Chapter Text
“Please tell me you did something constructive this morning,” Joan said as she walked into the apartment after her morning run.
Sherlock looked up from the mess on the floor. “I did something constructive this morning,” he parroted before going back to the mess of photographs on the floor.
Joan groaned before she headed to the kitchen. It had been two weeks since Sherrinford had left the house, and since then, things hadn’t been going quite right for her. She’d tried emailing Dr. John Watson every two days, but he seemed intent on ignoring her; each email went unanswered until she received an email from the service provider politely informing her that the email she was trying to contact was no longer in service. It made sense really, after all, Dr. Watson was probably bombarded with so many emails that he changed the address to further disappear from the media’s ever-attentive eye.
And she didn’t blame him.
“What case are you working on now?” she asked, not looking up from her work in the kitchen. She needed to shower before they headed out again.
“The last cold case Gregson had on file. I’m almost done,” Sherlock replied. She sensed the irritation in his voice: not at her or the case, but rather at his eccentric cousin who evidently didn’t move his victim’s body out of the precinct.
He’d easily explained it away anyway. She didn’t know what his problem about it was now.
Brrring!
“Sherlock Holmes,” he said after the first ring - the phone had been sitting on a nearby stack of paperwork. Joan paused in the making of coffee to glance at him, and found him frowning. “And you’re calling me because...?” he said. Then, “Aha. Very well, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Then he promptly hung up.
“Another case?” Joan asked.
“Yes. Get dressed, and we shall go.”
“I have to shower first.”
“Actually, after the preliminary examination, I believe this will be a laughably simple case to solve, so you don’t need to dress up for this one. Just throw something on and let’s go,” Sherlock said, jumping to his feet and grabbing the nearest (clean?) T-shirt off of where it was hanging off the back of his chair. He paused and said, “Shall we?”
“Let me get dressed first,” she said before turning off the coffeemaker.
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The taxi ride to Central Park was mercifully short; Sherlock was irritated at Gregson for not providing much more detail beyond that someone had been murdered and left for dead. A jogger running through the park earlier that morning had discovered the body quite by accident, and was apparently too shocked to do anything except sit down in horror at the scene. Her husband had come along a while later looking for her, and had called 911 once he saw his traumatized wife and the corpse.
“Woman’s name is Amy Falsworth, husband’s name is Colin. He’s from London, she’s from Boston. The two were down here visiting some of her relatives,” Gregson explained as Sherlock joined him, leaving Joan behind to pay the taxi driver. “She does a morning run around here every day, and apparently never heard a gunshot.”
“Gunshot? Where was he shot?” Sherlock asked as Joan joined him.
“In the back and in the side of the head. There’s blood everywhere. Mrs. Falsworth went into shock while she and her husband waited for the police and the ambulance to arrive, they’ve already left. Body’s still here, though, it is a crime scene.”
“At what time did Mrs. Falsworth leave for her run?” Sherlock asked.
“Husband says she left the house around six this morning, like she’s done every day since they’ve arrived,” Gregson said as the three of them approached a small ring of police at a spot where several paths met. Joan could just barely see a man’s side on the ground through the police.
“Was there anyone else around before then?”
“Mrs. Falsworth didn’t see anyone before she encountered the body. We asked some of the neighboring residences, and they didn’t hear anything either,” Gregson as he and Sherlock approached the body; Joan lingered behind, just enough to hear Sherlock but not see the body.
“That doesn’t mean anything. A silencer was used, you can tell from-”
Joan’s head snapped up when she heard Sherlock’s voice falter for the first time since she’d known him, and, despite her personal issues with corpses, she immediately moved to his side to ascertain the problem.
She froze when she recognized the body on the ground before her.
It was Sherrinford Holmes. He was still wearing the ragged clothes that he’d left their apartment in, and there were several small splatters surrounding a darker red splotch on his tan jacket. The large splotch covered the expanse of his upper back, and Joan could see the torn fabric and damaged skin. His head lay sideways against the concrete, showing his profile. Red stained his fair hair and pooled around his shoulders up. His mouth was partially open as though in a silent scream.
Joan glanced at Sherlock; something flickered in his eyes before another emotion masked it. “Sniper had a silencer, he was either British or American. Silencers are extremely sensitive yet expensive equipment, so they’re highly guarded. Unsanctioned kill, no one would murder a civilian, especially a harmless one, so army deserter. A fine good shot, I might add,” he said brusquely as he straightened, blue eyes never leaving the body. “Get the bullets out of the body, use them to identify the rifle,” he added, lingering for yet another moment before turning on his heel and leaving a baffled Gregson.
“Sherlock?” Joan called, and then ran to catch up with him. “Sherlock, wait,” she said as the other headed straight to the street to hail a cab. “Sherlock-”
“What?” Sherlock asked in a curt tone. “If this is about Sherrinford-”
“He was your cousin, the two of you were obviously close-”
“Caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock replied as a taxi pulled up to the curb. “It only presents a previously unavailable opening for others to use against you.”
