Roses are Red, Violets are Blue
Sherlock lifted the tape and stepped into the hall after John. Lestrade noticed John's tired face and Sherlock's irritable state. Walking up to the pair, he informed them that Anderson hadn't arrived yet. It seemed to do the trick. Sherlock smirked, "Finally, a crime scene that hasn't been contaminated."
As Sherlock proceeded, Greg raised an eyebrow and nodded in the sociopath's direction. John rolled his eyes. Lestrade shrugged and gave the doctor a sympathetic smile. They were interrupted by the detective's voice. "Obviously a murder..."
"I figured as much." The DI cocked an eyebrow. "And?..." Lestrade asked expectantly. "The lichen." He said and marched out. The two men looked at each other and went after him; Sherlock always highlights the Yard's incompetency followed by his exasperated yet self-satisfied explanation of the murder. The fact that he didn't stop to explain meant that something was wrong.
"The lichen." Sherlock murmured sensing two pairs of eyes watching him. "There was lichen on the bonsai, which means the place is loaded with oxygen; that can be confirmed by the oxygen cylinder in his closet. The house is in the middle of the city but not close enough to any factory that requires it to have an oxygen regulating system. He's paranoid about his health. His neighbours said he'd been moody for the past few days and that he didn't 'come out' much. He didn't have depression. Why would a man with depression care about the air he breathes? He had OCD. His house is spotless." He turned to face the two men "Mr. Leonard Shoemaker didn't commit suicide. He was murdered by someone who knew of the oxygen vending machine since the victim was obviously asphyxiated to death! You could interview the whole neighbourhood or you could start with the man in the photo; boyfriend, suggested by the intimacy of the hug. The man is dead but his lover isn't here." Sherlock turned to Lestrade "So, for once in your life, make the connection!" he ended in a grimace.
"Sherlock,..." John turned to Lestrade "I'm sorry Greg. He's..." Lestrade half-smiled "I know he's an a***hole. Nothing new there."
John turned to Sherlock and a raised eyebrow.
Sherlock shrugged. "What? The man's used to it."
"Sherlock," John finally spoke, "it isn't my fault you didn't pick up."
"I still don't understand what you two are going on about." Lestrade stated bluntly.
John turned to him, arms folded. "Rosie managed to do a cartwheel, on her own, last night and Sherlock couldn't be there to see because he was at St. Barts dissecting another sorry corpse, too busy to answer his mobile." Sherlock glared at the blogger. He walked onto the pavement and flagged a cab.
"See you later Greg." The army doctor said with a shrug.
As the two left, Lestrade mumbled to himself, "and I thought I had it rough..."
On reaching the flat, the two men were welcomed by Mrs. Hudson. "Back so soon? Rosie and I were about to bake some cookies, weren't we?" she nuzzled the toddler. John smiled "Thank you Mrs. Hudson. You're a real darling." John opened the door.
"Nonsense" the old woman sassed, "I'm her godmother, aren't I?"
Closing the door, he turned around, nearly bumping into Sherlock. The taller man had Rosie in his arms. "Next time." he mumbled.
John raised an eyebrow "Next time?"
Right on cue, Mycroft Holmes opened the door and stepped in with his long, black umbrella. He glanced between the two men pointing daggers at each other. Only Rosie seemed to acknowledge the man's presence; stretching her arm from Sherlock's hold and prodding Mycroft's face. "Having a domestic now, are we?" with the tone of amusement he always used with the two.
"Don't ask." Captain John H. Watson stated with an air of finality.
Sherlock lay on the sofa with Rosie seated squarely on his chest playing with his hair. His eyes were shut. His mind was probably roaming the length and breadth of his mind palace but his arms were securely wrapped around Rosie. Watson stepped in from the kitchen with two cups of tea. He handed Mycroft a cup and sat down in his armchair, glancing at Sherlock and then at Mycroft. "So, what's it about?" John asked as he reached for his notepad.
Mycroft unpursed his lips "Henry Plumm's daughter passed away today morning."
John looked up from the notepad. "Henry Plumm, as in the Poet Laureate?"
"Yes, the same. A dear friend of mine." Mycroft said amid sips.
