Work Text:
One of the many vices of Sherlock Holmes is he can be infuriatingly stubborn, especially when it comes to his work. Once he sets his mind on something, there’s no persuading him otherwise. One such occasion happened a few months back, on a tragic case that was rather personal to us. DI Lestrade called us out to the scene early on a Monday morning, with me practically dragging my reluctant flatmate out the door. Sherlock was inclined to ignore the case, since he, for reasons unbeknownst to me, didn’t find it interesting enough. It was only with threats of calling Mycroft that I was able to get him to come along, so he was already in a sour mood before we got to the busy intersection that was the crime scene.
The victim was someone I had only spoken to once or twice, but Lestrade had known her quite well. She was a homicide detective at the Yard; one of the many officers under Lestrade’s division. Detective Samuelsson had been hit by an oncoming truck while crossing an intersection that was usually heavy with traffic, but today was blocked off for the investigation. Strangely, all of the other officers at the scene seemed to be getting ready to head out, as though they had already finished the job. The body was still laid out though, and Sherlock wasted no time in striding over to examine it while I hung back with Lestrade. Obviously the consulting detective wasn’t going to offer his condolences, so that task was left to me.
“Sorry ‘bout this mate, did you know her well?” My expression was sympathetic as I spoke, though Lestrade didn’t look terribly grief-stricken.
“Well enough. Everyone else thinks it was a suicide. According to witnesses, she stepped out into the middle of the road and just stood there. And… well, you can see the result.” He motioned toward the grim mess that was the woman’s body, her limbs skewed in unnatural positions and blood from her head trauma forming a sizable pool under her.
“But you don’t think so, otherwise you wouldn’t have called us.” I raised my brows questioningly.
“No, I don’t. I knew Samuelsson, and she didn’t seem the type. She was retiring in a week… who kills themselves a week before they retire?” Lestrade shuffled his feet and glanced toward his colleagues on the other side of the road. Clearly, they disapproved of his assessment of the situation. I hummed knowingly, though honestly I wasn’t convinced. It did look like a suicide, but I resolved to withhold judgement until Sherlock had a verdict.
Speaking of which, Sherlock looked to be nearly done already. He was walking back to us with long, purposeful strides, his nose buried in his phone and his eyes scanning the screen rapidly. His examination had been minimal compared to his usual scrutiny; I’d been watching as he measured distances using his own strides, felt in the victim’s coat pockets, examined the shattered remains of her glasses, and peered into her eyes for a long moment. Now, he grimaced, apparently displeased with something he’d read on his phone.
“D’you want me to take a look?” I asked helpfully, more than a little put out when Sherlock shook his head.
“No, we’re done here. It was dreadfully easy… I told you we shouldn’t have bothered.” I gaped at him, baffled that anything about this situation could be labeled as “easy.”
“How do you mean?” I asked as I glanced back at the body, wondering what on earth Sherlock could have found that would give him a solution so quickly. He pocketed his phone and looked at me with his I can’t believe I have to put up with this stupidity expression before opening his mouth to speak. However, before he could say anything, he snapped his mouth closed and let a wide, slightly maniacal grin overtake his features.
“Actually, do have a look.” I furrowed my brow, confused. “You’re the one who insisted on dragging me out here, you can solve this one on your own this time.” I gawked openly at him, my confusion doubled. Was he really going to withhold information from the police just to get revenge on me? No, certainly he wasn’t that petty.
“You’re joking.” Lestrade, who had been listening with rapt attention, beat me to the punch. Sherlock looked at him as though he only just noticed the DI’s presence.
“John is perfectly capable of handling this on his own, I am sure.” He shot me a wicked grin. Yes, yes he was that petty. I scowled and crossed my arms, but before I could argue, my flatmate waved me off. “Go on, then, you’ll want to examine the body before the coroner takes it away.” And with that, Sherlock strode away, his coat billowing out behind him dramatically.
“Jesus, can you believe him?” Lestrade complained loud enough that Sherlock would have heard him, but the tall figure made no move to show that he was listening before he swept around a corner and out of sight.
“I’m sorry, he’s in one of his moods today and I-”
“No need to apologize for him.” Lestrade interrupted with a wave of his hand. I supposed he’d dealt with Sherlock enough by now that he was used to it. He looked around uncertainly before adding, “Although, I would appreciate it if you took a look… no harm in getting a second opinion.” I was surprised and a little proud that Lestrade valued my opinion that much, though I supposed he was just desperate to find someone who would agree with his theory that this was a homicide. I nodded and smiled reassuringly before turning towards the body, unsure of where to begin.
