sherlock's annoyance with the 'interruption' growing more evident.
Yeah, that was definitely fear. This time it was followed by a confused look at the pair behind him.
John quickly stepped in before the situation became completely out of hand. "Why don't you come stand back here, mate?
The little bloke threw one more cautious look at Sherlock before moving to John's side.
"Why did he do that? I said nothing," he protested quietly.
"It's - one of his quirks," John shrugged. "He claims that he can hear a person thinking."
The client's eyes widened.
"Don't be ridiculous, John; of course I can't hear a person thinking, but their body language, particularly his body language, makes it painfully obvious what he is thinking, and it's very distracting and annoying! Be quiet!"
John raised a brow at the client. See?
The client gave him a nervous look and then nodded, his attention locking back on Sherlock.
o
For some minutes they watched the detective as he worked his 'crime scene'; studying it with care, tracing some sort of invisible outline, sometimes kneeling down to take a sample of something. A few times John had to step in quickly to rescue passers-by from the lash of his flatmate's tongue. During the entire time John noticed that their odd client never took his eyes off of Sherlock. Curious, he studied the little bloke. Motionless, watching Sherlock intently, carefully controlled breathing, stance poised for action...
Great.
"Sherlock?"
No answer.
John moved (carefully) to his friend's side. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock didn't even look up from the bricks he was examining. "What do you make of him?"
John blinked. "What's that?"
"What do you make of him?" Sherlock repeated impatiently.
The client looked at John in shock, the perceived threat immediately extending to the soldier. With a wince John grabbed the detective by the back of his coat and dragged him several feet away. (Sherlock yelled.) When he thought that they were far enough he demanded rather angrily, "What?"
"You heard me the first time," Sherlock scowled, irritably straightening his precious coat. "I've been watching you study him; what are your evaluations?"
"No," John gave him a tight smile. "You are not doing this to me again—"
"Don't be so over dramatic—"
"Me? Me be over dramatic?—"
"An outside opinion, what the average man sees—"
"You are—no."
"An invaluable insight—"
"He's standing right there for—"
"I value your observations, John."
John stilled, staring at his flatmate, one hand twitching a little in irritation.
"Really?" he spat.
"Yes." Sherlock Holmes was returning the look, the intensity of his stare trying to burn through John's resolve.
The two remained that way for several seconds.
Finally John shifted, still irritated. "You already know everything I could possibly say."
"Yes."
"Then why bother?"
"An insight into what the average man sees when attempting to analyse another can be of use to me at times."
"Yeah, well, I'm not your average man; I'm a doctor," John returned, his voice lethally soft, "and I'd say he's sick, he's scared—of you, and he needs a psych evaluation." His gaze drifted back over to the little client. "And a doctor," he sighed, a note of worry entering his mind. "He's..malnourished. Someone's been trying to feed him back up, but..not doing very well. I'd say within the last... couple months if that. He still has that hollow look in his eye, and around the cheek. Listening to him breath he's... either been in a house fire or he's a chronic smoker. He sounds awful. Pulmonary or bronchial problems would not surprise me, cardiac problems, possibly poor circulation, sleep deprivation, anaemic, possible eating dis-or-der..." And Sherlock Holmes had just got what he wanted.
He gave his flatmate a dirty look. "Sherlock, if you breathe a word of this to anyone, including him, I will put all four livers and the ears down the disposal."
The detective looked appalled. "A bit much, isn't that?"
John just raised a brow at him. Sherlock's face turned a bit sulky.
"Why?"
"Because it's not your place to tell him." Sherlock opened his mouth but John hurried on. "As a doctor I may, in time, if he comes to trust me after this, tell him about his problems. But you leave that to me. You don't mention to him, you definitely don't announce it to the world—"
"Shouldn't he want to know?"
"Not from you. You're not a doctor."
This time it was Sherlock who looked away in disgust. John's satisfaction, however, was very short-lived.
"What else?"
Else? John wondered, and then realised..."I can't just—"
"You've already begun; you might as well continue now." Sherlock pressed his hands together under his chin, studying the client again. "And you've made a good beginning," he added in what was meant to be a tone of approval—and would have been in anyone other than the highly observant, blessed-with-superpowerslike Holmes brothers who could never actually be impressed with the pitiful 'deductions' mere humans managed to make. John gave a snort.
The pair remained silent for about ten seconds.
"What else, John? What do you see?"
Great! Mr Punchline I-will-have-the-last-word-Holmes wasn't going to let this rest until he got his way! And honestly? John really didn't feel like trying to argue his flatmate down today.
