Sentinel
"Say ah..." John said. Sherlock stopped playing the violin and made his way to the table.
"John, I'm sure Rosie is smart enough to open her mouth when food is brought within an inch of it." He spoke in his baritone "she's the daughter of a spy and an army doctor and not to mention my trainee. Give her some credit."
"My, what a proud trainer Uncle Sherlock is, but we can say 'ah' if we want to, can't we Rosie?" John said, scooping the baby food dripping from the toddler's mouth. Sherlock dropped himself on the sofa and lay prostrate. "Did you talk to Greg? Lestrade? He must've sent a dozen messages by now…"
"A murder that Scotland Yard cannot solve. Shocker." The sociopath drawled.
"I shall take that as a 'no'." John said to himself, wiping Rosie's mouth. "And by the way, its three." The detective headed for the bedroom as Mrs. Hudson entered the apartment. The old lady made funny faces and lifted the toddler from the high chair. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson. Impeccable timing, as always." John gasped in relief "he's a tad bit enthusiastic today. I don't want Rosie to be Sherlock's lab assistant again."
"We had our goggles on." Sherlock mumbled from the bedroom. John rolled his eyes.
"Rosie and I are going to have a girls' day out, aren't we?" she cooed "You don't mind, do you John? I told my friends I'd bring Rosie over some day and they've been begging me since." The tea caught in his throat and John coughed "Of course not." he said, flattered at his daughter's growing fan base.
Sherlock walked into the living room dressed in his Belfast. He handed Mrs. Hudson a notepad "Rosie's favourite jumper is the yellow one with the frog and she doesn't like cream on her biscuits; so you'll have to take it off." Sherlock typed away at the buttons, not taking his eyes off the mobile screen. He tied his blue scarf, tucked the mobile in his long over coat and stared at John expectantly.
"Am I missing something?" the blogger asked with a raised eyebrow. "Sherlock, I have patients."
"Four flimsy digestive tracts hardly qualify as cases."
"And you checked my list, of course…" the army doctor muttered in exasperation.
"Oh, don't be a spoilt sport."
"I'm not!"
"Prove it."
"What are we, kids?!" Watson glared at Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson mumbled under her breath. "Humour him John." She nudged the 40-year-old. Sighing, he kept the cup of tea back on the table and headed to his bedroom.
Sherlock handed Rosie her play-phone and she mimicked the detective typing. Mrs. Hudson smiled. The Captain returned, revolver in hand. John kissed Rosie on the forehead. "John?" Sherlock opened the door.
"Yes?"
"The game is on."
"Yes, I was afraid you'd say that." John smiled, strapping on his revolver.
The crime scene was like the previous ones; the victim had no particular reason to be there and then again, the victim had no particular reason not to be there either. All murders had taken place in very public spaces- the Mariners Beach, the Crossroads' cemetery and the Sacred Heart's Park.
Sherlock glanced at the bullet mark etched into the tree; the bullet had been carved out by the police and the site had been sealed off...except to two. John glanced at the park's landscape. Sherlock gazed at the buildings surrounding the park and smiled. He started walking to the entrance and quickly shot into a grey building. John sighed and ran after him. Huffing, he found Holmes on the first floor. The room was dusty, dingy and definitely old. The walls had been stripped of wallpaper and cobwebs hung from the ceiling. There was a window facing the park. Cans of paint lay strewn beside it.
"Well?"
"I was right." Sherlock grinned.
"Yes, that's usually the case. Now, would you explain it to me Spock?"
"Lestrade said the bullet was at a thirty-degree angle." Holmes stated.
John raised his eyebrows "And that explains everything."
"Come on John! You look, but you don't see." Sherlock turned. "The bullet was at a thirty-degree angle which means the bullet was fired from the first floor. This floor. This window."
"Snipers go for higher ground..." Watson stated absentmindedly.
"Precisely. Glad you caught on, Captain. " Sherlock smirked "Either our killer is overconfident or simply doesn't care if he's caught, which could be the case since all three murders were done in broad daylight." Sherlock glanced at the paint. "The paint is old but still viscous." Homes drawled on "...he must've bumped into them on his way to the window; didn't think the paint would leave footprints. He didn't bother to wipe them either. Size 11. Notice how one is deeper than the other?"
John stared at Sherlock. "He was limping!"
Back at 221 B.
"Let's see...Victim no.1, Harry Donovan. Came here with his father, after the gold rush. Happened to make some money but ended up losing it. Got involved in illicit activities, was charged with armed robbery and manhandling police personnel..."
