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Swords clashed, light glinting along their blades. Two fencers moved like dancers, their grace undeniable. They would be sweating beneath the blank black masks that protected their faces; just because they made it look easy didn’t mean it wasn’t hard work. John could see the strength there, the poise. It made his muscles ache in sympathy, witnessing the discipline under their command.
‘Hit!’
Sherlock made a noise like an angry cat, and John glanced in his direction, taking in the curl of his lip. They’d paused on their way to the crime scene. Well, he’d stopped, and Sherlock had obliged him, just for a moment. Now, there was no denying the irritation in his friend’s face. Not at John and the delay he had caused, but at the two fencers locked in their waltz.
‘What’s your problem?’
‘That hit was a foul. Any player worth their salt would challenge it.’
John looked back at the field and shrugged. ‘Looks like a friendly to me. Maybe they don’t care?’
Sherlock cast him a disbelieving look. ‘Football has “friendlies”. In fencing, it is either an assault or a bout. Either way, they’re keeping score, and there’s nothing relaxed and amiable about the way they’re fighting.’ Vivid eyes narrowed before long fingers snagged at John’s sleeve, dragging him away from the scene. ‘Come on. We should not keep Lestrade and the Dean waiting.’
Their footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor, and John tried not to let the grand surroundings get to him. King’s College might not be as pompous as Oxford or Cambridge, but it still held an elitist air. Here, on Guy’s Campus, the beautiful red brick architecture was filled with high-ceilinged rooms and long, sweeping corridors. There were plenty of students about at this time of the morning, and he bristled at the occasional, judgemental look cast his way. He wished he’d thought to wear something better than his tatty old jeans and a scruffy jumper.
Not that there’d been much time to change. The Dean had called Sherlock only a few minutes before Greg, the both of them requesting his presence. Whatever had happened, they wanted it solved quickly.
‘Mr Holmes?’ A woman in her fifties stepped forward, her smile practised and her blonde hair pinned up and professional. The suit she wore looked like it might even put some of Sherlock’s to shame, but there was a quick humour and intelligence in her eyes that John liked immediately. ‘Dean Winters. Thank you for coming. The police are waiting for you.’
‘Thank you.’ Sherlock’s smile was a narrow slice, sincere at first glance. John knew better, of course, but the Dean didn’t. ‘What can you tell me?’
She looked around at the students who were still making their way to lectures, and for the first time John picked up on the unease that permeated the atmosphere. It hung around like a storm cloud, whispers passing through lips like the distant hiss of falling rain. ‘Follow me.’
They fell into step behind her, side-by-side. Sherlock’s shoulder bumped against John’s as they walked, and though he knew it probably wasn’t deliberate, he took comfort from it all the same. Sherlock seemed less inclined to dash off these days, more content to slow himself down to John’s pace. Or maybe it was just that he had finally learned to keep up with his whirlwind of a flatmate.
Either way, it made something warm and hopeful flutter in John’s chest. Not so long ago he’d have tried to squash the sensation, to usher it out of sight, but he’d pretty much given up on that. It denied all his efforts to ignore it and came back to haunt him stronger than before.
Acceptance was surprisingly easy. It wouldn’t be the first time John had loved someone who didn’t return the feeling. No, he could content himself with this: answering the call of The Work at Sherlock’s side.
‘In here.’ The Dean gestured to the doorway, her footsteps halted in respect to the police tape that had been pinned across its threshold. Donovan stood guard. She lifted an eyebrow as they approached. No sneer graced her lips, which made a change, but she did wrinkle her nose. ‘Might want to leave your coat out here, Holmes. You’ll need to kit up for this one. It’s a bit of a mess.’
Sherlock paused, no doubt considering her words before shrugging out of his Belstaff and suit jacket, leaving himself in his shirt sleeves. John did the same, lifting an eyebrow at Sally and offering her a little smile. ‘Anywhere we can leave these?’ he asked. ‘A locker or anything?’
‘I’ll take them to my office.’ The Dean held out her arms before Sally could respond. ‘There’s a lock on the door. They should be safe in there.’
‘Thanks.’ John smiled. He had no doubt Sherlock had been about to dump his coat into Sally’s arms, which would only aggravate the sergeant’s already simmering temper.
‘We’ll be along presently,’ Sherlock added, his brusque tone softened at its edges as he inclined his head to the Dean.
Sally let them duck under the tape and step through into the room beyond. The door swung shut in their wake with disturbing finality, leaving them standing in air laden with the smell of metal.
It was a second room for fencing, from the look of it. Equipment ranged along the walls, leaving the floorspace clear. Lines marked in paint delineated the arena, almost lost under the splatter of blood. A young woman lay on her back, her face pale and her short hair ruffled. A mask in the corner of the room was probably hers, maybe thrown on the bench only to fall on the floor.
Rusty brown stained the white outfit she wore, the cloth parted in great, yawning slashes. John counted five, all criss-crossing each other. It looked violent. Furious. Blood had pooled around the body, smeared by what looked like swiping fingertips. She’d been alive, he realised, struggling to move away from her attacker as the blows fell.
Sherlock nudged him, breaking the spell and handing him some coveralls. John took them with a whisper of thanks, forcing himself to focus on getting into the protective clothing. It wasn’t just the floor that was covered in blood. Great arcs of it dotted up the walls and smattered the ceiling. Anderson and his team had their work cut out for them. It would take ages to process a scene like this.