He managed to hold out three more seconds before... "Okay. Okay, fine. He is...unusually short. Which, yes, I know that's blindly obvious," he snarled, "but that's what you do, isn't it? Start with the obvious and work your way down?"
"Yes," Sherlock agreed.
"So he's short. Pointed ears and big hairy feet. And one minute he sounds like he graduated from Oxford, and then he's staring blankly at you asking what a doctor is."
"Yes..."
"So... so, he's well educated, I mean, he picked up on things rather quickly, but it's in limited areas, like older literature."
Sherlock made an irritated noise at that. "Anything else?" Sherlock wasn't fond of old lit.
"Uh, well, it's probably safe to say that he's interested in castles and medieval times and such. He's got a lot of vocabulary from that, plus the costume. He's a... a bit naïve, I'd say. Been living a bit further off the grid than usual, not knowing what a car or a detective are."
"Yes."
"Un-less that's an act," John added. "But...if so it's a rather good one."
Sherlock glanced at his flatmate.
"...His, um, his costume's a bit odd too. I mean, it looks like it's made out of silk, and no one in their right mind would wear silk to a Halloween party where you might get punch or cheese dip or something on it." John paused. "It's kind of the wrong style for Halloween too, because they usually dress...a bit more fit, yeah? To appeal to the ladies."
"Yes."
John appraised the client's garb again. "That is a great costume for a kid," he concluded. "Absolutely fantastic. It's a terrible choice for an adult." After another pause he added thoughtfully, "A piece like that would have to be commissioned, wouldn't it?"
"Yes."
"Which means that he *chose* to dress that way."
"Yes."
"..Or, someone chose to dress him like that."
"Good. What else?"
Else, else. John gazed at the client. "Well, if it really is silk then either he's rich or his friends are."
"Spot on," Sherlock praised. "What else?"
"Well, he can't walk in shoes."
Sherlock smirked. "No," he agreed. "And?"
"...He's never worn them before?"
"And?"
"Because - he's never needed them before. His feet... - his feet!"
Sherlock glanced at him.
"They shouldn't exist," John growled softly. "Large I can understand. Thick-soled: maybe if he'd gone without shoes his entire life he possibly could achieve that. But hairy! What is the purpose of all that hair?!"
"What would you deduce?" Sherlock hummed.
"What would you deduce?" John countered. "I'm not your brother; I don't have the deduction thing like you two!"
"No idea," Sherlock returned airily. "Moving on!"
Moving on. There was more? John gave the client a hard stare, and after a few moments noted with surprise, "He stands like Mycroft."
Sherlock threw a dark look at him at the mention of his despised older brother, then back at the client. John ignored this.
"He looks like he's used to being in charge," he elaborated, then smirked. "All he needs is the umbrella."
"And about sixteen more stones," Sherlock added scornfully.
John snickered at that. "He did say that he was on the thin side."
"I believe you mentioned half-starved," Sherlock grinned.
"Yeah, I did," John agreed cheerfully, crossing his arms. "But, yeah," he became serious again. "He looks like he usually has a lot of responsibility, and a lot of people depending on him."
"You're on sparkling form," Sherlock praised. The man seemed to be gaining energy from John's deductions. "What else?"
Are we never done with the 'what else'?
"He's uh..." John studied their client's posture. "He's really nervous too...maybe irritated..."
"Meaning?" Sherlock prompted.
John rolled his eyes. "He's definitely scared of you."
"Really, John," the detective scoffed.
Someday, somewhere, someone is going to kill you for being such a—.
"What else?"
"Seriously?" John groaned. He studied the client, looking hard for whatever Sherlock would say that he had missed. Finally though he admitted, "Yeah, okay; he looks scared and lost and sad... and I've got nothing. So?" he snarled the word up at his flatmate.
"Better," Sherlock approved. "Much better than last time..."
John waited. This was not all that Sherlock would say.
"...of course, you still missed almost everything, but it's a definite improvement—"
"Just shut up," John growled, quickly turning away to keep from punching the pompous git in the face.
"The creature does live 'off the grid', as you put it: clothing is handmade, unaccustomed to the noise of traffic, walked everywhere his entire life, does not regularly wear shoes but is familiar enough with them to manage. The clothes were commissioned, but not as a costume; more as formal wear."
John shot his flatmate a surprised look.