"Ah, as I remember it, it was Anderson Harry manhandled." Sherlock said grinning, seated on the leather chair.
"Happy much?" John glanced at Sherlock. The detective smiled. The doctor continued with the report. "The second was a florist, Josiah Clayton. Ex-army officer, but deposed due to an accident. Accident not mentioned...Officer to florist...anyway, suspected of substance abuse, though never charged. Hmm, that's probably why he was deposed. Victim no.3 was a wealthy planter, owned a suite in Southampton. Felix Carmichael. Ambitious fella. Only in his thirties and already one of the richest men in London. Nothing mentioned regarding any inheritance whatsoever. Well-bred society gentleman, not bad with the ladies either. Has a brother in Canada who gets none of Felix's wealth post his death; apparently it all goes to charity."
"Hmm...quite the society man." Sherlock looked out the window. "So an ex-army officer, probably decommissioned due to the wound in his right leg or failing health; though I personally go for the former..."
John shot him a puzzled look, "Ex-army officer? Failing health?"
Sherlock looked out the window. "He showed morals, is clearly acclimatized to violence; a shot from that distance?"
John smiled "Army. Got it. How'd you know it's a 'he'?"
Sherlock continued "Size 11. How many women wear size 11 shoes? Balance of probability. He wasn't bothered by the fact that it was during the day, in plain sight. So, either he's limping around London with a personal vendetta or merely trying to rid the public of delinquents." Sherlock walked across the room and opened the door to face a boy with a parcel. "10 minutes, not bad. Give Mr. Wong my thanks". He turned to his partner. "John, I do believe I owe you breakfast."
"What are we doing here, Sherlock?"
"Have patience, John."
"Funny you should mention that..." The two gazed at the pub across the street. They slowly made their way across the street and stepped into the dimly lit pub. Seated in front of the counter, they stared at the portrait of the late Felix Carmichael (rather Sherlock stared at the photo while John stared at the photo then at Sherlock and back again).
The bartender came up to their seats "What can I get ya men? Oh, did ya know Carmichael?..."
"Who didn't?" Sherlock replied. "Awful what happened to him..." he added for good measure.
"Yeah well...serve 'im right!" the bartender spouted out amidst his hiccoughs.
Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "Why do you say that?" asked Watson glancing at Sherlock. "I heard he was quite respectable."
"Nothin reshpectable 'bout gettin a girl pregnant and then takin her money to shtart business and buy eshtates!"
"The brute!" Sherlock piped in.
"Damn right'e was!" The bartender, though drunk himself, managed to pour two shots for the men. "Poor ol' Will..."
"Will?" "Mhmm...William Dawson. That son of a b***h cheated Patricia! Patricia, you hear! Will only had her after his wife's death. Little angel..." the bartender started weeping into Sherlock's sleeve. Holmes winced and looked at Watson. The doctor smiled, weeping on the sleeve of a Sociopath.
"Does that mean Mr. Dawson killed Carmichael?" Watson thought aloud.
"Oh no no..." the bartender started off "Will wouldn't 'urt a fly...'e was in the army, yes, but the man's a saint! Besides (hiccough) 'e was in my pub, seated with his army buddies in their corna..." he said pointing to a table and leaning on Sherlock's arm. "Couldn't 'ave possibly done it..."
Sherlock raised his voice "John, you were in the army, weren't you? Do you happen to know Mr. Dawson?"
The bartender turned to Watson. "You was in the army?"
"Yes. Capt. John Hamish Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers..." Watson glanced at Sherlock.
"Well fat chance you meetin Mr. Dawson. He, Matthews and Babbington are the old lot...'Queen and country' and all that. You couldn't 've possibly met 'em..." the bartender dozed off. Sherlock dropped the man at the counter.
"Well?" Watson said, glancing back at the pub. Sherlock flagged a cab. "I need a favour." The detective smiled widely.
John made his way up the stairs. He dropped the packet at the table and glanced at the laptop screen.
Mycroft Holmes, Her Majesty's Service
"Are you hacking into the army records with my lap…using Mycroft's ID?"
Silence.
"Sherlock."
Silence.
"Sherlock?!"
"What is it?!" Sherlock stepped out of the bedroom, with Rosie in one arm and powder in the other "I was changing Rosie's diaper!"
"Hacking… that's the favor you needed from your brother?" John looked exasperated "You do know that's illegal, don't you?"
"Yes John. The British Government knows his account has been hacked." Sherlock sniffed the packet "Mr. Wong still hasn't recovered from his cold" he turned to Watson "if you're wondering…"
"No, I don't, at the moment, care how you deduced that!" Watson huffed "You're hacking into sensitive army material!"
