Chapter Text
January 28, 2010
London was rainy and cold. An American raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the downpour, debating whether to risk getting wet by leaving his spot under an awning. A glance at his phone showed that he was running late for the press conference. A cab would solve both his problems, getting him there on time and keeping him dry, but he had very little cash to spare.
“What a shitty day.” The man lamented as he tucked his hands into his trench coat, hunching up his shoulders to brace himself against the rain. His matching fedora was tipped against the offending wind, shielding his eyes. With hurried steps, he made his way down the sidewalk, occasionally bumping shoulders with passersby and muttering half-hearted apologies.
The designated press conference for the strange string of suicides was being held at 8am at the metropolitan police station, New Scotland Yard. Thanks to Google Maps the foreign man soon found his destination, but it would seem he’d missed the deadline somewhat. The conference had already begun. Slipping into the back of the room, he only needed to flash his badge once to be allowed in. His eyes took in the area, quickly dismissing the reporters as his sights landed on the table at the front. Only two police officers were answering questions, an African American woman in her mid to late 30s, and a Caucasian man, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, the leading investigator in the suicides. The American had done his research on the man. Lestrade was one of the good ones, and didn’t deserve to be saddled with an unfaithful wife.
“The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London.” The female officer announced. The room was mostly silent, save for the background noise of cameras shuttering and pens scratching on paper. “Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked.” That last sentence caused a slight murmur among the reporters. “The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now.”
“Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?” One man was quick to ask.
“Well, they all took the same poison.” Lestrade started, sounding stressed and weary. No doubt these murder-suicides had been weighing heavily on his mind. “Um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of–” The Detective Inspector was interrupted by the same reporter.
“But you can’t have serial suicides.”
“Well, apparently, you can.”
“These three people, there’s nothing that links them?” Another reporter asked and the American rolled his eyes. ‘You mean other than the facts he just listed?’
“There’s no link been found yet,” The DI stressed the last word. “but we’re looking for it. There has to be one.” Simultaneously everyone’s cell phones sounded off, save for the American’s and cameramen’s. ‘What the hell?’
“If you’ve all got texts, please ignore them.” The woman announced as she set done her phone down with more force than necessary.
“Just says, ‘Wrong’.” The first journalist supplied, confused.
“Yeah, well, just ignore that.” She huffed irately, lips pursed in dislike. “Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I’m going to bring this session to an end.”
“But if they’re suicides, what are you investigating?”
“As I said, these… these suicides are clearly linked. Um, it’s an– it’s an unusual situation. We’ve got our best people investigating–” Everybody’s phone went off again.
“Says, ‘Wrong’ again.” Lestrade made a slightly pained expression.
“One more question.” The female officer declared, her tone venomous.
“Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?” ‘Ah, finally one of the reporters decided to use their brains.’ Lestrade, of course, looked frustrated.
“I know that you like writing about these,” He made a waving gesture with his right hand. “but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered–”
“Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?” The journalist pressed and the Detective Inspector answered with sarcasm.
“Well don’t commit suicide.” Surprised, the American gave a short laugh. Considering the room had been shocked silent by Lestrade’s inappropriate comment, he quickly found himself the center of attention as most of the reporters turned in their seats to see who had the nerve to chuckle. ‘Whoops.’ Fortunately, none of the cameras turned his way. The man watched the female officer leaned in to whisper something to her boss. Lestrade cleared his throat, regaining the room’s attention before he continued. “Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be.” The phones went off again, but where others quickly dismissed theirs, Lestrade hovered over his for a moment longer. ‘Did he get a different message from everyone else?’ Looking exasperated, he tucked away his phone and ended the conference as he stood up to leave. “Thank you.”
As the media bombarded the departing officers with more questions, effectively drowning each other’s queries into a mess of noise, the American slipped out the doors, shadowing the DI and the unnamed officer further into the precinct. He had to flash his badge a few times, once at the cop at the front desk, and even lied about having a meeting with Lestrade to be let through. He caught up with the two, slipping through the doorway as they marched into the office area of New Scotland Yard.
“You’ve got to stop him doing that.” The woman hissed, apparently pissed off. ‘So they already knew who’s sending those mass texts? I have to admit that it’s a neat little trick, though I gotta wonder how the hell they managed to get all those phone numbers.’ “He’s making us look like idiots.” Lestrade shook his head tiredly.
“Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.”
“Excuse me, Detective Inspector?” The American asked, getting the pair to turn towards him. The woman gave him a onceover, her appraising gaze turning appreciative after a moment. Flashing her a smile, he held out his hand for Lestrade to take. “Hi, name’s Carter Renard. I was wondering if I could have a few moments of your time?” The DI shook his hand almost absentmindedly.
“Yeah, sure. Just a few though, with these suicides–”
“I understand completely, sir.” Carter remarked quickly. “I really only do need a couple of minutes. Thank you for hearing me out.” With one last smile at the woman, he followed the man into his corner office and closed the door behind them. The Inspector slumped into his chair behind his desk, but had enough professionalism to not display any more signs of his exhaustion. Though the heavy bags under his eyes and numerous Styrofoam cups in the trash were pretty much a dead giveaway.