"Wealthy; well done. Has a manservant, enjoys gardens but doesn't do much digging given the strong scent of green on him combined with the complete pallor of his skin and the lack of callouses. An artist, in fact: calligraphist, dip pen with an old and rather pungent type of ink. The ink combined with the clothing, vocabulary, hobbies, and complete lack of comprehension concerning anything modern indicate a deliberate avoidance of modern life by his entire community rather than a selective avoidance by himself."
John blinked. "His entire community is like this?"
"Yes. Influential member of the community, he is used to being in charge—"
"Oh, good," John muttered. He hadn't tracked completely off.
"—but was recently given more responsibility than he could handle, resulting in the breakdown in health you see as a doctor."
"Oh."
"That, combined with the captivity."
"Right, of course." Why did I even bother...
"Accustomed to hiding, larger people giving him trouble, wary of the crowds around him even though they're hardly looking at him; clearly still feeling the affects of his captivity, which was recent enough that it may have something to do with the responsibility he was given. Abused, also during captivity; more mentally and emotionally, but some physical as well."
"Well, that's explains a lot," John muttered, thinking about the shyness of 'healers' and the reluctance to be touched.
"His captors were normal-sized people, but they didn't believe in modern life either: hand-twisted rope, the creature's complete lack of understanding: if he'd been thrown in the back of a car and driven away he'd be terrified of cars but he'd know what they were. This creature has never seen modern technology before this day."
John reared back a little in surprise. "Really?"
Sherlock gave him a disappointed look. "Look at him," he returned feverishly. "Really look at him."
The two men gazed at the client, who seemed to glare angrily back. Apparently he wasn't appreciating the seeming hiatus in the progress on the case.
"Embarrassed," Sherlock muttered, still in his deducing-every-nook-and-cranny-of-what-you-are mode. "Prefers not to be spoken of: a very private individual, possibly even shy,"
John was surprised to see that slight flush of embarrassment steal across their client's cheeks at those words. Abruptly he felt his stomach drop. They were several metres away and speaking in low(ish) tones. Why was their client responding as if he was right next to them?
"Sherlock?" he muttered. "How well can he hear?"
The detective blinked at him in surprise. "He's heard every word we've said."
John's head whipped toward his flatmate. "What?!"
"It's plainly obvious," Sherlock frowned. "To be honest I thought that it would be the first thing you noticed. But, you're still learning," he added in what was meant to be an encouraging tone.
John felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. "You—you bloody— you just stood there and let me—!" He didn't bother finishing. It wasn't as if the concept of personal boundaries was anything that Sherlock Holmes ever seemed to understand.
"It isn't as if it's anything he didn't already know," Sherlock returned, still oblivious. "He would have to be extraordinarily stupid to—"
"Shut up," John snapped. "Just, shut up."
Sherlock actually stopped.
John glowered. "How much more time do you need?" he demanded curtly.
The intense look came back over Sherlock's face. "Two minutes," he answered.
"Right," John nodded. "You keep at it. I'm going back over there." And he stalked off.
"What? Hoy! Don't walk through my crime scene!" Sherlock barked as John deliberately walked through Sherlock's perimeter.
"It's not a crime; you said so," John snapped, not looking back. The client, watching him approach, became as still and cold as marble.
This was not going to be good.
"Something wrong?" Lestrade wondered, seemingly oblivious to the marble statue at his side.
"Yeah, Sherlock's an arse," John muttered.
"Well, we knew that," the DI chuckled a little.
The client said nothing.
John pursed his lips, still cursing his flatmate. "...So, you heard all that?"
For a few seconds the 'creature' (as Sherlock was referring to him) was absolute silent. Lestrade gave them both a puzzled look.
"Heard what?" he wondered.
Slowly the client's head turned to give John a stare that would have bored a hole through a gun barrel. "An excellent question, Master Lestraad," he returned coolly. "Heard what?" The way that he said 'what' left no doubts in John's mind about how good the creature's hearing was. He grimaced.
"Look, mate, I didn't mean—"
"Master Homes has a rather rabbit-like way of conversation, does he not? You at least finish a thought before following with another."
John cringed.
"And to make matters clear, you were correct. This piece was commissioned, although not by myself." He gave the tunic a distasteful glance.
As if it wasn't going to be hard enough to get the bloke to relax before; now he'd have to contend with his own words thrown in the bloke's face too!
"What going on?" Lestrade asked.
"Master Watson and I are coming to an understanding," the client answered, returning his gaze to Sherlock.
"...Yeah," John agreed with a wince. Yes, they definitely were.