‘Millie Russell,’ Greg said, his voice flat and hard. ‘King’s College fencing champion. Or she was, until last night.’
‘Looks like she met her match,’ Anderson muttered from where he stood, just loud enough to be heard. ‘She’s definitely not the winner of this fight.’
Sherlock pulled on a glove with a snap, placing his covered feet with care as he approached the body. ‘Is that what you think, Anderson? That she was killed in a fencing bout?’
‘What do they expect when they let people play with swords?’
‘No weapon used in fencing would have done this. Even if sharp, épées and foils are stabbing implements.’ He pressed gloved hands to the gaping sides of one of the bigger wounds, a gash as long as John’s forearm from her hip to her shoulder. ‘This was a single slice. Even a fencing sabre would not be able to create it in one sweep, no matter how strong its wielder.’
John parted the fabric of her fencing gear to take a look at the flesh. ‘It’s a clear line. No hesitations or deviations. If they’d hacked at her it would be messy. Well, messier.’
‘Besides, Anderson, as everyone knows, fencing weapons are tipped and blunted. They’re not sharp enough to cause this level of damage.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ Anderson sneered. ‘An expert, are you?’
A tiny frown pleated Sherlock’s brow. ‘Yes.’ He looked back at the young woman, his eyes narrowing. ‘She wasn’t wearing a mask, but they didn’t touch her face.’
‘There’s more than one wound that could have killed her if given time,’ John said, touching the two deepest on her abdomen, and the one that had nicked her femoral artery in her thigh. ‘She had twenty minutes when they got that one, but I think it’s the cut to her neck that finished her off.’
Sherlock nodded, his gloved fingertips ghosting over her frame as he considered the evidence before him. ‘She was in full fencing gear, but some of the fastenings are undone. Is there a locker room nearby?’
‘Just through there,’ Greg jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s no sign of a struggle.’
‘She didn’t get that far. Who was the last person she fought? They were probably having a bout just before this happened.’
‘Someone called Tomas Cubric. I’ve got Dimmock questioning the fencing team. Kids seem pretty shocked, though. You think it’s one of them?’
Sherlock hummed, his eyes narrowing in thought. ‘Possibly. Molly will be able to tell you more about the injuries, but most people tend to flail around with a sword. These, though they’re vicious, are quite precise. The person wielding the blade was familiar with one.’
‘But it’s not one of those?’ Greg gestured to the weapons in the racks around them.
‘No. All fencing blades weigh 500 grams or less. You’re looking for something heavier. Long, though. A sword, not a knife. if I’m any judge.’
‘What about her armour?’ Greg jerked his head towards her clothes. ‘I thought she’d be protected?’
‘This is standard fencing kit. It’s made of polyester. Even the highest quality equipment doesn’t include much in the way of actual protection. The multiple layers are enough to shield against lightweight blades, and she was wearing almost everything she should have been: jacket, gloves, plastron… No chest protector, though.’ Sherlock looked up, tilting his head when all he received were puzzled stares. ‘Female fencers should wear them. They have to, in official competitions. They’re plastic – protect the breast tissue from being caught by the blade.’
‘Why wouldn’t she be wearing it?’
‘Her sports bra seems heavy duty: adequate to minimise her natural contours and reduce the danger without making her uncomfortable. Chest protectors have a reputation for being cumbersome. A lot of female fighters will disregard them for practice. She was fencing with a friend.’
‘Until she was fencing with her murderer,’ Anderson pointed out, his hands shifting around his kit.
Greg hummed his agreement, folding his arms. ‘Anything else you can tell us? Anything about her beyond what we already know?’
John braced himself for the slew of information Sherlock could usually produce, his breath halting in his throat when, instead, he shook his head.
‘I would need to look at her normal clothes. There’s a level of anonymity inherent in fencing gear. No colour deviation. Little in the way of personalisation… She’s not wealthy but not poor either. This kit is not quite top of the range and is several years old. Well-cared for, but not new. Repaired more than once. Either she could not afford a new kit when the old one was damaged or she had better things to spend her money on.’ Sherlock let his hand fall away. ‘Beyond that, I can’t deduce much. Not without disturbing the body further in search of personal effects.’
Greg nodded, giving a shrug. ‘Thanks. It’s more than we had to start with.’
‘We’ll go and talk to the Dean,’ Sherlock decided, meeting John’s gaze with a flicker of quicksilver eyes. ‘Unless there’s anything more to take a look at?’
‘No, not really.’ John shrugged, wishing he didn’t feel quite so useless. It never got better, being at crime scenes. He was a doctor; most of the time he dealt with the living, who could at least tell him what hurt. Millie had nothing left to say: not to him, anyway.
He and Sherlock stripped off their protective gear in silence, depositing it in the large bucket that had been set to one side for that purpose before tapping on the door. Sally released them like a jailer opening a cell, her tight-pressed lips twisting in a half-sad, half-sarcastic kind of smile. ‘Find anything?’
She probably didn’t mean it as a challenge, but it sounded like one. A year ago, Sherlock would have risen to the bait. These days, he tended to ignore Sally’s jibes. Instead, he looked at her, cocking his head in consideration. ‘A little,’ he admitted. ‘If you’ve not already, a bit of research into the family might not go amiss.’