Joan sighed, and glanced back to the crime scene, where the police were helping the paramedics load the body into the back of the ambulance. “Sherlock, there’s nothing wrong with grieving for him,” she said, getting into the taxi before he could close the door on her.
“I know.” Sherlock stared out of the car window, his face unreadable. He was unconsciously fiddling with his phone, as though debating to call someone or not.
“Sherlock,” Joan began.
“I need to call Mycroft. He’ll want to know that his little brother is dead,” Sherlock replied curtly before he hears it from someone else.” Without another word, he dialed a number and put it up to his ear, leaving Joan to her own devices. Granted, she was curious about his interactions with other members of his family, but also didn’t want to eavesdrop on a private conversation.
“Yes, it’s me,” he finally said, looking out the window. “Don’t care. Sherrinford is dead; sniper shot him inside Central Park. Head and back... I’m going to St. Mary’s right now to secure the body and arrange for transportation back to England... yes, I saw the body myself. I’m sure it’s him.”
There was silence, and Joan assumed Mycroft was speaking now. Sherlock just nodded occasionally, and even said, “So he won’t ever know?” before falling silent again. Then, “I see. Good bye... don’t ever contact me, especially since you now have my number.” Then he hung up.
“Joan, you are free to ban Mycroft Holmes from ever visiting, calling, or otherwise contacting me. Also, remind me to change phone numbers,” Sherlock said, stuffing his phone back into his pocket.
“Actually, only your father can do that. But I’m sure Captain Gregson can help you out with the restraining order,” Joan said. She hesitated, and then tentatively asked, “How will you arrange for the transportation?”
“Mycroft has offered to pay, all I have to do is set up the arrangements. I’m going to talk to the mortician at St. Mary’s, the one who will be doing the final autopsy before travel,” Sherlock replied, leaning back in his seat and looking away, signaling the end of the conversation. He only muttered curses after that as the taxi got caught up in increasingly thickening traffic, delaying their arrival to the hospital more and more.
Upon arrival to St. Mary’s, Sherlock didn’t even slow down; he walked briskly to the front desk, and didn’t have to ring the bell to catch the attention of the distracted receptionist. “An ambulance with a murder victim should be coming soon with a victim, he’s-”
“If you’re talking about the dead man from Central Park, he’s already here. In the morgue that is,” another nurse said without looking up before she returned to another patient.
The receptionist smiled apologetically. “Sorry about her, she’s new. I’m sorry for your loss, but that particular man had been declared dead at the scene. Are you family?” she asked.
“Yes, I am his cousin and she is my wife,” Sherlock said without hesitation, gesturing to Joan, who tried her best not to looked shocked at this new relationship status.
“Very well, I can ask a nurse to-”
“No thank you, I know where to go,” Sherlock said before moving on, Joan mouthing apologies as she followed him.
“Wife now? Bodyguard wasn’t going to cut it this time?” she asked after she caught up.
“They wouldn’t have let you in if you weren’t related to me or him. I don’t have time to fight with doctors over little details,” Sherlock replied curtly, eyes flickering between people and doors rapidly as he followed a map that only he had apparently memorized and wouldn’t share with Joan. It was all she could do to keep up with.
“Sherlock, maybe this isn’t a good idea,” she said, keeping pace with him.
“Someone needs to identify the body, and I will not let Mycroft come near me,” he said curtly as they wound through the white halls, narrowly avoiding doctors and nurses.
Well, almost avoiding them. “Look, if you’re that- oomph .” Joan shook her head, momentarily disoriented, and found that the doctor she’d collided with was steadying her now. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Doctor...” she checked his nametag, “Sigerson. I’m sorry, my husband, he was in a rush and-”
“No need.” Sigerson’s voice was gruff, and he was wearing scrubs as well as a surgical mask, making his face impossible to make out from underneath the cap and mask. “Just make sure he doesn’t make a mess of things,” he added before continuing down the hall, ducking his head down as he passed a gaggle of nurses, eliciting a few giggles from them.
All right then.
She found Sherlock in the morgue, standing next to the examination table that held his cousin’s body, staring at it as though waiting for it to do something. The mortician, a dark blond woman whose nametag read ‘Mary Harper’, hovered anxiously in the background, her hands twitching as she clutched a folder of papers.
“Where did you say you worked again?” Sherlock suddenly asked, breaking the silence.
“I-I didn’t,” Harper stammered, her British accent stronger than Sherlock’s. “But if you’re curious, I usually work at St. Bartholomew’s. In London. I’m just here as a visitor, St. Mary’s has a working partnership with St. Bart’s.”
“Did you examine my cousin’s body, after he jumped?” Sherlock asked without looking up.
Silence. Joan noticed that Harper’s hands had stopped twitching. “Y-Yes, I did. He was dead at the scene,” she finally said, a flash of guilt crossing her face so quickly that Joan thought she imagined it. “I-I’m sorry for your loss. Both of them.”