Of course, I had examined dead bodies before, but it felt wrong without Sherlock hovering over me. I tried to mimic everything I’d seen Sherlock do; certainly one of those things had brought him to some sort of conclusion, right? But I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what it was he had been measuring with his own feet, as there didn’t seem to be anything of importance besides the body. So I skipped that step, pulled on a pair of gloves, and went straight to digging into Detective Samuelsson’s coat pockets. They were all empty save for one, which held a crumpled-up piece of paper with a last name and address written on it in bright red ink. I held the address up to Lestrade and asked,
“You know anything about that?” Lestrade squinted and thought for a moment before replying,
“Abbott… I think that’s the surname of the case she was about to wrap up. Yeah, I remember… some rich guy killed his wife. Domestic abuse kind of thing. That’s probably their address she wrote down.” I nodded sagely and committed the name and address to memory before returning the evidence to its proper place.
“Was she working any other cases before she died?” I asked as I bent down to examine her broken glasses, which were lying about a meter away from her body.
“Not that I know of. She was trying to wrap things up before she retired. All she had left to do was the paperwork for the Abbott case…” Lestrade’s voice faded into silence, apparently not willing to continue that train of thought. I would have offered him a comforting thump on the back, had my hands not been smeared with a dead woman’s blood. As it was, I continued my search, moving back to the body after failing to find anything worth note about the glasses.
“Have you talked to the driver who hit her?” I peeled back the victim’s eyelids as I spoke. The right eye looked a little red around the edges, though I didn’t think a minor case of pink eye had much to do with her death.
“No, not yet. He’s due in for questioning in…” Lestrade glanced at his watch. “An hour. You could come and watch, if you’d like. We’re not supposed to let civilians watch, strictly speaking, but I don’t think anyone will tell on us, do you?” I chuckled and shook my head, pleased that Lestrade was willing to make exceptions for me. He seemed more confident in me than I was in myself, given that I’d gone through all of Sherlock’s motions already and still had nothing to show for it other than a name and address that might not even mean anything. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I straightened up and stretched my now-sore legs.
“Alright, I’m ready to go. Maybe you could show me some of the files from her recent cases? If that’s not too much to ask…” I muttered, my cheeks reddening a little. The last thing I wanted to do was overstep my bounds and risk not being allowed at crime scenes anymore, but thankfully the request didn’t seem like a big deal to Lestrade.
“Yeah, no problem. Hey, thanks for doing this, John… it’s just, I’m at a bit of a loss here and no one else thinks it’s worth investigating, so…”
“Don’t worry about it mate, it’s my pleasure.” And with that, we left the crime scene and headed off for Scotland Yard, leaving the body for the coroner to take care of.
I spent the rest of my day in a haze of paperwork, the monotony of looking through all of Detective Samuelsson’s disorganized files only broken up by the questioning of the driver who hit her. The paperwork was mostly uninteresting; she’d been taking fairly simple cases recently, no doubt slacking off in anticipation of retirement. Lestrade had been correct in assuming that she only had one case on at the time of her death; another simple case concerning the wealthy Abbott family. According to the files, one of Abbott’s children reported seeing their father, Richard Abbott, push their mother, Nancy, down the stairs in a fit of rage. The mother was killed in the fall, though the father claimed that she had tripped and fallen on her own. The argument seemed weak to me, and I didn’t think he would fare well in his court appointment next week.
The interrogation of the driver was at least a bit more interesting. His reaction to having killed a woman was not exactly typical. He mostly just seemed annoyed that he was being brought in for questioning, and he certainly wasn’t remorseful. That gave me an idea, but I didn’t immediately tell Lestrade. I was fairly confident in my theory, but I was determined to at least run it by Sherlock before telling anyone and possibly getting it wrong. So, after more than a few hours at the Yard, I thanked Lestrade and hurried back to 221B.
Ten minutes later, I burst through the door of the flat, dripping wet since it had started raining on the way back. I was met with the sight of Sherlock, draped over the couch and throwing darts lazily at the wall opposite of him. I would have been irritated at the slow destruction of our shared flat, but I was so pleased from figuring out the mystery that I didn’t much care. Sherlock didn’t turn or even acknowledge my presence as I walked across the threshold and hung up my coat.
“Solved the case.” I said smugly, heading to the kitchen to make tea.
“Mm. And?” From the other room, I heard another dart smack into the wall.
“It was Mr. Abbott, wasn’t it?” I finished making my drink and returned to the sitting room, narrowly avoiding being hit with a dart on my way to sit in my armchair. Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in a mischievous-looking grin. He sat up straight and rested his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers under his chin.
“How do you figure?” I settled back in my chair, preparing to give a long explanation.