“Now, what can I do for you Mr. Renard?” Carter flashed his badge at the man, his smile turning somewhat apologetic as Lestrade’s expression darkened into a glare.
“Sorry for not being upfront, Detective Inspector, but I’m aware that PIs such as myself usually don’t get warm welcomes from cops.” It wasn’t an exaggeration either. Private Investigators, or Private Detectives as they were dubbed in Europe, were considered the lowest of the low when it came to law enforcement. They just couldn’t seem to ditch that ‘spying on spouses’ stereotype. As such, they weren’t well liked or respected by any federal agency. “My client, who wishes to remain anonymous, hired me to investigate these murder-suicides.”
“Now wait a minute,” Lestrade rose from his chair, his genial tone now gone with the reveal of Carter’s profession. “No one ever said these suicides were murder.” The private eye frowned at the man, before glancing out the office’s glass walls to look over the bustling precinct.
“Of course, they’re murders.” The American argued plainly. “And please, don’t try feeding me some public-pacifying bullshit. Three victims in a span of four months, all dying by consuming the same poison? Those idiots at the press conference may not have been able to put two and two together, but I can. That is the link between the victims, they all met the same psychopath. You have a serial killer on your hands, Inspector, a smart one.” Carter turned back to the man, raising an eyebrow as the Inspector gaped at him for a long second before spinning towards a messy bulletin board to the right. There were several papers pinned to it, photographs of the victims. The DI rushed over to it, muttering half-spoken sentences under his breath as his fingers speedily trailed beneath different sentences.
“Damn it.” Lestrade swore after a moment, sounding agitated, drained, and just a little relieved. “So that’s what he meant.” Carter furrowed his brow.
“He, Inspector? The one who texted everyone during the conference?” Lestrade turned towards, his face looking as if he’d just swallowed a lemon.
“How’d you know that?”
“A hunch.” The private investigator answered honestly. The Inspector studied him for a minute before sighing and pretty much collapsed into his chair again. He ran a hand through his ruffled, gray streaked hair. It was surprising that the man was only 42. But then again high stressed jobs like these did age people faster, take more out of them. Worry lines were etched into the Inspector’s face, his brown eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He looked like he should be clocking out after a long day at work, not just punching in.
“I suppose you want in on this then?” Lestrade asked tiredly and Carter blinked at him in surprise.
“You’ll let me? Just like that?” The DI gave a small laugh, looking amused.
“You just gave me a pretty big break in these suicides– murders, whatever.” The man shrugged. “And honestly, I can’t really turn away any help on this one. My boss is demanding I get this whole thing sorted out, sharply.”
“Well I–” Carter paused, genuinely caught off guard by Lestrade’s quick acceptance in co-working on the case. It was normally a lot harder to be allowed on formal investigations, and it was generally done so grudgingly. “Thank you, yes. I’d like to help.” He reached into his trench coat, pulling out one of his cards and handed it over to the man. “My number is on the back, give me a call when the next one turns up.”
“The next one?” The private eye offered an unkind smile.
“The police just announced they believe the murders to be suicides. Meaning the killer is going to feel like they’re in the clear, they’ll want to celebrate. They’ll murder someone soon, I guarantee it.” Pushing the door open, Carter nodded goodbye, tipping his hat slightly. “See you later, Inspector.”
The American left the precinct, sighed at his lack of money, and upturned the collar of his coat as he braved London’s rain once more. The walk to his motel was several blocks that did little to help his fatigue. The 8-hour flight from Dubai overnight had been exhausting. Carter could never sleep on planes; they always made him nervous, jittery.
Once he reached his motel, and then walked the flight of stairs to reach his room, he kicked off his shoes before falling face first onto the mattress. The blanket was scratchy from cheap laundry detergent, but that was better than the sheets not being washed at all. With a heavy sigh Carter shut his eyes, nearly nodding off before his phone buzzed. Fishing it out of his coat pocket, he stared at the message, his grip tightening dangerously.
Bout time you got into
town. I was starting
to get bored. – M
January 29, 2010
In Russel Square Park a man called out to an old friend.
“John! John Watson!” John halted reluctantly, leaning heavily on his cane as he turned towards the man who he failed to recognize at first. “Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.” Even with a name, it took him a few seconds longer to remember who Mike was exactly. They’d had a few classes together, gone to the pub a few times with others, played a couple rounds of rugby, but John couldn’t say that he’d been particularly close to the other man.
“Yes, sorry, yes, Mike.” The ex-Army doctor shook Mike’s offered hand, trying not to show how awkward he felt. How beaten down and dog-tired he was. “Hello, hi.”
“Yeah, I know. I got fat!” It was said good-naturedly, jokingly, and John faltered to find the right response. Should he agree and poke fun? Lie and say the bloke hasn’t changed one bit? Harry always said he was a terrible liar though, so he settled for a polite reply and smiled belatedly.
