Chapter Text
In Amberley, the air is crisp, the wind is alive, and every branch of every tree sways in unison to the music of its nature. It’s a peaceful village, the people politely passing with downturned heads to provide proper privacy.
And yet among these polite souls, there lay a murderer.
It was the sort of place where nasty secrets lay beneath a moss-laden log, the innocent cover giving way to vile, swarming vermin. Naturally distrustful of outsiders, the too-polite behaviour displayed toward Sherlock was proving a challenging obstacle to overcome. How could he infiltrate the minds of these locals if they would not permit a glance into their way of life?
His phone buzzed in his hand, the cursed device bringing no information of importance to him in several days. The phone displayed 7:03 A.M. and one unread message from the clueless Detective Inspector.
The DNA test came back positive but Rogers’ alibi also checks out. Does he have a brother? Revenge killing?
Sherlock gripped the phone tightly between his fingers, his knuckles marble white with the pressure of it. Stuffing down the urge to hurl the phone into the nearest thicket of trees, he rotated sharply on his heel toward a shoppe that had caught his eye. Not much was open at 7 in the morning in this gentle area, but a quaint cafe would have to sufficiently fuel his addiction. There would not be cocaine to be found until he was back in the heart of London, but coffee would move matters along.
The door swung open easily underneath the pressure of his hand, a light jangle accompanying the motion of the yielding door. The rush of warm air caused a prickle of pleasure along his frozen cheekbones- the chilly February air had been unforgiving on his unprotected skin. The inside was comfortable, vintage chairs littered in isolated corners for individuals while sturdy, worn tables were positioned every couple feet for varying sizes of groups. So early in the morning, the place was mostly quiet with two people in line, a couple tucked away on their own in the corner, and one older gentleman sitting in a seat close to the entrance reading the newspaper in peace.
The warm scent of roasted espresso wafted to his nose, a suppressed shiver threatening to wash over him. The scent was heavenly, the promise of caffeine mingled with notes of earthy chocolate.
He stood in line, mind racing over his next steps would be in the case. He needed to scout out family members, needed to consider who might know anything of importance, needed to uncover the beginning layers of this town. The past two days’ worth of sleuthing had not uncovered much and his eyes scanned those in close proximity to him now for any potential leads. He saw three smokers, two recent divorcees, and one man that was lying to himself about his sexuality. There was nothing to imply either of them had spent last Tuesday strangling a woman to death.
His mind wandered freely, wildly running through his deductions to search for something meaningful. The outside world fell away until he was next in line. He only registered the vaguest form of the scene around him yet still guessed the drink order from the man before he said it aloud. Then:
“Yeah and er- gonna pay it forward,” he heard distantly from the man in front of him.
Sherlock started, eyes flying to scan the man who was shooting fleeting glances while handing the smiling cashier a bundle of one pound bills. His blond hair was cropped close to his head, a clear military cut. This was supported additionally by his posture: rigidly straight, his motions precise and clear cut. Though he held himself with power and control, there was not much else remarkable about the man; an estranged family, clear physical and mental trauma from the war, and alone in his routine of life.
“How kind of you,” purred the barista with kind, bright eyes. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and bright green eyes landed on Sherlock as she continued, “What would you like, sir?”
“No,” he snapped, flushing with colour that was stark on his icy cheeks. “I am perfectly capable of paying for my own coffee.”
The pair of them stared at him before turning one another, the woman looking affronted and the man rushing to make himself busy.
“Right,” said the soldier to the woman, eyes now adamantly avoiding Sherlock’s. “Just the 16 oz black, then.”
The woman hustled to grip the proper size cup and pulled on the tab to release steaming coffee into it. When it was nearly spilling from the lip, she expertly snapped a lid on top and handed it to the man with a professional smile on her face.
He mumbled thanks in her direction, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground as he turned to walk out the door, manoeuvring himself expertly to avoid brushing against Sherlock. When he walked out the door, a chilly breeze made the hairs on his neck stand up.
Why had he done that? What had made him think he couldn’t afford his own coffee? His shirt was Armani.
“Coffee,” he said at the cashier, already disinterested in any small talk she could offer. “Two sugars.”
It was going to be a long day.
If Sherlock was an attempted guest in the village, the lot of them had agreed to slam the proverbial door in his face. Not one local would whisper, no resident would gossip, and not even the stupidest among them would be of any help to his case. Three dead in as many months and they were scurrying like cockroaches from aid.
It was not impossible to solve the case without them, but it was certainly proving to be more difficult.
Between a family too emotional to provide any helpful information and distant acquaintances remaining steadfast in their insistence that they had no useful information, the well of contacts was emptying. The answer would be from a stranger who had seen something insidious that had seemed innocuous. From a friend of the murderer who saw her the day before, or from a lazily left footprint leading away from a scene of the meeting.
Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing in the brisk air, the wind caressing his cheeks and tossing his curls aside. He stood now beside the Arun River as it coursed seamlessly on its way to bigger and better things and he tried to filter out the white noise of chatter behind him as people enjoyed their food and company at the Riverside Tea Room a bit down the way from the riverbank he stood upon. He focused on his spot and, eyes closed, imagined the scene: there was Laura. She had come down to the river, had stood here and done… something.
Why had she come down here? What was she doing? Did she know her murderer?
Opening his eyes, Sherlock scanned for a place the killer could have hidden; perhaps behind several of those bushes? They were sparse, but it would have been nearly dark by that point. The murderer could have been hidden. But what, then, was she doing here at all? Beautiful though it was here, it was neither easily accessible nor marked by a particular landmark as to be expected of a meeting place.
There were no footprints, no abnormally bent shrubbery, no recently-moved dirt, no clothing or hair left behind, nothing. There was nothing here. For all intents and purposes, the killer seemed to have come from above to tranquilly kill her before disappearing again.
He ran through it again: Her husband had an alibi. Unbreakable. Her parents were too foolish to have pulled off a sticker, nevertheless a murder. Her friends, too, were all innocent. Not one person close to her had seen anything peculiar in company nor behaviour. Yet it only seemed possible that she had known them. She’d died without a struggle, been peacefully strangled, neatly suffocated. Why would she not try to live? No history of mental illness, no major life disruptions that could have caused a depressive episode, and many people in her life worth staying alive for. No suspicious withdrawals from her bank that would hint at a paid job.
He had nothing.
There were two other murders, of course. But Lauren was the outlier. It was no use solving the others, solving Lauren’s would solve it all and without hers, he could not solve the others.
The sun was setting behind him, the last rays of the day holding on desperately to dimly illuminate the world at its most ominous.
Turning on his heels, he strode off through the mud-laden riverside and thought of nothing but the case. Gears still racing through possibilities, he walked mindlessly to the Amberley Castle, a four-star hotel northeast of himself with stunning views and luxury rooms laden with oversized tubs, 1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton bedding, and a rustic medieval exterior. His brother was sponsoring his trip, after all. He’d stayed there the previous nights, positive each time that it would be his last in this place.
“One room,” he said distractedly to the well-dressed man behind the concierge desk.
“How many nights, sir?”
“One.”
“Are you s-” “Yes.” His words were clipped. He did not have the time to repeat himself nor listen to stupid questions.
He needed to find evidence. He needed something to go on besides the feeble narrative the local police had provided him before handing over the case completely: that she’d had an affair and it had all gone wrong. It was impossible, a lazy, baseless theory from a lifeless police force.
The man was saying something else. “Mmhm,” Sherlock hummed without looking up, putting his card down with the c'est la vie attitude he often reserved for those who would only ever be background noise to him.
He’d initially dismissed Mycroft's insistence that this case needed his help. He'd only agreed to it when Lestrade read through the case and convinced him that he was the only one who could solve it. Though he would rather shave his head than admit it, it was proving more difficult than anticipated.
The man asked him to sign a few papers, asked for his breakfast preferences, and gave Sherlock back his card. At long last, he was escorted to his room and bade good night by the plain-faced employee. The room was comparable in many ways to his room of the previous two nights, though with several improvements. One window was looking over what was sure to be a beautiful sunrise, the bed was several inches thicker of increased softness, and he was placed strategically above an outdoor sitting area, a prime location for easy listening in on conversations that visiting guests would have with their families regarding new happenings in their lives through the window. Perhaps there would be talk of these murders, a first-hand account of some interaction they’d had in the days leading up to any- though, hopefully, Lauren’s- murder.
Three days he’d been on the case. Three. Days. He’d solved international terrorist attacks more quickly. What made these murders special? Yes, surely tomorrow was the day. He would pry information out of anyone he needed to, go anywhere he needed, examine every centimetre of the village until it yielded its secrets. It seemed too daunting to think of himself remaining clueless in 24 hours’ time. He would solve it early and be back in London by Friday, in the comfort of his home with all those heavenly vices that his skin crawled for. His veins were screaming, crying out for the relief of his stash, of blissful quietude as it wrapped around his racing mind and- for just a moment- made it all stop.
Being in the room made him antsy. He hated it, this waiting. He’d happily work all night if he thought it would do a lick of good. But this was not London, and the city slept with the sun. Instead, there was himself, this room, and the silence.
When cases went well, he could forget his addiction- put a pause on all of it. When cases did not go well, it intensified his desire to fall under, to succumb to his biggest weakness. After all, what was he good for if not solving cases?
Who was he, if not a brilliant detective?
He drew himself a bath and bothered with no luxuries- bubbles, salts, and the ilk. He sank in the water, closing his eyes and feeling the pressure on every inch of his skin. It was warm, welcoming. The still water left him feeling suspended in the air, it lifted him away.
He was letting them all down.
In many ways, he’d already failed.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be different.