Chapter Text
When Marcus got back to the crime-scene, the wife of one of the victims was talking to Captain Gregson. Which was unexpected. In Marcus’ experience, unexpected visitors to crime scenes always ended in a headache, if not something worse.
“No, I’m afraid I really have to insist,” Marcus heard the Captain say as he got closer, “I respect your beliefs, I do, but I can’t let civilians into this crime scene while the investigation is still happening. I’m sure you understand that. That isn’t up for debate.”
Marcus caught the Captain’s eye and nodded him away from his visitor.
“So, I called Sherlock and Joan and they’ll be here sometime in the next thirty minutes, something about an iguana. I didn’t ask. What’s that about?”
“That’s Mrs. Nakahara, wife of victim number two. She wants to bring some sort of witch-doctor to perform some sort of I-don’t-know-what of my active crime scene to ensure that her husband is, I dunno, at peace or something and she says he’s going to be here any minute. So, right now I’m hoping that that iguana takes a long time to sort out.”
“Hm,” said Marcus, “well good luck with that, I interviewed the sister of victim three and the husband of victim four. Christie Allen, the survivor, is still in the ICU. She was visiting from Wisconsin and there was a hotel key-card with her things, and I was going to see if I could run that down. Still no luck with the diner manager or the cook, but I figure we can put Holmes and Watson on that.”
“Good work,” said Greyson, “and nice job on finding a way to avoid the… this.”
“Well, I can stay if you really need me,” Marcus offered, not entirely sincerely.
“No, go do some actual police work, I’ll stay and referee,” said Greyson.
“Good luck with that,” Marcus said as he turned and left.
———————
Sherlock, despite what Marcus had said, bounced out of a taxi ten minutes later, followed by a less enthusiastic looking Joan. Mrs. Nakahara darted forward when the taxi pulled up and then slumped a bit when she realized that it was not her still missing medium getting out of the taxi.
“Captain,” Sherlock called, “the iguana proved more tractable than expected. Any progress here?”
Gregson jogged over to stop Sherlock and Joan up short before they could get to Mrs. Nakahara, “I’m glad you’re here, this is not proving tractable at all. But before you get started Mrs. Nakahara over there has called some sort of medium who’s supposed to show up any minute, and I’m not pleased with it either, but I’ve got enough on my hands already so please don’t make a scene.”
Sherlock, in response, drew himself up very straight and practically yelled, “Captain I respect your position but I will not stand idly by while some swindler takes flagrant advantage of the irrationality of the grieving and you cannot ask it of me.”
The volume he was speaking at totally defeated the entire point of keeping him away from Mrs. Nakahara who, immediately started walking over, presumably to argue. She didn’t actually start the argument though, because someone came careening around the corner. When he skidded to a halt near Mrs. Nakahara Gregson put together that he was, presumably, her medium.
He didn’t look like a medium. Not that Gregson really knew what a medium should look like, but he had definitely been picturing someone close to Mrs. Nakahara in age, or, at least someone as old as Sherlock. The kid currently speaking breathlessly in Japanese to Mrs. Nakahara, bent over nearly ninety degrees at the waist, might have made it out of his teens, but Gregson wouldn’t have bet money on it. He was thin, and wearing a long white coat that didn’t fit.
Sherlock was staring at him in a way that suggested Gregson was about to get a lecture in all the other things he was seeing. But instead, when Sherlock started talking, it was just to translate.
“He’s apologizing for being so late,” Sherlock started, “apparently he was held up at customs and immigration. Now there’s an exchange of condolences. Now Mrs. Nakahara is complaining about us - apparently we’re not respecting his position… ah, he’s an onmyoji, not, for future reference, quite the same thing as what you or I would think of as a medium, it refers to a practice that is virtually untranslatable into English. This will be more like an exorcism, less an abortive attempt to contact the deceased. No less silly, but somewhat less concern in regards to his motives, still concern you understand, but less. Oh, now, she’s complaining about me in specific. Apparently I’m rude.”
“Imagine that,” muttered Gregson.
The kid eventually straightened up, and walked over to them and bowed again. Gregson had no idea what to do about that, so he just stood there awkwardly. Sherlock and Joan both bowed back and made it look totally natural, so maybe it was just him.
“My apologies,” the kid said quietly, “I was not told the police were still investigating.”
Gregson held out his hand, “Captain Tom Gregson, NYPD. These are my consultants Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson. I can’t let you into the crime scene while the investigation is ongoing, but we’ll see what we can do.”
The kid seemed to find the offer of a handshake just as baffling as he’d found the bow, so Gregson wasn’t surprised when his eventual handshake was brief and insubstantial, “Thank you,” he said, “I’m Subaru Sumeragi. I apologize for the intrusion.”
Then he turned and bowed to Sherlock again.
“Thank you,” he said.
That seemed to catch even Sherlock by surprise. Gregson could see his jaw drop a bit.
Sumeragi caught his breath, or finished translating what he was trying to say inside his head, and kept going, “Nakahara - Mrs. Nakahara, said you were concerned about my - my honesty. I would hate for someone to take advantage of another person’s grief. I do hate it, I mean. So, thank you, for your concern.”
Sherlock swallowed visibly, “well, always happy to out charlatans when I find them. Its hard to prevent me doing it actually. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a crime-scene to examine.”
Sherlock breezed past them, pausing by each victim outline, tipping over to look at the underside of tables, and then whirled around behind the counter and started opening drawers. Gregson turned his attention back to the case, and asked Joan about the elusive diner manager. She disappeared into the managers office, which left him alone with Sumeragi again.