“No.” One word, it’s entirely unconvincing, and he suddenly felt absurdly cross with Mike for calling out to him. John didn’t want to be here, pretending like everything was fine. He had a lame leg, a shoulder that ached when the rain carried on for days, nightmarish memories of the war in his head, and a sad little bedsit to call his own. Why did a man he hadn’t seen in nearly 13 years have to bother him with small talk? Mike rambled on, completely oblivious to doctor’s ire and his desire to be alone.
“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?” John stared at him for a moment before answering, gesturing a little with his cane.
“I got shot.”
Somehow, Mike managed to convince him to get coffee and chat. The only reason John didn’t make up some excuse about needing to be somewhere else was because he could use this meeting as an excuse to miss his session with Ella. His therapist had recently been prodding at subjects best left alone. Besides, she had told him to get out more, catch up with friends. They found a secluded bench and talk like old chaps should. The normality of it should not have made him restless, but it did and it only reaffirmed what he’d known ever since he’d been invalided from the war. ‘Civilian life didn’t suit me.’
“Are you still at Bart’s, then?” John asked after taking a sip from his drink. He’d prefer tea to coffee, but couldn’t deny that he likes a cup of joe every now and then.
“Teaching now.” Mike confirmed with a nod. “Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!” They both laugh and John’s shoulders loosened a little. Mike was the type of person who easily got on well with others. Always good for a laugh. “What about you? Just staying in town ‘til you get yourself sorted?”
“I can’t afford London on an Army pension.” He doesn’t say that for the last six months he’d been put up in a bedsit. That the whole place was barely 10 by 10 feet. How it took him three steps to get from his bed to the kitchen. That he shared one bathroom with five other people.
“Bah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.” Mike argued mildly, smiling as if they were sharing an inside joke. “That’s not the John Watson I know.”
“Yeah, I’m not the John Watson–” He cut himself off before he could utter anything mean. Mike awkwardly ducked his head and drank his coffee. John discreetly switched his cup to his right hand, nearly glaring down at his left one, clenching it into a fist, trying to get rid of the tremors that’d started up again.
“Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike asked after a moment. To most it would seem like a harmless question, but it only made John’s foul mood grow worse.
“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen!” He didn’t quite succeed at keeping the bitterness out of his tone. Harry had never been much help before in his life, he doubted she’d start now. For all that she was the older sibling by two years, John had always been the one to take care of her.
“I dunno, get a flatshare or something?”
“Come on.” He scoffed and nearly rolled his eyes. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?” A cripple with PTSD did not make for an appealing lodger. For some reason that made Mike snicker. “What?”
“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.” That was… one hell of a coincidence.
“Who was the first?”
“Oh, just a…” Mike seemed to struggle for a second before shrugging. “friend I met a few years ago. In fact, I saw him heading into Bart’s on my way out. If we head back now, we might be able to catch him!” The excited man hopped to his feet before John could even respond. The doctor sighed while glancing down his hand, and was relieved to find that it had stopped shaking for the moment. Hauling himself to his feet, and reorienting his coffee and cane, he quickly caught up with Mike, who was only a few leagues ahead of him.
It took them a handful of minutes to reach the hospital, the park being on the outskirts of the property for patients to enjoy. St. Bartholomew’s hadn’t changed much from when he’d done his residency and clinicals years ago. New doors had been added, glass where before they’d once been metal, making it look like less of a prison in his opinion. John silently followed Mike to the third floor of the building, heading near the back where the labs used to be. As he limped into the room, he found that it was indeed still a lab, though the equipment had obviously been upgraded.
There was already someone in the room, a man. The stranger looked to be his junior by a few years, though it was hard to tell. He had ones of those face that just looked young. Seeing as the bloke was busy looking through a microscope, he let his eyes take over the room.
“Well, bit different from my day.” John meant for it to be a joke, but the haggardness of his voice made it fall flat. Still, ever the genial one, Mike chuckled appropriately.
“You’ve no idea!”
“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” The stranger asked without looking up. “There’s no signal on mine.
“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked in a short tone that John had rarely ever heard from the man.
“I prefer to text.”
“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”
“Here, you can use mine.” John offered up his mobile without a second thought. The younger man stared at him for a second before getting up.
“Oh. Thank you.” As the man walked towards him, fortunately saving John the trip.
“It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson.” Mike introduced him, though he failed to do the same for the other man. The stranger took his phone, turning away partially before beginning to type.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” John blinked at the abrupt question and looked up at the taller man.
“Sorry?”
“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” The bloke repeated and the doctor frowned at him before glancing back at Mike in confusion, who just smiled.
“Afghanistan.” He decided to answer after a tick. “Sorry, how did you know–” The swing of the door alerted him to someone entering the room and the younger man cut him off, addressing whoever it was. John accepted his mobile as the stranger took a mug from a young woman. She was a little shorter than John, brunette, pale, with pretty hazel eyes.
“Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He stared at the woman, blue eyes narrowing. “What happened to the lipstick?”
“It wasn’t working for me.” The woman, Molly, replied as she smiled at him weakly. The man turned away from her, walking back towards whatever he’d been examining earlier.
“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.”
“…Okay.”
“How do you feel about the violin?” John looked around at Molly’s retreating figure, but she doesn’t pause at the question. He looked at Mike again, who’s watching with a smirk, and realizes that that the stranger was talking to him.
“I’m sorry, what?” The doctor asked, not understanding why this mad man was asking him about violins.
“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He smiled at John, who stared at him blankly for a moment before turning to Mike.
“Oh, you– you told him about me?” Though he had no idea how Mike would’ve been able to do so.
“Not a word.” He blinked a couple of times before looking back at the man, genuinely perplexed.
“Then who said anything about flatmates?”
“I did.” The stranger announced as he put on a dark blue greatcoat and tied a scarf around his neck. “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”
“How did you know about Afghanistan?” It doesn’t escape John’s notice when the man pulls a mobile from his pocket.
“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” He walked toward and then past John, tucking his mobile back into his coat as he went. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” The mad man really had every intention of just walking away, didn’t he?
“Is that it?” The stranger paused before turning back to him.
“Is that what?” John looked at him somewhat sternly.
“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?”
“Problem?” The doctor smiled in disbelief, before glancing back at Mike who simply shrugged, and addressed the many problems to this odd, nutty man.
“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.” The stranger studied him for a moment before his eyebrows quirked downward slightly.
“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him– possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic. Quite correctly, I’m afraid.” The… facts were stated in a span of seconds, so quickly that John barely caught all of it. The mentioning of his leg had him shuffling awkwardly, but he couldn’t help but blink stupidly at the stranger’s rapid… revelations. ‘That was–’ “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” The bloke walked out the door, leaning back in as he smiled at John. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon.” And with a parting wink the mad man was gone. ‘That was–’ Blinking at Mike in a daze, his friend just smiled and nodded.
“Yeah. He’s always like that.”
And John couldn’t help but think: ‘That was bloody brilliant!’
January 30, 2010
Sherlock’s cab pulled up in front of 221B just as John Watson started knocking on the flat’s door.
“Hello.” He called as he reached through the window to pay the cabbie. His eyes and mind were quick to pick up little things. ‘Caucasian, late 40s, long time smoker going by the yellow stains on his fingers, and possible crossdresser due to the smudged residue of mascara under his eyes.’ “Thank you.” He swiftly walked over to John, taking the proffered handshake.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes.” He grimaced at the that. It sounded too much like how others addressed Mycroft.
“Sherlock, please.” The taller man glanced over his potential colleague, but he didn’t pick up anymore that what he’d observed yesterday.
“Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive.” John remarked and Sherlock gathered that the doctor, who was likely currently living off his Army pension, was concerned about the rent.
“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”
“Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?” Sherlock smirked at the shorter man.
“Oh no, I ensured it.” Mrs. Hudson opened the front door, her arms spread for a hug. Honestly, he had seen the woman yesterday, did they need to go through this again. Withholding an eye roll, he allowed the embrace, though he made sure to keep it brief.
“Sherlock, hello.” Stepping back, he mustered a smile for the woman as he gestured to John.
“Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson.” Introductions made, the consulting detective studied their interactions. Frist impressions were paramount. Obviously, he’d prefer for them to be amicable. Fighting amongst housemates could be, at the very least, annoying, if not downright distracting. And John was indeed proving to be a desirable flatmate. The good doctor hadn’t grown annoyed or affronted throughout their encounters so far. The last lodger Sherlock had was back in college, and the freshman hadn’t last more than three days before he’d moved out. Word had spread around campus soon after and he’d had to ask Mycroft for extra funds to make rent.
“Hello.” Sherlock watched Mrs. Hudson’s gaze drop down to John’s cane, her expression turning from welcoming to sympathetic. It was fortunate that John was too busy paying attention to the stairs to notice. After yesterday’s encounter, he’d deduced that the doctor’s leg was an undesirable subject.
“How do you do?” John returned politely, still half-focused on his footing, and she smiled in turn. Oh good, she approved.
“Come in.” Mrs. Hudson motioned for them to come inside, her hand coming to rest on the doctor’s shoulder as if she planned to help him into the building.
“Thank you.” John must’ve sensed her intentions because he was quick to carry himself over the threshold and out of the woman’s reach.
“Shall we?” Sherlock hummed as he quickly followed John inside.
“Yeah.” Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind them, shuffling past them and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he took in her appearance. ‘Slight limp on her left side, slower gait than normal, tense posture. Hip must be acting up again.’ “It’s just up the stairs dear.” She said for John’s sake, who lingered in the entryway. “My flat is on this floor down the hall. You’ll show him around, won’t you dear? I’ve just got to grab some things.” Doubtlessly off to retrieve their copies of the 221B’s keys.