More silence. Joan glanced at Sherrinford’s expression; someone had closed his eyes, but his mouth was trapped open in post-mortem terror. Then it occurred to her that Sherlock had lost someone in London, and she realized that the Sherlock Holmes in the news stories online had to have been another cousin of his, and now he’d just lost Sherrinford as well.
She could only imagine how the rest of the Holmes family was handling the rapid losses to the family.
“Sherlock-” she began.
“I see you’ve confiscated the clothes for the autopsy, but what color jacket did he have when he came in?” Sherlock suddenly asked, looking at Harper.
She squirmed under the relentless gaze. “Um, tan?”
Joan had had enough. “Sherlock, I understand you’re upset, but there’s no need to take it out on her,” she said, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder.
He easily avoided it. “Send me a copy of the autopsy report, please. There are others who will be wanting to see it,” he said curtly before turning on his heel and leaving the room.
“I’m sorry-” Joan began, but Harper interrupted her.
“No, no, it’s all right, I’m used to it,” she said, offering a small smile. “It was nice to meet you though, Ms...?”
“Watson. Joan Watson,” Joan said, offering a hand. Harper looked surprised, but pulled her examiner’s glove off to shake hands.
“Mary Harper, but you probably already knew that,” she said, smiling slightly before leaning forward and resolutely zipping the bag up around Sherrinford. “Please do tell Mr. Holmes that his requests for transportation have been taken into consideration.”
“Very well, thank you.” Joan left the morgue then, hoping that Sherlock hadn’t abruptly taken off again without her.
Two family members in three years. From what she could tell, she suspected that they had been close, but even if they weren’t, a death in the family wasn’t an easy matter to handle emotionally. Sherlock, she suspected, had been close to Sherrinford; their bickering two weeks ago seemed to indicate as much. “Sherlock,” she said, easily catching up to him on the curb. “Listen-”
“I don’t want to talk about it right now, Ms. Watson,” he said curtly, eyes flickering as though he was waiting for the best taxi to hail.
“I know. I was just going to point out that once you were ready to talk, I’ll be here. I’ll always be here,” she said quietly, remaining at his side.
There was a moment of silence, and then he said, “I wish I could believe that.”
Joan was so caught off guard by the comment that she didn’t get a chance a question him because the taxi conveniently pulled up to the curb, and all conversation promptly died as they both got in.
There really was nothing to do anymore, but keep an eye on him now.
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“Sir?"
Silence. For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her. The sun was setting, turning the sky behind the vivid London skyline a bright pink. Before she could open her mouth to repeat the question, he reacted first.
“What is it, Anthea?”
Cold. He was about as upset as she would ever see him. For all his proclamations of not caring, the latest phone call had shaken him badly, and would no doubt take some time to recover.
Taking a deep breath, she said, “Dr. Hooper has finally received your request, and said that she requested for his personal effects from the morgue at St. Mary’s in New York City. They all came in the mail today.” Leaning forward, she carefully placed a small package on the long conference table between them. “Will you need anything else?”
“Was a DNA test conducted, both at St. Mary’s and St. Bart’s?”
“Just at St. Bart’s. St. Mary’s didn’t have comparative DNA, but a family member, a cousin of yours I believe, confirmed that it was him.” She hesitated, and then said quietly, “DNA results came back positive from St. Bart’s.”
More heavy silence. Her employer’s head bowed slightly, and she hated to bother him even more, but some things needed to be taken care of. She asked, “Will you tell him?”
“No. As far as he is concerned, life played out as it did. I will however cease our weekly chats. No one has cause to hurt him now. Where is the body?”
“In our hands, sir, metaphorically speaking. I posted our men to guard the coffin.”
A sigh. She didn’t blame him; despite all the precautions they took, sometimes it just wasn’t enough to prevent death. He spoke again. “Mummy will want him buried in the family cemetery. She doesn’t have to know about everything, I’ll just tell her that I managed to arrange for the grave to be transferred.”
“Then what about the grave here in London?” she carefully asked.
No need to mention the reason why she was asking about it. “We’ll keep it. Add the dates.” A long and weary sigh. “There are many things I should have done differently, but it cannot be helped now. What of the man I sent with him?”
“Disappeared sir, after his death in New York. His wife is also unreachable.”
“She’s useless anyway. He made sure she never knew.” A soft tap of an umbrella tip against the carpet as he shifted restlessly. “Anthea, I will handle these arrangements myself. Inform the Chinese ambassador that I will see him tomorrow.”
“Of course, sir. Good night, sir,” she said before quietly leaving the conference room. Then she went back to her Blackberry; there were still surveillances that had to done as well as other business because while the world didn’t stop to let a man grieve, she felt her employer still needed time to himself to grieve for his only brother.
The hall was silent save for the clicking of her heels against cleaned floors, and she silently made a list of things to accomplish before morning.
First things first. She had to inform the Chinese ambassador of the change in plans.