"Aren't they all?" Sherlock drawled from the sofa.
"Sherlock," John raised an eyebrow. He turned to the older Holmes "Alright, why come to us?" "Because we sell cookies, John." Sherlock quipped, words swimming in sarcasm. "We solve murders; I believe that is fairly evident. How ever did you become a doctor?"
"Oh wait, let me see" John scrunched his eyebrow. "Ah yes, by treating people so they don't wind up dead! That's how."
Mycroft sipped tea, watching the two men have, what Mrs. Hudson termed, 'a domestic'. He left the cup and a file on the table and closed the door behind him. Mrs. Hudson was waiting by the staircase. "They're having a..."
"Domestic, yes." Mycroft turned to look at 221 B and then at the landlady, "Good day, Mrs. Hudson." She glanced at the apartment above, "Yes, I hope so."
Dr. Watson glanced at the photographs as Sherlock walked around the colonial mansion, asking questions to a distraught couple. "Sherlock?" John called out. The detective walked over.
"Their daughter was just murdered," The shorter man pointed out. "Remember what we discussed? Be gentle." The sociopath nodded and proceeded to ask questions with the parents seated by the fire.
John glanced at a particular photograph. His eyes narrowed in on the faces. He looked at Sherlock who stared back at him with amused eyes. The detective stared at the couple. "Have the adoption services responded?" he asked waiting for a reaction.
Mrs. Waldorf's looked up dazed. "Adoption services?"
Mr. Waldorf stopped fuming. "I'm sorry?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I'm sorry. That's another case." He drawled, maintaining eye contact with Mr. Waldorf. "John, let's go." Sherlock proceeded to the front door. The two men stepped into the cold. "You saw the eyes, didn't you?" the army doctor asked.
"Obviously." The sociopath scoffed. "The man has brown eyes, his wife's are blue. Their late daughter couldn't possibly have had green eyes, but she does. Genetics condemns it." John smiled as Sherlock flagged a cab.
"Mr. Holmes, I really don't know what to do." The woman kept pleading. "Andrew is an honest man, four days it's been..."
John handed her a cup of tea. "Mrs. Harbray, may I call you Jessie?" Jessie nodded. Her eyes flitted around the room, trying to calm her nerves. Sherlock had been in his Mind Palace since the woman stepped into 221 B and John was starting to feel sorry for the lady. He flipped through his notepad reviewing the details; not that there was much: middle-aged man, been missing for four days, has history of gambling. Dr. Watson scrunched his eyebrows. "Wait a minute, Mrs. Harbray, didn't you say your husband works at the dock?" "Yes, on the boat Maryland." Jessie added, her eyes perusing the photograph on the table next to Dr. Watson.
The blogger continued. "He works on a boat; doesn't that mean he has to stay away for days at a time? I'm sure Mr. Harbray will eventually turn up at your place...unless, this time you feel something is different?"
Mrs. Harbray looked flustered and got up. "Dear me, is that the time?" she pretended to look at her watch. "I really must be going. Thank you for your time Dr. Watson. I shall take your suggestion and contact the police in case Andrew takes longer."
John got up to help, but the lady had already stepped out of 221 B.
"So the first one was Mr. Waldorf." Watson called out from the kitchen, as he prepared toast for himself and a cup of tea for the younger Holmes. "We were right. Violet was adopted." John handed Sherlock his cup. "Apparently Mrs. Waldorf doesn't know. 18 years ago, their child had been born still and his wife had been out cold for three days. He pulled some strings and found a baby waiting to be adopted."
The detective was curled up in nothing but a blanket. "And the second?" He sipped tea.
"The second was Greg. They found another body; female, eighteen years old. Plus they got Leonard Shoemaker's boyfriend; he was away on a conference, solid alibi. So no, he's not the culprit." John stated amid bites. Sherlock's eyes sparkled. "Why didn't you say that sooner?" The younger man stood up, draped in the blanket. "Come on John. The game is on." "Sherlock, the game is on, but your pants are not." John smirked. "Put something on. You're not stepping out in that." He stated flatly.