Sherlock jogged up the seventeen steps to the second floor, pausing to wait for John. He refrained from making a comment about picking up the pace, but the slight twitch in the shorter man’s jaw revealed that John was equally already irritated with his own hobbling. Instead, Sherlock silently cocked an eyebrow at him before opening the door to the shared living room. The consulting detective, already familiar with the space, merely watched John take in the room with a perceptive gaze.
“Well, this could be very nice.” The doctor announced after a moment, sounding satisfied. “Very nice indeed.”
“Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely.” Sherlock agreed with a smirk, looking around the flat favorably. “So, I went straight ahead and moved in.” John spoke at the same time, their words overlapping.
“Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out.” He blinked at the doctor, frowning slightly. “Oh.” The shorter man looked around the room again, before glancing back at the consulting detective with a strange expression. Right, untidiness was not a desirable trait for a cotenant. “So this is all…”
“Well,” Sherlock coughed as he quickly moved forwards, grabbing a folder and stuffing it into a box, which he then shifted to the desk. “obviously, I can, um, straighten things up a bit.” He set some unopened envelopes on the hearth’s mantelpiece, stabbing them into the wood with a pocketknife.
“That’s a skull.” John stated flatly as he pointed at the skull with his cane.
“Friend of mine.” He replied carelessly before realizing how that sentence could be misconstrued. ‘Stupid.’ So far, his initial plan to portray himself as an appealing flatmate was proving to be a problematic task. He studied the doctor’s reaction, who only stared back at him with a raised brow. “When I say ‘friend’…” He struggled to find the right response and was unintentionally saved from doing so as Mrs. Hudson stepped into the room. Sherlock turned away, removing his Belstaff and scarf, before continuing with his act of organizing his things.
“What do you think then, Doctor Watson?” She asked while she picked up one of his old cups of tea, smiling at John. “There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”
“Of course we’ll be needing two.” John answered as he blinked at her in confusion. Mrs. Hudson gave a small laugh in response.
“Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here.” Her tone dropped to that of a whisper as she continued. “Mrs. Turner next door has got married ones.” Their landlady walked into the kitchen, pausing at the entrance. “Oh, Sherlock. The mess you’ve made.” Knowing the woman would busy herself with tiding up, Sherlock glanced up from his laptop, immediately spotting John settling into the older armchair that sat opposite of his own, more moderate lounger. He adjusted a dusty Union Jack pillow that Sherlock had found in Mrs. Hudson’s attic days ago, grimacing as he straightened out his right leg.
“I looked you up on the internet last night.” John announced and Sherlock turned to him curiously.
“Anything interesting?”
“Found your website, The Science of Deduction.”
“What did you think?” Sherlock asked, his lips quirking upwards slightly. The doctor regarded him skeptically and the consulting detective caught himself frowning in return. “What?”
“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.” While the doubt was visible in his expression, John’s tone was more neutral than anything else. ‘What an interesting reaction.’ Sherlock thought as he tucked his hands into his pockets. Incredulity and distrust were things he’d regularly encountered whenever he made his deductions. Rarely did someone approach the subject with such composure. It was, truthfully, rather novel.
“Yes.” He affirmed while studying John curiously. “And I can read your military career in your face and your leg,” The mentioning of his limp had the doctor’s jaw clenching noticeably. “and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.” John blinked at him rapidly. ‘Was that a reaction based on confusion, surprise, or irritation?’ He’d have to test that in the future.
“How?” Sherlock smiled and turned away to peer out a window. It was positioned over the front door to the building, making it an excellent lookout spot.
“What about these suicides then, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asked as she came out of the kitchen with the other day’s newspaper in hand. “I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same.” From his vantage point he spotted a police car pull up to the kerb in front of the flat.
“Four.” He breathed, nearly smiling as Lestrade climbed out of the car. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”
“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson repeated. The hurried, drubbing of Lestrade’s feet on the stairs could be heard. The Detective Inspector was somewhat winded once reaching the landing. A quick onceover revealed nothing more than what he already knew about the older man. However, the fact that Lestrade had come to him at all was very telling.
“Where?” Sherlock asked without preamble.
“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”
“What’s new about this one?” He narrowed his eyes at the Inspector. “You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”
“You know how they never leave notes?”
“Yeah.”
“This one did.” Lestrade answered with a shrug. “Will you come?”
“Who’s on forensics?”
“It’s Anderson.” Sherlock grimaced and shook his head.
“Anderson won’t work with me.”
“Well, he won’t be your assistant.”
“I need an assistant.” He shot a furtive eye at John, who was watching their interaction with interest. ‘Perhaps. He has extensive medical knowledge, no doubt much more so than Anderson. As both a doctor and solider he would be used to death. He could possibly even have a fixation for hazardous situations.’
“Will you come?” Sherlock glanced at the DI and nodded.
“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”
“Thank you.” Lestrade hesitated for a moment, indecision apparent as he opened his mouth again but failed to speak. Annoyed at the man’s dithering, Sherlock glared at him.