‘We don’t normally talk to them until later.’
‘No, I don’t mean breaking the news, or interrogating them for that matter. Just do some digging.’
‘Do you know something we don’t?’ Sally asked, her thumb already sliding across her phone screen.
‘I know many things you don’t.’ Sherlock put just enough disdain into his voice to make Sally glare. ‘However, nothing pertaining to Ms Russell, at least not yet. It’s just another angle to cover. I suspect evidence might be a little thin on the ground.’
Sally's lips curved in a sneer, and she rolled her eyes as she turned away, leaving John to hurry off in Sherlock's wake. He should have known the temporary almost-truce was too good to last. Still, at least Sally was professional enough to take Sherlock's advice. She'd check on the family no matter how Sherlock insulted her.
'Did you have to say that?' he asked, pursing his lips when Sherlock raised an eyebrow in his direction.
'Was it a lie?'
'That's not the point.' John sighed, knowing it was no use pushing the issue. Sherlock wouldn't change, not for someone as peripheral as Sally. Besides, it wasn't as if she endeared herself. The "freak" comments may have come to a halt, but her dislike of Sherlock was poorly concealed at the best of times. If it weren't for the fact he improved Greg's solve-rate so much, he suspected the sergeant would put her foot down. They'd lose access to anything the Yard had to offer, from decent cases to dubious coffee. 'Where to now, then?'
'The Dean's office. I suspect she'll have plenty to tell us that the crime scene could not.' Sherlock pushed his way through the stately double doors at the end of the corridor, never pausing in his stride.
Even without the coat he managed to look fucking dramatic, as if he were a creature born to these grand halls. Once, back in his youth, John would have hated that. Hated his arrogance and the fact that every mannerism suggested he came from a wealth John's family could never have attained. Now, he admired it. Not the money bit, but the grace with which Sherlock moved in these circles. Perhaps it never crossed his mind to be awkward, but if Sherlock felt even slightly out of place here, within the hallowed spaces of King's College, he offered no sign of it.
'John?'
With a start, he realised they'd come to a halt outside a door. Stained glass decorated it, obscuring the view within, but a gleaming plaque indicated they'd reached their destination. 'Sorry, I was...' He gave a wry smile. 'Nothing. Nothing important. Just thinking. Carry on.'
He shifted beneath the sudden sharpness of Sherlock's scrutiny. He knew his friend couldn't read his mind, but that didn't stop him feeling like every guilty little notion was currently written all over his face. Still, if Sherlock deduced anything from John's pleasant expression, he said nothing. The rap of his knuckles was quick and to the point, and when the Dean opened the door, Sherlock's shamming smile sat firmly in place.
'Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson, please come in.' She waved them into her office: well-appointed and comfortable. John looked around with some surprise. He'd been expecting the kind of thing Mycroft preferred, like austere, uncomfortable armchairs and subtle silverware. Instead. the Dean's office was both tasteful and comfortable.
The shelves carried an eclectic mix of bits and pieces, suggesting maybe she was an academic before she became an administrator. Her desk, though large, carried the scars of the passing years: a much-loved piece of furniture. A gleaming new Mac perched on its surface, the screen shielded for privacy, and John settled into one of the very comfortable chairs set up for students or whoever else might find themselves within the book-lined walls.
'How can I help?'
'Tell us about the fencing team,' Sherlock ordered, wasting no time in getting to the root of the matter.
Dean Winters sighed, her manicured fingertips coming to rest over her lips as she considered the question. 'I don't know what to say. They are good people. Competitive and ambitious, but compassionate as well. Most sporting teams have some friction between their members, either caused by love affairs gone wrong or ignorance causing enmity, but at the moment they suffer none of that. I've had no complaints. They were just... happy.'
'Yet your champion lies dead only a short distance away.'
'You think it was someone else on the team.' It was not a question. The Dean sat back in her chair, her concern aging her years in mere moments. 'But who – who would do that? Mille was such a nice girl. Promising, talented... She never had a bad word to say about anyone.'
'And if we ask her team-mates, will they say the same?'
'Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, Mr Holmes. Being champion comes with its own difficulties, as I'm sure you know.'
John shot a quick look in Sherlock's direction, but there was no answering gaze or forthcoming explanation. Sherlock merely watched the Dean, his eyes sharp and his face impassive.
'And what difficulties did Millie, in particular, face?'
'Nothing that might have put her in danger. The team looked up to her. I know she was struggling to balance her increasing course-load and the demands of the sport but...' Winters pressed a hand to her brow, one elbow propped on the arm of her chair before she looked to her right, her gaze unfocussed as she stared out of the window. 'She was considering standing down. Her qualifications took priority.'
'Who else knew about that?' John asked, leaning forward. It seemed deranged that someone would kill her for wanting to leave, but he'd seen enough murder to know how twisted motives could be.
'Me. Her coach. I don't think she'd told anyone else yet. She hadn't made up her mind. She loved fencing; it would have been a great sacrifice. She –' Winters gripped the edge of her desk, her fingers drumming, just once, over the mahogany. 'I wish I could help you, but this has been such a – such a shock. I spoke to her only yesterday and now...'