"Why are we doing this again?" John asked rummaging through old records, seated in Lestrade's office. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Because Leonard Shoemaker was the matron of the orphanage from where all those murdered girls were adopted. Their biological parent is now on tender hooks and can't wait to meet their child; dead or alive."
Watson's eyes widened as realisation struck. "Someone is trying to cover their tracks, but they don't know which kid is theirs?!" He turned to face Holmes. "Wait, that means the killer can strike again."
Sherlock snapped his eyes open. "John, when are the elections?" he asked, occupying Lestrade's seat and the DI's laptop.
"In a week, why?" The doctor looked quizzical.
Sherlock smiled. "The game is on." His eyes gleamed. Sherlock sank into the leather chair as Lestrade walked in. "Did I miss something?" he asked noting Sherlock's smile; he knew that look and he didn't like it.
Sherlock turned to the doctor. "John, your mobile." The blogger handed it to the sociopath, glancing over his shoulder. There were four men on the screen, dressed impeccably. "The Prime Ministerial candidates…" John mumbled.
"Mycroft, stop the elections." Sherlock spoke into the receiver. The Detective Inspector and the Army Doctor looked incredulous.
Sherlock cut the call and turned to face the DI. Rolling his eyes, the consulting detective started his barrage. "Three victims, all eighteen years old. Their profiles don't match, except they all have green eyes and were adopted from the same orphanage, with the name Violet. All the murders were clean with a single mark behind their ear, obviously the murderer is not a typical serial killer with a psychopathic streak or flare for drama; otherwise they would've used more creative ways to kill the victims."
"You mean violent." John corrected him, still rummaging through files.
Sherlock continued. "They didn't gloat because they didn't want any attention. The murders were not that far apart either, meaning they're hurrying. Strapped for time, yet able to execute smooth kills; high profile then. They have something to lose. Considering the framework, the killer is someone working for one of those four men." Sherlock finished, putting on the Belfast. "Sherlock," John called out. "Four adoptions were made in August 1999. The last girl is also a Violet. In care of Jasper O'Neale." He looked up from the file. "They live close by."
Lestrade glanced between the two men. "Right, both of you, with me, now." He stated with a tone of finality.
The three men reached the house of the supposed fourth victim, only to be met by an unlikely sight. There on the lawn were four men; technically a youth was holding an older male by the waist while the latter was trying to pull a rifle out of another man's hand, the proposed ammunition aimed at a fourth, rather battered man. The doctor, the sociopath and the inspector glanced at the scene before them and then amongst themselves. The doctor raised an eyebrow and the sociopath huffed with sarcasm. He mildly glared to indicate he would not help disperse the scuffle. Lestrade shook his head with exasperation. "Allright, that's enough you lot." Lestrade stepped up. The angry man aimed the rifle at the unsuspecting DI. "Whoa…hold it right there."
"Jasper, put the rifle down." Captain John H. Watson raised his pistol. "O'Neale?" he called out to the angry middle-aged man. The man stared for a moment and almost immediately dropped the gun. John sighed. Sirens blared in the background and Donovan appeared on scene with reinforcement.
"Captain?...How come you're here?" Jasper, still glaring at the battered man.
"I'm on a case."
"We're on a case."
"They're together."
Sherlock glanced at Jasper while John stared at Lestrade with a raised eyebrow. The DI shrugged, "What? You are together almost all the time." John rolled his eyes in exasperation. They turned their attention to the other two men on the lawn. Sherlock grinned, "Well Mr. Forster, elections too boring for you?" The old man sighed.
"All this hassle for nothing." Sherlock stated staring at an incredulous Thomas Forster. "Mrs. Harbray?" The consulting detective called out. The middle-aged woman walked out from among the staff. "Do you recognise this woman?" Holmes asked the dazed man.
"She works for me; Jessie Harbray." Forster stated in a haze.
"Formerly Jessie Colton." Sherlock added.
"I wouldn't blame him Mr. Holmes," Jessie replied softly. "After all, I look nothing like my sister Catherine." At the mention of the name, Thomas Forster shot up and grabbed the woman by the shoulders. John stepped forward but relaxed on seeing the older man's tearful eyes. "You're Cathy's sister?" His voice was barely audible.