“What?”
“There’ll be someone else at the crime scene, a private detective.” Well that was uncommon, but not something particularly significant. It certainly didn’t require for the man to fidget on his doorstep.
“Hired by one of the previous victims’ families no doubt. Likely the first victim’s wife.”
“Why do you say that?” Lestrade inquired and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Because Mr. Patterson had been cheating on his wife with his secretary. Obviously.” He huffed before whirling on the Detective Inspector. “The real question is why are you bothering me with something so tedious.”
“Because,” The man threw him a glare. “he claims that these are murders, not suicides. Says we’ve got a serial killer on our hands.” Sherlock froze at that, his eyes widening as they landed on the wall, irises twitching minutely as he mentally reviewed this new data. He’d suspected as much since the second victim died ingesting the same poisonous tablet, but to have someone else make that same conjecture– “Is he right?”
“Of course he’s right, Lestrade!” Sherlock snapped, breaking out of his thoughts. “Honestly, how did you ever make Detective Inspector!” He flung his arms up in exasperation and began pacing, his thoughts running too fast for him to stay still. “They take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn’t miss them.”
“Right, yeah, thanks!” Lestrade growled, insulted. “And?”
“It’s murder, all of them. I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides, they’re killings– serial killings!” He trilled in delight before steepling his fingers together in contemplation. He looked back at Lestrade. “This private detective, you said he’ll be at the crime scene?”
“Already on his way.”
“Good.” He said nothing more and the DI realized that he’d been dismissed. Once he was sure Lestrade left the flat, Sherlock dropped his calm façade, grinning widely as he leapt into the air and clenched his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily. “Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four murders masquerading as serial suicides, a note, and now a serial killer! I love those. There’s always something to look forward to. Oh, it’s Christmas!” He grabbed his scarf and coat, pulling them on as he walked into the kitchen. “Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.”
“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.”
“Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home.” He grabbed a small leather pouch from the kitchen table, his toolkit, and opened the kitchen door, quickly descending the stairs. “Don’t wait up!”
Sherlock was practically out the front door when he remembered his earlier thought. Pausing, on the threshold, he reviewed what he knew about John. The doctor could make for a decent assistant, and it would give him a more in-depth chance to test his new flatmate. Retracing his steps, he wordlessly bypassed Mrs. Hudson and found John still sitting in the armchair, perusing the newspaper. There was tautness to the man’s body, his fingers twitching restlessly, his shoulders hiked up defensively.
“You’re a doctor.” Sherlock said as he began pulling on his gloves. “In fact, you’re an Army doctor.”
“Yes.” Setting down the newspaper, John climbed to his feet, clearing his throat softly. Sherlock advanced towards the man.
“Any good?” The doctor straightened his stance, puffing up his chest in pride.
“Very good.”
“Seen a lot of injuries, then, violent deaths.” He continued, his tone casual, and John nodded.
“Mmm, yes.”
“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”
“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man.
“Wanna see some more?”
“Oh god, yes.” John replied almost fervently and Sherlock smirked as he spun on his heel, leading the way downstairs.
“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip the tea! Off out!” John shouted to their landlady and she stared after them curiously.
“Both of you?” Sherlock had almost reached the front door again, before he swiftly walked over to the woman, grinning excitedly.
“Masquerading murders? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!” He took her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. She smiled at him, pushing him back gently.
“Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent.”
“Who cares about decent?” He remarked happily as they left the building. “The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!” He wasted no time in hailing down a cab. “Taxi!” Climbing into the cab, John followed in behind him. “Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” Sherlock busied himself with his mobile. His typing was accompanied with John’s sporadic fidgeting. After several minutes of silence, where he discreetly tracked the doctor’s admirable restraint, Sherlock lowered his phone and addressed John.
“Okay, you’ve got questions.” The man looked slightly impatient.
“Yeah, where are we going?” Hadn’t they already gone over this in the flat?
“Crime scene. Next?”
“Who are you? What do you do?”
“What do you think?
“I’d say private detective…” John started slowly and Sherlock smirked.
“But?”
“But the police don’t go to private detectives.”
“I’m a consulting detective.” He answered while peering out the window. “Only one in the world. I invented the job.
“What does that mean?”
“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” John chuckled.
“The police don’t consult amateurs.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the doctor before speaking.
“When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” You looked surprised.”
“Yes, how did you know?
“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said you trained at Bart’s, so Army doctor– obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk, but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan: Afghanistan or Iraq.” It was quiet for a moment and Sherlock glanced at John to see the man blinking rapidly.
“You said I had a therapist.”
“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp; of course you’ve got a therapist.” He explained dully before turning fully to the man. This was the interesting part. “Then there’s your brother.”
“Hmm?” Sherlock held out his hand and John looked at him in bewilderment before handing over his mobile in understanding.
“Your phone. It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you’re looking for a flatshare, you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then.” He flipped the mobile over, drawing attention to its faults. “Scratches. Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.” He reversed the mobile, pointing at the inscription on the back.