Her next breath came a touch too sharp, and John pulled a clean tissue from his pocket and offered it to her. She took it with a strained smile as John got to his feet, turning away to look around the room in an effort to give her privacy.
It was instinct on his part. He had never been comfortable watching strangers weep, especially when a deep, cynical part of him doubted the honesty of their tears. Still, he went through the motions of what he felt was a socially acceptable reaction, leaving Sherlock to play her uncaring audience.
John listened with half an ear as she carried on answering Sherlock's questions, his gaze roving the shelves and picking out book titles. Most of them seemed to be historical, some neat and upright, others stacked on top of their brothers as if they were frequently studied. Trinkets gleamed here and there in front of the books: a few old nautical instruments and one or two geodes, but nothing leapt out at John as unusual.
The furniture was meticulously clean, he noticed. The wood glowed and the glass gleamed, especially the tall, narrow case by the window. In it, a sword in a scabbed hung upon a stand: a sabre, judging by the curve of it. John was no expert, but it looked like the kind of thing you saw in museums.
On a little shelf above it was a colour photo of a number of people in fencing white, each standing with their weapons poised and triumphant smiles on their faces.
Quickly, John pulled his phone from his pocket, snapping as clear an image as he could manage of both the sword and the picture before ferreting the device away once more. He did not think Winters had seen him. She was too busy answering Sherlock's questions, her eyes dry now and the tissue John had given her crumpled in her fist. A weak smile still lay pinned upon her lips, but it was clear her patience with Sherlock's interrogation wore thin.
John looked around, spying the hooks in the corner and moving to retrieve their coats just as she spoke with dismissive finality.
'I am sorry, Mister Holmes, but I've told you all I can. You are welcome to interview the fencing team yourself. You'll find them in the refectory, which we've closed to the rest of the students while the police conduct their investigation.' She rose to her feet, the wheels on her chair clattering over the hardwood floor as it rolled away. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a university to run.'
'I'll be in touch,' Sherlock murmured, 'when I know more. Shall I pass your regards on to Mycroft?'
Winters gave him a look, half-irritation, half-amusement. 'That won't be necessary, but thank you. If you need anything, let my assistant know. He's in the room just across the hall. All doors are open to you.'
John blinked but held his silence, saying not a word as Sherlock liberated his Belstaff from John's grip and ushered him out of the door. Only when they were a safe distance away did he take a breath, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. 'You know her?'
Sherlock smiled, no doubt enjoying John's surprise. 'After a fashion. She and Mycroft used to be involved. They've kept in touch.'
'That's,' John frowned to himself, 'nice? I can't quite imagine her with Mycroft, but if you say so.'
'They were young. Eighteen or nineteen. It was a long time ago. I'm sure her taste has improved. My brother is hardly the ideal romantic partner.' Sherlock pulled a face, and John chuckled, feeling some of the odd tension he'd carried with him since they got here ebb away.
'Right, so she's some sort of "family friend", then. Good to know. What now? Are we going to talk to the fencing kids?'
'No.' Sherlock swung the Belstaff around his shoulders, slipping his arms into the sleeves as the wool settled around him. 'That's what Lestrade, Dimmock and their teams are here for. The refectory kitchens will still be open. We'll get you some lunch.'
Well, John wasn't about to argue with that. 'What about you?'
'I intend to observe. Ask people questions and they'll give you the answers they think you want to hear. Winters just spent half an hour doing it. I would rather have the truth, and I doubt I'll find it by talking to anyone.'
John sighed, letting Sherlock lead the way. It didn't take long before they were sat in the corner of a dining area called the refectory. A generous English Breakfast steamed on the plate in front of John, and he hummed in appreciation. He sat with his back to the room, allowing Sherlock to take the seat opposite, which offered him an uninterrupted view of the people gathered around them.
Wielding his knife and fork, he balanced a small pile of chips on the edge of the plate closest to Sherlock. It would take a while, but he knew by the time they were done the chips would be gone, transported to Sherlock's lips by agile, absent-minded fingers.
'Drink that, too,' he ordered, setting a tall cup of black coffee down in front of Sherlock. 'Make yourself look a bit less conspicuous while you're staring at everyone.'
'I don't stare.' Sherlock blinked as if to prove his point, but he didn't tear his gaze away from the students who huddled around a couple of the larger tables. There were about twenty or so by John's count, and while some read textbooks or studied notes, most of them talked among themselves, pale-faced and wide-eyed.
The glass wall behind Sherlock meant John could see the room in the ghostly reflections. Now and then, one of Dimmock’s guys would come and take another student, no doubt to gather their statement before releasing them back to the university at large. Several of the girls were crying into their sleeves. The boys looked grim and baffled, as if their neat, safe world had been ripped apart. Even the few studying were struggling to concentrate, chewing pens or scrubbing at their eyes.
'Your lunch will get cold,' Sherlock murmured after they’d been sitting there for about fifteen minutes.
John blinked himself back to his meal, realising he'd been sitting with his fork halfway to his mouth. With a grunt, he devoured some baked beans before focussing on Sherlock's face. 'Anything?'
'Plenty, though whether it's relevant to the case or not, I can't be certain.’ Sherlock squinted, his lips curling downwards at one corner as his fingers moved to his temples, the press of them bleaching the skin white. The Belstaff collar cut a striking line across one pallid cheek, and John frowned, wondering if he was coming down with something.