The kid was slowly trying to disappear into his coat. He had obviously not meant to intrude on an active crime scene ad seemed a bit ashamed. Or possibly he was just recovering from his introduction to Sherlock, even if he had been uncharacteristically restrained.
“Look,” Gregson said, “I have no idea what it is you’re actually planning on doing, so maybe if you could give me some idea of what it is you are actually going to be doing we could find you a place to set up?”
Sumeragi stared around the scene, biting his lip and generally looking distressed. But then, even with the bodies moved to the morgue, there was a fair bit of blood splashed about.
“You going to be okay?” he asked, “I know its a lot.”
“I’m fine, its not my first crime scene,” Sumeragi said quietly, then pointed to a corner at the edge of the crime scene, just inside the tape, but away from the mayhem, formed by a booth where the table had been tipped out of the way, “may I set-up over there. It would be enough space.”
It was eerie to hear the phrase ‘not my first crime scene’ from someone so young, but Gregson put it from his mind and picked his way over and examined the space. Then waved Sherlock over, “you done right here?” he asked.
Sherlock stared at the corner with his head tilted for a moment, then squatted down to stare at the floor, then stood back up, “there were, three to five people here, they upended the table while fleeing, looks like someone ordered baked beans. They were behind the gunman when he opened fire. Okay, done now.” Sherlock vaulted over the counter to return to what he was doing, and Sumeragi slipped into the space he left behind and knelt down.
None of the nonsense Gregson had been braced for materialized. Whatever Sumeragi though he was doing, it just looked like kneeling down and chanting, and, once he’d been allowed onto the scene Mrs. Nakahara seemed mollified, and left them all to work. Joan came out of the managers office a few minutes later with a book of phone numbers to run down, and Sherlock still managed to complete his investigation without once yelling at Sumeragi to stop making noise, or otherwise interrupting him for his own amusement.
Gregson was still debating whether to just accept Sherlock’s unexpected bout of manners as an unexpected gift, or whether it was something he was going to have to ask about, when Sumeragi suddenly went silent, pulled himself up against the bench, and spoke briefly to Mrs. Nakahara and wandered off and Sherlock, with no explanation whatsoever, ran off after him.
———————
Subaru finished the last exorcism immediately wanted nothing more than to lie down on the ground and sleep. In Tokyo, he would have been given the police report along with Nakahara-san’s request, but instead all he’d had was a letter requesting that he ensure her husband’s spirit was safely at rest, so that’s all he’d been prepared to do. But he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the other three spirits, begging him for peace. So his head was pounding from backlash he hadn’t prepared for, and the watch he hadn’t had a chance to reset yet said it was three in the morning. But he was working under the suspicious stare of the New York Police, and even here he had a reputation to maintain. So he couldn’t rest, but then, he couldn’t anyway, not really.
He pulled himself upright, told himself the floor only looked like it was tilting and went to reassure Nakahara-san that her husband was safely at rest before he left.
He should, in a strange city, have been looking where he was going. But it had been so long since he’d cared enough to do it automatically, and he was so much tireder than usual so he noticed that someone had just grabbed him and pulled him sharply backwards before he noticed that a truck had just zipped past his face without stopping.
“That’s not going to help as much as you think it will,” the person holding his coat said in Japanese.
Subaru tugged himself free and turned around. The person who’d grabbed him was the second policemen - no, he was a consultant, holding a large stack of papers under one arm. He’d been introduced, but what was his name? Why was he here?
“Thank you for your assistance,” Subaru said, and turned back around.
The consultant just followed him around so they were still face to face, “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “my name. I could see you fishing for it. I don’t think you’re actually especially grateful, but don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you. Never mind.”
Sherlock grabbed his arm and started dragging him back the way he had come, “I have a friend who’ll enjoy meeting you,” he announced, making no attempt to explain his earlier statements, “she’s got something of an interest in Japanese esoterica. Its not her main area of expertise, but it is obviously, yours, and if she finds out I let you wander off without introducing you she may never forgive me.”
Subaru tried to excuse himself, but Sherlock had pulled his phone out and was speaking loudly into it in English, drowning him out, and he could have thrown the grip Sherlock had on his arm, but it would have made a fuss, “Mrs. Hudson, yes, hello, you should come to the brownstone immediately. I’ve just run into someone I think you’ll enjoy meeting. Yes, we’re just getting a taxi now, we should be about twenty minutes, unless there is unexpected traffic, in which case we will of course, be longer. Just go ahead and let yourself in if no one answers.”
———————
Bell returned to the crime scene just in time to see Sherlock dragging a surprised looking young man in a white coat into a taxi. Mrs. Nakahara was talking to the Captain again.
“What a friendly man,” Mrs. Nakahara was saying, “so considerate of him to take an interest.”
“I’m glad it worked out,” Captain Gregson said noncommittally, “excuse me I need to talk to my detective.”
“Before you ask,” said Greyson, I have no idea what just happened. How did it go with the hotel?”
“Wait, hang on, was that the medium, the kid Sherlock was dragging around?” Bell asked.
“Yes, I have no idea, he just ran after him, I didn’t ask. Joan found some leads into where the manager’s got to, and Sherlock has some supply orders he said he thought he could use to find the cook.” Gregson explained, or, rather didn’t”
“Before he took up kidnapping?” Marcus asked.
“Something like that,” said the Captain, “how are things on your end?”
“Well, I’ve got access to Christie Allen’s things, but so far they don’t look all that informative. But I also seem to have wandered into some sort of strange mirror universe. So who knows.”