“Detective Samuelsson was investigating a homicide before she died involving one Mr. Abbott, whose address was in her coat pocket. Mr. Abbott was a rich man, so it’s not unreasonable to think he could have hired a pair of hitmen to take out the detective. One of the hired hands was the driver, and the other was standing a little ways away. The one standing off to the side called the detective’s name, causing her to turn in his direction and take her eyes off of the road. Then, obviously, the driver hit her, making it look like an accident. That would be why he was so indifferent toward the detective’s death.” Sherlock’s smile only grew as I spoke, which was not a good sign. I looked over at him, suddenly uncertain of my theory. “What? Did I get something wrong?”
“Oh no, you did great John. You only missed every single piece of evidence that was staring you in the face and came to an entirely erroneous conclusion.” I groaned and thumped my head against the back of the chair, suddenly annoyed by Sherlock’s superiority. He was clever, sure, but he did he really have to rub it in?
“Alright, lay it on me, then.” Sherlock cleared his throat and stood up, and I knew I was in for a speech that was certain to highlight all of my shortcomings.
“The fresh skid marks on the road already disprove all of your deductions. It is obvious from the length and position of the marks that the driver made an honest effort to stop, and if he was a hired hand he wouldn’t have bothered to brake. His indifference toward the death of the detective probably has something to do with his deep mistrust of the police. He was trying to hide his emotions.” I sighed during Sherlock’s pause, already feeling like an idiot for not noticing the skid marks. I didn’t even want to know how the consulting detective knew about the driver’s hatred of the police. “Then there was the victim’s right eye. Discolored, as if it had been irritated. I thought you would have noticed… after all, you are a doctor.” He focused an intense, scrutinizing stare on me that reeked of disappointment, and I threw up my hands in exasperation.
“Well excuse me if I didn’t think a mild case of pink eye was pertinent to the case!” Sherlock shook his head and began to pace. It was what he did when he was frustrated, I knew from experience.
“It wasn’t pink eye, John! Did you even bother to look into Samuelsson’s past cases?” I furrowed my brow, now confused. Because I had looked through all of her recent cases, but none of them struck any chords. Sherlock seemed to read this in my expression, because he didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Not her recent cases, John… her old ones!” When I still looked lost, he paused and ruffled his unruly hair, as though trying to think of the words to explain something that he found so simple. “There was a case, exactly three years ago, involving a homicidal surgeon-”
“Oh yes, I remember that one!” I interrupted, eager to prove that I wasn’t such a failure. “Yeah, there was a… an opthamologist, right? Supposedly killed one of his patients, but it could never be proven because it looked like an accident.” I remembered the case well. Everyone did, if they kept up on current events at all. It was a big deal; one of those cases that attracted public attention. Sherlock nodded eagerly, getting worked up in the midst of explaining his thought process.
“Yes, but not just any opthamologist… a laser eye surgeon. Doctor Turner. He killed the patient by ‘accidentally’ setting the intensity of the laser far too high.” His air quotes showed his opinion on the matter, though I assumed Sherlock hadn’t been allowed to work the case at the time otherwise it would have turned out much differently. “The surgeon got off on the murder charge, but they got him with a few other, petty things… tax fraud and the like. He got three years in jail, and guess when he got out?” Sherlock looked at me expectantly. I shrugged, suddenly overwhelmed with the audience participation.
“Uhh, I’m guessing recently, but what does that have to do with-”
“The detective, John! Samuelsson was the one who worked Turner’s case!” He sighed frustratedly when I still wasn’t getting it. “Must I spell out everything for you? Turner was an expert with lasers. The man collected them as a hobby. Now obviously he wouldn’t have been allowed around anything strong enough to kill, but you can bet he has plenty of lasers with the strength to cause temporary blindness.” Suddenly, everything clicked. I whacked my head against the back of the chair again and groaned, eyes closed.
“Ahhh, the surgeon wanted revenge. He shined a laser in Samuelsson’s eye as she was crossing the street, causing her to stop and get hit by the truck.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a dramatic, sweeping motion with his arms.
“Finally, you get there! Honestly, it took you far too long.” My flatmate strode over to his darts and plucked them off the wall, one by one.
“And you got that all from two minutes at the crime scene?” I said, unable to keep the hit of awe out of my voice.
“I told you, easy case. Shouldn’t have bothered.” And with that, he threw himself back onto the couch and resumed his game of darts with renewed vigor. I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes, wishing I had never agreed to take this case in the first place.
“You know, if you hadn’t been so stubborn, this would have been over much quicker. I wouldn’t have had to waste a day pouring over paperwork.” My friend dutifully ignored me, too focused on his game to be bothered with my complaints. I huffed indignantly and pulled out my phone, getting ready to send Lestrade a long text with the details of Sherlock’s deductions. Needless to say, I would not be taking on another solo case anytime soon.