'You all right?'
'Too much information. I can't work out what is mere ephemera and what might unlock the case.' Sherlock dropped his hand, straightening in his seat and casting a judgemental eye over John's empty plate. 'Are you finished?'
John nodded, already gulping his coffee. Sherlock's mug was empty, and the chips he had set aside had vanished, much to his satisfaction. 'Where are we going?'
'Back to Baker Street. I need to think.'
John had to scurry to keep up with him as he swept out of the room, leaving the Yard to the grind of gathering statements and processing the scene. The hallways rang with their footsteps as Sherlock strode towards the exit, his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his expression locked into a distracted scowl.
There was no point talking to him when he was like this. John had tried before. The result was curt, one-word answers that got him nowhere. When it came to information, Sherlock was like a sponge, and in the end, there was only so much even he could take in without getting saturated. He'd be in his mind palace before John had even got his coat off, of that he was sure.
A bitter wind smacked them in the face as they swept out into a quadrangle, surrounded by stone arches and sheltered pathways that reminded John of ancient cloisters. He huddled in his jacket, eyeing the gleaming constructions all around.
Most of Guy's Campus was a happy blend of architecture over the years, from the grand building they'd been in to industrial style renovations and ultra-modern additions. The Shard loomed nearby like a sword cutting into the sky, vanishing from sight as they ducked inside and made their way to the front door.
London's busy roar rose up to meet them, and a black cab slowed to a halt in answer to Sherlock's raised hand. The driver had the heating on too high, and John pressed his head to the cool window pane, willing away the faint slick of nausea that rose in his throat.
The glass offered up an image of Sherlock, daubed in watercolour tones of reflection. He stared as the streets crawled by, distracting himself with tracing the lines of the profile he had come to know so well. Only the halt of the car outside Baker Street broke into John’s thoughts, and he grimaced as he realised just how long he'd been lost in idle, fond thought.
He scrambled out as Sherlock paid the driver, his key scratching at the lock plate of the front door. At last, it yielded, and John stumbled into the hall out of the wind, humming gratefully as Sherlock shut out the world.
He took the Belstaff, leaving Sherlock to trot up the stairs as John made sure their coats were hung neat on the hooks. Following at a slower pace, he listened to the creak and groan of the steps chart his way up to the flat he called home.
221B had its charms, even if its central heating was temperamental and its old sash windows let in a draft. It had become his sanctuary, made all the more so by the man he shared it with. Oh, Sherlock was never going to be a peaceful, calming influence, but what use was that to John? That wasn't what he needed. Excitement alone wouldn't fulfil him either, not anymore.
No, he needed Sherlock, and that notion left him feeling like a balloon filled to the brim with air, ready to burst with a heady mixture of want and hope and fear.
'God, you've got it bad,' he murmured to himself, slipping into the flat and smiling when he saw Sherlock stretched out on the sofa like some kind of effigy. Long fingers pressed together in prayer, resting against his lips as he lost himself in the vast sprawl of his mind palace.
There was no telling how long he'd be in there, gone but not, a silent presence in the house they shared. Still, John was used to it. It was nice, actually, to get a little bit of peace and quiet: some false solitude to read a book without Sherlock scoffing at his choice of novel, or peruse the paper without his flatmate belittling the journalists.
John hunkered down by the hearth, getting the fire lit after a few false starts. Once a steady blaze burned in the grate, he made himself a cup of tea and picked up his Dan Brown book. The soft turn of pages and the crackle of the flames marked the passing afternoon. He got up now and then to make himself fresh tea, but otherwise enjoyed the peace.
Sherlock lay as unmoving as a statue. If not for the poise and tension in his body, John would think he'd gone to sleep. As it was, he found himself glancing up from his book, watching the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest and the occasional flicker of movement behind his eyelids.
Hours later, the silence broke.
Sherlock sat up like something from a zombie movie, all stiffness and outrage. His huff of annoyance skimmed through the air, strafing at John's ears. 'No breakthrough, then?' he asked, tucking a receipt between the pages to mark his place.
'Too much information, or perhaps too little.' Sherlock frowned. 'It's like trying to read through frosted glass, all obscure. I can't see what's right in front of me.'
John grimaced. He knew how much Sherlock hated cases like this, practically the opposite of a locked room. There were too many potential suspects, the motives too vague to allow one to stand out more than the other. It left them both swimming in a sea of possibilities, waiting for the one insight that would slot everything into place.
Sherlock was tapping on his phone, flinging off messages left, right and centre, no doubt trying to find the angle he needed to make progress. It made John think of his own mobile, and more importantly, the picture he'd snapped in the Dean's office, the one of the sword and the photo above it.
Quickly, he tugged it free of his pocket before pulling it up on-screen and getting to his feet, shifting to Sherlock's side on the sofa as he held the device out. 'Not sure if this will help.' He wrinkled his nose. 'I remembered what you said about the sword needing to be heavier than standard fencing gear. It just caught my eye, that's all.'
Sherlock took his phone from him with careful reverence, elegant fingers splaying over the display so he could zoom in on the details. 'I wondered what you were doing,' he murmured, a crooked smile curving one corner of his mouth. 'I need to see the body - get a better idea of the wounds. This is a cavalry sabre, early 1800s, from the look of it. The inscription is of Salamanca, which was a pivotal battle in about 1812. Lots of mounted soldiers. Whether it could have made the injuries that killed Millie I can't be sure, not unless I can get a closer look at her corpse.' A quick swipe of his thumb moved the image onto the close-up of the photo John had taken, and he narrowed his eyes at the figures.