Harry Watson
From Clara
xxx
“The engraving.” John muttered.
“Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses say it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then. Six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do– sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you. That says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help. That says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don’t like his drinking.”
“How can you possibly know about the drinking?” The doctor asked and Sherlock smirked.
“Shot in the dark. Good one, though.” He admitted before listing the tells that supported his statement. “Power connection; tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone, never see a drunk’s without them.” He handed back John’s phone. “There you go, you see, you were right.”
“I was right? Right about what?”
“The police don’t consult amateurs.” It was silent again for a moment. Sherlock waited.
“That… was amazing.” John announced, sounding genuinely impressed. The consulting detective’s brows furrowed in confusion. That was not the usual response he got. If people weren’t offended, which they were more than 80% of the time, then they were frightened or just too confused to react.
“Do you think so?”
“Of course it was.” The shorter man nodded. “It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.” How interesting his new flatmate was. Sherlock cast him a measuring glance. Already John Watson was proving to be a rare find on his part.
“That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do people normally say?”
“Piss off.” He smiled briefly at John, who grinned back. The cab arrived at Lauriston Gardens a few minutes later and the two got out, heading towards the police tape strung across the road. “Did I get anything wrong?”
“Harry and me don’t get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker.”
“Spot on, then. I didn’t expect to be right about everything.” Sherlock was mildly impressed with himself.
“And Harry’s short for Harriet.” This information is delivered so pointblank that it caused Sherlock to stop dead in his tracks to mentally review the sentence.
“Harry’s your sister.” He breathed in disbelief.
“Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?” He could hear Mycroft’s smug voice in his ear, taunting his oversight. ‘Really, brother mine, how could you miss that?’
“Sister!” He hissed through gritted teeth.
“No, seriously, what am I doing here?” Sherlock shook his head and started walking again.
“There’s always something.” They approached the police tape where they were, unfortunately, met by Sergeant Donovan. She wore the grey pea coat she’d bought last years, buttoned all the way up, so that Sherlock could only verify that she was wearing a black skirt. His eyes narrowed. ‘Minor abrasions, dirt, and imprints on the skin of her kneecaps, wood floors judging by the withstanding marks. Estimation of at least ten minutes on knees.’
“Hello, freak.” He frowned as they drew closer to the woman.
“I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
“Why?” And this was the height of Scotland Yard’s competence.
“I was invited.” He explained plainly and she glared.
“Why?” Her tone was short and he returned to favor.
“I think he wants me to take a look.” He growled, lifting the tape and stepping under it, seeing as the infernal woman seemed determined to waste his time.
“Well, you know what I think, don’t you?” He smiled at her nastily.
“Always, Sally.” The wind carried a different scent than her usual flowery perfume and he sniffed to get a better sense of what it was. ‘Deodorant, men’s given by the heavy pine smell.’ “I even know you didn’t make it home earlier tonight.”
“I don’t–” He reply was easily forgotten when she finally spotted John. How ironic for a detective to be so unobservant. “Er, who’s this?”
“Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson.” He turned to his flatmate, generating as much sarcasm as he could as he introduced the woman. “Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend.”
“A colleague?” She grinned, looking one step away from laughing. “How do you get a colleague?!” She ran her eyes over John, likely looking for some kind of defect. Her gaze landed on his cane and her smile turned vindictive. “What, did he follow you home?” Her attitude was clearly affecting the good doctor, who frowned and shuffled self-consciously.
“Would it be better if I just waited over–”
“No.” Sherlock denied as he raised the tape while looking away. Fortunately, John offered no more resistance and followed through.
“Freak’s here. Bring him in.” Donovan snarled into her radio. Sherlock was oblivious to the slight though. He was too focus on the area, taking in the state of his surroundings. ‘Pavement is dry. No Lestrade, possibly already examining the body. Abandoned apartment building, foreclosure notice and boarded up windows suggest it’s been in disrepair for some time.’ Sherlock locked eyes as Anderson approached them.
“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.” The man glared at him, but there was more than just his regular aversion. He stood taller, chest puffed outwards, head raised. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. ‘A power stance. But why the show of dominance? There was no one present to impress–’ The smell of pine reached him again, more pungent this time, and Sherlock nearly smiled.
“It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?” Donovan stood a few feet away, watching the interaction with a growing grin.
“Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?” Anderson rolled his eyes.
“Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that.”
“Your deodorant told me that.”
“My deodorant?” Sherlock let himself smile here.
“It’s for men.”
“Well, of course it’s for men! I’m wearing it!”
“So’s Sergeant Donovan.” Anderson whirled on Donovan, who stared back at him, shocked. Sherlock gave a mock sniff, smirking at the pair.
“Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?”
“Now look,” Anderson said, his tone much lower than it was a moment ago. “whatever you’re trying to imply–” Sherlock waltzed passed him, uncaring of whatever lies the man was going to concoct.