The woman nodded and stepped away from her employer. "Cathy could never forgive herself for the strain she put on our mother. She knew she wouldn't survive the delivery. She made me promise that I would put her child up for adoption. She made me send the letter to you about the orphanage. But when she passed away, I couldn't, not my Cathy's baby. So, I raised her as my own." Mrs. Harbray was in tears.
"That's why there was no record of your daughter at the orphanage." John mused aloud.
Mr. Harbray patted her back and continued. "After I sent the letter to you asking for money, I knew something was wrong; especially after those two girls died mysteriously. So I went into hiding; couldn't tell Jess in time though. Just got on the boat and set sail with my partners." Jessie sniffed and turned to face her employer. "We didn't want your money Mr. Forster. It was for Rose." She stated.
"Rose?" Thomas whispered. Mr. Harbray nodded.
"But Cathy loved violets." He mumbled.
"Yes, but you love roses Mr. Forster." She smiled with sadness in her eyes.
"Mum?" A girl walked into the hall accompanied by Sergeant Donovan. Forster stared at the young lady, a lump forming in his throat. "She looks just like Cathy, doesn't she?" Jessie whispered. "But her eyes are blue," she turned to her former employer "just like yours."
John shook his head. "That's why you came to us. It wasn't just your missing husband. When the second girl died, you grew uneasy; the letter and then two girls with green eyes murdered. You put two and two together and came to us." Jessie Harbray slowly nodded. "Mum, what're they talking about? Why are we here?" She glanced at her mother's employer. "And why is Mr. Forster here? Shouldn't he be at his rally? Election's next week." She turned to the older man. "Mr. Forster, my friends and I are rooting for you." She smiled. Thomas Forster sighed with a sad smile. "Thank you Ms. Rose, but I'm afraid I won't be running for the post anymore, but you should definitely vote. Our country needs able youth such as yourself at the helm." Seeing his daughter's face fall, he added. "Rose, what do you want to do in the future?"
She smiled sheepishly, "Well, I applied for the graduate course in law at Yale and Oxford and I'm on the waiting list but I don't know...I've applied for the Bell Scholarship though." She quickly added. "And I've been working part-time at a cafe since I was 15. So I've saved a bit." She beamed with pride.
Forster saw Cathy beaming in front of him. "Well, I just spoke to your mother," Thomas started "You see I've been stingy and she has many bonuses pending..." he nodded at Jessie. "So we decided that those bonuses should go towards covering your tuition at whichever college you choose." The girl's jaw dropped. Jessie covered her mouth in surprise. "You hear that Rosie?" Andrew Harbray patted the girl's shoulder. "Mr. Forster's got you covered!"
"Well, Jessie, Mr. Harbray, young Ms. Rose, these gentlemen have been waiting for a while." He glanced around the room. "I hope we get to talk to each other soon," He lightly bowed. Rose nodded frantically, the corners of her cheeks pulled into a wide grin. Thomas turned to the officers as the family left. "Thank you for being patient." He glanced at his secretary. "Oh you troublesome boy, what will I do with you?" he ruffled the young man's hair with a sad expression. Tears streamed down his secretary's face. "I'm so sorry Professor..." he started.
"You will have to apologise. Not to me, but to the families you brought grief to." Mr. Forster sighed. "As for me, I must bear my cross as you yours." He turned to the DI. "Inspector, if you will." The man held his hands out to be cuffed while Sergeant Donovan cuffed the secretary.
John placed Rosie on the sofa, on top of her grumpy godfather. Sherlock unconsciously wrapped his hands around her tiny frame, a habit he had developed after Rosie nearly fell off the bed when she was a year old. The toddler was nearly three now and was busy learning new words and scribbling things in red paint. John smiled and took a snap with the camera he'd bought the previous day.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.
"Taking a photograph. I thought that was fairly obvious." Watson smirked.
Holmes rolled his eyes. "You don't take photos."
The blogger glanced at the photo. "Maybe I do now." He watched the pair snug on the sofa. "It'd be good to make memories." He mused aloud. Sherlock huffed but smiled to himself.