'Anyone familiar?'
'Winters. That's her.' He pointed to the young woman in the middle, her hair in a severe bun and her face sharp and confident. 'Looks like it was taken in the late eighties.' He set John’s mobile aside, his own back in his palm as he dove into Google, giving a quick grunt of confirmation. 'Oxford champion 1986 to 1988.'
'Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, she said,' John remembered. 'Looks like she knows what she’s talking about.' He frowned as a memory bubbled to the surface. 'Seemed to think you'd have personal experience too.'
Sherlock cast him a weary look before flicking a dismissive hand. 'I was champion in the sabre back at university. Though I never noticed any particular trials that came with the role. No more than usual, anyway.'
'You fence?' John didn't know why he was surprised, not when it made such perfect sense. 'Well enough to become Cambridge champion?'
'No.' Sherlock didn't look up from his phone. 'Well enough to be British Champion. Mummy wanted me to try out for the Olympics.' He pulled a face, apparently oblivious to the fact that John was gaping at him.
'Yeah,' he said weakly. 'Yeah, I can imagine that didn't take your fancy.'
'Definitely not. Too much drug screening for a start.' One shoulder lifted: a distracted half-apology to John's sensibilities. 'Fencing was a distraction. A way to silence my mind for a few moments; not a career choice.' His phone buzzed in his hand, and Sherlock's bright, genuine smile could have lit up the room. 'Molly says we can drop by within the hour for a quick look.'
John shook his head, trying to cast aside his thoughts of Sherlock and fencing, drugs and a quiet mind. Sometimes, often when he had just begun to believe that Sherlock had no secrets left to share, he'd end up blind-sided by something extraordinary. Something Sherlock, no doubt, considered irrelevant, but that only gave John another, intriguing insight into his friend's life before he'd ever been a part of it. 'Already?' he managed, accepting his phone back as Sherlock sprang to his feet and dashed out of the door, clattering down the stairs and leaving John to follow. 'That was fast.'
'Winters probably impressed the importance of haste upon Lestrade.'
'Yeah, well.' John grimaced. 'Maybe she wants them to miss something. Fuck it up somehow?'
Sherlock paused, his fingers resting against his collar, caught in the act of turning it up to block out the wind that still howled beyond the door. He turned slowly; his eyes moonshine bright as he gave John a quick, quizzical look. 'You think she did it?'
John scoffed as he shoved his arms into his coat sleeve. 'I dunno. She said Millie was thinking of quitting, right? Leaving fencing behind? This is an ex-champion, maybe one who didn't hand over her "crown" but lost it, instead. Maybe there's some resentment there, for how easily Millie gave up her title.'
Sherlock stepped forward, his hands falling from the wool of his coat as he reached for John, straightening the shoulders of his jacket with a gentle tug. It was such a thoughtful gesture that John blinked in surprise, caught in the spotlight of Sherlock's gaze. His heart leapt in his throat, beating there like a thrashing bird. His mouth turned dry, and he found himself breathless as Sherlock gave his suspicions serious consideration.
Those eyes roved John's face, reading God knew what in his expression, examining the slant of his brow and the curve of his lips. As seconds ticked by, the air between them grew heady and thick, leaving John dizzy. Was it his imagination, or was there something else behind Sherlock's expression, something like fondness and curiosity and heat?
Before he could look closer, Sherlock stepped back. His fingers trailed the wing of John's collar before he tilted his head towards the door. 'Come on. Let's see what we can find to support your theory.'
'Right,' John wheezed, clearing his throat and trying not to flush as he wrestled his mind away from fantasies of Sherlock's lips on his and that long, lean body pressed against his own. 'Right. It could be bollocks, you know that?'
'The idea is a stretch,' Sherlock conceded, 'but it's not without merit. It's certainly better than anything else we have to go on at the moment.'
The journey to Bart's went quicker than John expected. He and Sherlock sat at opposite ends of the back seat as usual, but the space between them seemed smaller than before. Maybe he was imagining it, fooling himself into seeing what he wanted, rather than what was actually there, but John doubted it. He'd known Sherlock long enough by now to at least get some kind of read on him, and that? There had been something different in that moment, something John could not name, but knew all the same.
Later, he told himself. There'd be time for that later. Nothing took priority over the Work, and he would not abuse Sherlock's trust by insisting the case took a back seat in favour of sentiment. Once this was solved, he'd make the time to talk it over, but for now, Millie's murder came first. If anyone could get the poor girl the justice she deserved, it was Sherlock, and John intended to do everything in his power to help.
By the time they swept into the morgue, his resolve had set firm. Molly's greeting was quiet but genuine, and she gestured to the box of gloves before leading them in to see Millie. 'I've not started yet,' she explained, folding back the sheet to reveal the young face. 'I was just about to when I got your text.'
Sherlock's pocket magnifier glinted in his gloved grip as he wielded it. 'Since she was killed in her fencing gear, there's far less likely to be relevant particulate matter under her fingernails etcetera.'