"I highly doubt records of the1980 army regiments qualify as 'sensitive'…" Sherlock took out the chopsticks and opened a crate "Mr. Wong still uses Windex, the antibacterial one, it has the orange scent." Sherlock placed Rosie on the sofa.
"God save Windex!" John added sarcastically, opening the other noodle crate.
Crossing the street, they once again stood in front of the pub. There wasn't anyone in except for four men seated in a corner. "Good evening you two!" the bartender exclaimed, waving a bottle of scotch. "The whole pub's been booked. It's a party held in honor of retired soldiers." The two men walked up to the counter. "It's by this chap, Holmes…apparently he's high up in the Civil Service department…"
"You don't say…" John said, glancing at the consulting detective. Sherlock shrugged.
The bartender noticed Holmes gazing at the four men. "That's Will." The four men turned at the mention of the name. Sherlock walked over to the group. Turning to the man next to the window, he said "Well Mr. Andrews, you've been busy. How's that shooting coming along?" The old man's face changed, and a sad smile crept into it.
"Reggie, do you know this man?" his friend asked.
"No, Mr. Babbington. I doubt he does." Sherlock glanced at the others "In fact, I doubt any of you do."
Watson walked up to the group. "He tends to have that effect." John explained or tried to. "It's alright gentlemen…except you" Watson said, nodding at Mr. Andrews.
Sherlock drawled on, "Mr. Reginald Andrews has been avenging his dear friends i.e.: you gentlemen."
The men looked at their friend. "Reggie, don't tell me…" Mr. Macfern started.
"Yes," Sherlock started "first Harry Donovan, the man who cheated you out of your wealth Mr. Macfern and reduced you from an aristocrat to a pauper in a matter of seven months. Then there's Babbington Jr.; finding out Josiah Clayton was trying to sell army secrets to enemies, he exposed Mr. Clayton; losing his life in the process."
John stepped in "Mr. Babbington, I'm sorry about your son. He was very brave indeed."
The detective continued, "Finally Felix Carmichael, the man who cheated your daughter Mr. Williams and his goddaughter."
"How did you know that?" started the old man.
"There isn't much I don't know." The ex-officers looked panic stricken.
"Actually, that's not entirely true." John stepped in "He didn't know much about the solar system."
"Excuse my friend, for bringing up irrelevant facts." The detective drawled. Holmes turned to Reginald "Would you like to tell them?"
The old man smiled, eyes glistening. "Colon cancer, chaps" he took out a prescription.
"Probably got to know that when you were staying in India, considering your tan and since it seems to be a favourite among the old 'Queen and country' lot. Five months and all his earnings go to you Mr. Macfern and to the Widows and Orphans of War." Sherlock added.
"I don't want your damn money!" Mr. Macfern shouted, his voice breaking "Can't we use it to treat you?"
"There's no hope for him." Sherlock glanced at the man "You could use the money to pay off your debts and maybe even buy your house back."
"You stay out of this!" Mr. Babbington shouted. Mr. Andrews smiled meekly and bowed in Sherlock's direction; finally released from what had been tormenting him for months.
"I think we've overstayed our welcome." John pulled the lanky detective by the arm.
"Sherlock?" John walked over to the window, a sleeping Rosie drooling on his left shoulder. "What is it? Is someone watching us?" he walked over. Holmes turned…well not quite. The nose was different, and the eyes were brown. "Who the hell are you?!" John pulled out the pistol he kept hidden behind the books. "And what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"
Just then the door opened, and Sherlock stepped in, taking off the scarf.
"Bloody hell, you didn't say he had a pistol!" the doppleganger dashed to the doorway.
John stared at the 'twins'. "Who's he?"
Sherlock glanced at the panic-stricken man, "I told you he was in the army."
"You said army-'doctor'!"
"Same difference." He turned to Watson "This, John, is my doppleganger for all intents and purposes, Timothy. I found him a month ago."
"Pleased to meet you." Timothy nodded wearily. "Easy on the gun, mate." And with that he darted out of the apartment.
"Where were you?" Rosie was tugging at John's cheek.
"At the cemetery." Sherlock replied, taking the violin.
"Digging up corpses? Searching for a new skull to talk to? Raising the dead?!" John fumed.
"In loving memory of Reginald Andrews: Exemplary Officer. Dear Friend. Honourable Human." Sherlock started playing the violin.
The blogger cleared his throat and sat down sheepishly. Rosie watched Sherlock, who opened his eyes and winked at her. John smiled to himself.