“I’m not implying anything.” He passed by Donovan, who gave him a withering glare. “I’m sure Sally came ‘round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over.” He turned back around at the door’s threshold and smiled smugly as they stared at him in horror. “And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.” The clack of John’s cane followed him inside the building and Sherlock led him to the prep area Lestrade’s men had set up. The Detective Inspector was there himself, putting on the essential equipment one needed to avoid contaminating a crime scene. He turned back to John and pointed at a pile of similar items. “You need to wear one of these.”
“Who’s this?” The DI asked while squinting at John. Sherlock was more interested in the unfamiliar man standing who stood off to the side and seemed to be waiting on Lestrade.
“He’s with me.”
“But who is he?”
“I said he’s with me.” He growled impatiently as he turned to the stranger, eyes narrowing.
‘Caucasian, early 30s.’ The man was not wearing a coverall as he should, but rather a tan trench coat over a black suit. ‘Cheap suit, made of cotton. White dress shirt buttoned all the way up. Black tie done somewhat crookedly. Tan fedora with a faded black band. Scuffed up black dress shoes.’ The entire outfit was somewhat tatty; he wore it often. Despite the unkempt look it gave him, he held himself nonchalantly, confidently. ‘His battle armor then.’ Judging from his posture and the minor bulging under his suit jacket, he wore a shoulder styled gun holster. There was a sheathed knife mostly hidden under his right pant leg. His height was roughly the same as John’s, but his build was slimmer, his shoulders less broad. Some of his facial features were somewhat delicate, giving the man a rather effeminate appearance. ‘A lightly squared jawline. A somewhat narrow chin. Broad, curved forehead. Short, straight edged nose. Almond shaped brown eyes. He wore contacts. His hair was dyed black and combed back under his hat.’ A second glance showed the man had neglected to recolour his eyebrows, which were starting to come in as light brown. ‘Medium sized ears that had been pierced once, but the holes have long since healed over.’
“You must be the private detective.” Sherlock stated after a short moment. He offered a hand to the man, who took it with no hesitation, brown eyes roaming over him curiously. His hands, smaller then Sherlock had expected, were heavily calloused. There were scars; the most prominent one was on the back of his right hand. ‘Likely caused by a serrated blade judging from the jagged, puckered skin. Nails were chipped from work rather than biting. There’s powder residue from a gun, American made, likely 9mm, still under his fingernails.’
“That’s me. Carter Renard, Private Investigator for hire.” ‘American, accent found along the Northern East Coast.’ His tone was of a higher pitch than normal, though not strikingly so. ‘Restating his occupation exhibits his preference, or more likely a habit, of using American terminology.’ “You wouldn’t happen to be the same guy who was mass texting everyone the other day at the press conference?” A quick glance at Lestrade’s surprised face showed that the man, Carter, hadn’t told been told that. ‘Interesting.’
“I am. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.” He ended the handshake, which had last no more than four seconds, and resisted the urge to ask how the man had deduced he was behind those texts. “Lestrade tells me you think these suicides are in fact murders.”
“I don’t think it, I’m pretty damn sure of it.” Carter replied, shrugging as he reached for a pair of latex gloves. Lestrade gave the man an annoyed look, but said nothing. Oh, so the American had refused to wear those ridiculous coveralls too. Sherlock smirked slightly to himself as he reached for a pair of gloves as well. John glanced between them, coverall in hand, his jacket already off.
“Aren’t you two gonna put them on?” Sherlock stared back at him expressionlessly and John shook his head, his mien exuding exasperation and something else the consulting detective couldn’t quite place. ‘Was that amusement?’ His new colleague was very expressive.
“What makes you so certain?” Sherlock continued as he turned back to the American.
“Besides the fact that all the vics took the same poison, died in remote places they never would’ve normally visited, and that none of them displayed any signs of being suicidal beforehand?” Carter asked rhetorically. “It didn’t sit right with me. Felt too much like an M.O., though I can’t figure out how this guy chooses his victims. It’s like it’s at random, which makes no fucking sense.” A passing officer frowned reproachfully at the man’s swearing. ‘Casual use of profanity and uncaring about upsetting others.’
“Can’t it be?” John asked and Carter looked at him in confusion. “Uh, sorry, John Watson.” He offered a handshake, which the PI accepted easily. “I just meant, why can’t it be at random?”
“Statistically speaking, most serial killers are organized, nonsocial, and follow basic patterns. Those who don’t follow a pattern typically have lower IQs, disorganized, and are asocial. But this asshole, he’s smart, he’s got everyone fooled. It’s safe to say he’s above average intelligence.” Sherlock noted the way Carter spoke, the casual use of certain terms employed by law enforcement. The American was clearly familiar with situations involving murder, comfortable even. Either he’d had several cases of similar natures in the past, or, quite possibly, the man was more than just a private eye. Sherlock turned to Lestrade, who’d also been listening to Carter’s explanation, and seemingly found it adequate, judging by his approving expression.
“So, where are we?” He asked the DI, who pointed upwards.
“Upstairs.”