'I'll check anyway,' Molly promised. 'Maybe she didn't scratch her attacker, but she might still have managed to grab some trace of him for us.'
'You'd think she'd have stabbed them instead,' John muttered. 'Gave as good as she got, but there was no sword near her body except the ones in the racks on the wall.'
Sherlock froze, locked in a half-stoop as he stared at nothing, his lips parted in disbelief. 'Stupid. Stupid!' he hissed at last. 'Her sword.'
John shrugged, stepping closer to the body and moving the sheet to get a better look at the wounds. 'I assumed she'd put it back on one of the racks before she was attacked.'
'No, no. Those are communal blades. Cheap by necessity. A champion would use their own, so where is it?' Sherlock turned away, stripping off his gloves and reaching for his phone, no doubt already harassing Lestrade to find the key piece of the scene, most noticeable in its absence.
Leaving him to it, John peered at the body and its injuries. Now, clear of blood and unbarred by clothing, it was easier to see the deep swipes that cleaved her. They pouted like the split skin of an over-ripe fruit, their interiors painted in rich, dark red even in death.
Molly had a surgical ruler in her hand. She leaned forward, inserting it carefully to measure the depth of the one across her torso. 'Deeper near her hip that near her shoulder. Deepest of all about half way along,' she explained. 'An upward swipe.'
'An angry one. They didn't hesitate.'
'No. No, they meant to kill her. If it was an accident – during a fight or something, a fatal blow that made them panic – the others would be hesitant. This was malicious.' Molly looked abashed. 'Not that most murder isn't malicious, but you know what I mean. Someone set out to kill her. I can't see any sign that they doubted their goal. No hesitation.' She moved the sheet, taking a look at the wound to the thigh before examining the throat. 'They wanted her to suffer, though. Wanted her to know she was dying. There's a lot of hate, here.'
'Can you tell me anything about the blade?'
Molly pulled a face, her nose wrinkling as she considered the problem. 'I can take molds. The one in her thigh was a stab more than a slash, it might give you a rough profile. It'll take a while, though.'
'Thanks, Molly. Do whatever you can.' He stepped back, looking up at Sherlock. At some point he'd slipped his phone back in his pocket. Now, he leaned against the wall, observing the body on the clinical steel slab as if he could read all her secrets. 'We'll leave you in peace?' He made it a question, giving Sherlock a chance to protest in case he wanted another look. Instead, he shook his head, his shoulders slumping beneath his Belstaff as he turned away.
'I don't think there's much more Miss Russell can tell us. Lestrade says they're struggling with DNA evidence.'
'Too much of it?'
'Far too little. I suspect whoever did this was also kitted out in fencing gear. Though not as absolute as forensics suits, they still cover you from head to foot. If they were wearing a mask as well, which is a possibility, then they would shed very little in the way of evidence. Lestrade is less than impressed.' Sherlock led the way out, striding along the corridors of Bart's, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the linoleum. 'The statements taken from the others on the fencing team have been equally fruitless. They're all shocked. She was a good girl. The usual.'
'Either one of them is lying, or they've got nothing to do with it.'
Sherlock hummed in agreement, slowing down to fall into step at John's side as they approached the exit. 'There's a practice on in about an hour at King's, and Winters did say all doors were open to us.'
'You think watching them fence might, what?'
'It might give me some focus,’ Sherlock stated. ‘Millie's wounds were forceful and determined. Fencing is about confidence, of course, but it's also about speed. Additionally, when you fence your touch is light, you’re aiming to make a hit, not perforate their spleen. All such things are instinct when holding a sword. Whoever killed Millie had to over-rule their training. Either that, or they're naturally heavy-handed.' Sherlock pushed open the door, standing aside to let John through before following him out. 'Besides, there's more to people than what they'll tell the police. Seeing the fighters on-piste, somewhere they are comfortable, will offer a more honest insight into their character.'
'Piste?'
'The area the fight takes place.' Sherlock could have sounded impatient having to explain, but his voice remained smooth, leaving John feeling blameless for his ignorance. 'I'll watch them during the bouts, you watch those observing them. Tell me what you see.'
That was easier said than done. John had expected fewer people to turn up, considering what had happened to the captain less than twenty-four hours ago, yet by the time they got there, the place was packed. The second practice room – the crime scene – was still taped off and inaccessible. The entire team were making use of the main piste, dividing it into shorter lengths as they paired off and worked through various drills.
The coach, a wiry man in his fifties, offered a raised eyebrow in challenge as Sherlock and John lingered at the back of the room. However, when he sauntered over, there was a cautious smile upon his face, and Sherlock's explanation soon reassured him.
'Stay as long as you like.' His soft Scottish accent held no annoyance at their intrusion. 'I’m Phil Townsend. Anything any of us can do to help you work out what happened to Millie...' He shook his head, his hands on his hips as he stared at the floor. 'I still can't believe it. The police have been all around the place, looking for her sabre. Her épée is still in her room, untouched, but the other's nowhere to be found.'
'Was she in any bouts last night?' Sherlock leaned back against one of the pillars, surveying the room even as he listened.
'Just practice. I'll get the score sheets, show you who she fought.' Phil strode away, shouting advice to his charges as he went, occasionally pausing to adjust someone's stance or remind them of where to place their feet.
It all meant nothing to John, who could only see what looked like about a dozen people, all of whom had far more skill with a sword than he could ever hope to possess. Even those watching from the stands, sat in their white kit and awaiting their turn, observed with a practiced eye. He wished he could see what they saw – what Sherlock saw – but he had to settle for a more basic understanding.
He watched for the nervous and twitchy, the ones who glanced a few times too often in their direction. He noted the faces of those who looked too stoic, their features pinched with concentration as if a friend had not died a few feet away and mere hours ago.
'Here.' Phil handed over a piece of paper, preferring to pass it to John rather than bother Sherlock. 'She was fighting hard, last night. She did, when she was stressed about something, trying to work it through. Six bouts, barely a pause in between, from when she got here until about 10:30 at night.'
'Were you here. Did you see her?'
'I saw her arrive. She came in late.' He shrugged. 'It's no bother. My better fighters can come and go as they please. They don't need the help from me. They have open access to the court and equipment, providing they obey the rules. A trust system.' He pulled a list from his pocket, smoothing the creases out. 'Might have to rethink that, now.'
'Could anyone else get in to this area of the college?'
'I lock it up when I go. The kids on this list have access keys.' He dug into his pocket again and handed John a card with "Visitor" stamped bold across its face. 'This is for you, in case you need to stay after I've gone, have a look around, that kind of thing. It'll only work for twenty-four hours though, and only on this campus.'
John nodded, taking the card with a murmured thanks as Phil wandered off again. The list of trusted fighters was not very long, occupied by six names, one of whom was Millie Russell. It wasn't much to go on, but at least they knew who out of the fencing club had access at the time of Millie's murder.
Sherlock held out an imperious hand, and John surrendered it, pocketing the key card before leaning on the pillar at Sherlock's side. 'Not sure it'll do us any good. Not like we can match names to faces.'
'I don't need to,' Sherlock replied, scanning the room before speaking again. 'These are his trusted, most competent fighters. I can see four in bouts currently who reflect that level of aptitude, which suggests one is either awaiting their turn or has chosen not to attend practice tonight. Possible, but unlikely. To get this good at fencing you have to be ambitious and competitive. Few who achieve a high level would voluntarily miss a practice.'
'So they're watching the others, then?' John looked over the audience. None of them stood out as particularly more keen than the rest, and he shrugged. 'Could be anyone.'
Sherlock hummed in agreement, leaning towards John and dropping his voice to a murmur. John tried not to shiver as Sherlock's breath whispered over the shell of his ear. 'The bout at one o'clock, the fighter on the left is struggling to hold their line because the style of the one on the right is –' He paused as if hunting for a suitable word. 'Bordering on barbaric. Strong, certainly, but far more fierce than the sport requires. The force of some of their blows is excessive. I've seen their partner jump swiftly out of the way more than once.'
'Scared of getting hurt, maybe?'
'The foil is tipped and blunted, but if it were a different weapon...'
'A sharper one?'
Sherlock nodded. 'It could cause some serious damage, especially when their opponent is unaware of the danger. The question is, who is the fighter, and were they anywhere near Millie last night?'
'Are any others catching your eye?' John asked, turning to watch Sherlock check over the room again and sighing when he gave a slow shake of his head.
'Not yet, but I've not seen everyone fight. There might be more.'
A few minutes later, Phil rang a bell, signalling the end of the bouts. The snick and clatter of swords fell silent as his voice boomed, urging the fencers waiting at the side-lines to take their place on the pistes.
Those who had been fighting stepped away, and John could not help but stare at the one Sherlock had picked out, watching him take off his mask to reveal blonde, curly hair slicked to his forehead and the furious set of his jaw. He threw himself down on the bench like a sulking toddler, aggravated that his fun had been brought to an end.
'Hey.' John reached out to Phil as he passed nearby. 'Sorry to bother you again, but who's that?' He gestured to the boy, watching the play of emotions across Phil's face: resignation, frustration and a bitter kind of disappointment.
'Tomas Cubric. Strong. Quick. Bad tempered. Thinks the world should revolve around him and throws a strop when it doesn't.' Phil shrugged at his own, uncomplimentary assessment. 'Needs to grow up.'
'Resentful?' John asked, knowing that beside him Sherlock would be glancing at the list.
Phil cocked his head and blew out a sigh. 'Yeah. Yeah, definitely. Thinks the sun shines out of his own arse, but he's a long way off champion. He wouldn't inherit the title from Millie. That'd be Sasha. Her. Right there.' He pointed to one of the closest fighters. 'Not that she wants it, mind. She's on the medical track. Got enough on her plate. Fencing's a release for her, not a compulsion like it is with some of the others.'
'And after Sasha?'
'William Sterling.' Phil pointed him out, a boy of below-average height with sandy brown hair. 'Look, I know these kids. I don't think any one of them could do that to Millie, not even Tomas.' He shrugged, scratching the back of his greying head and offering an apologetic shrug. ‘I think you're barking up the wrong tree.'
John sighed, offering a nod in understanding. 'Well, thanks. It's good to know who's who, anyway.' He gave Phil a quick wave as he got back to the fencers in his care, watching the man depart before turning to Sherlock. 'Another dead end, then?'
'Perhaps. Perhaps not. Tomas Cubric fought Millie last. Lestrade said so.'
'So it’s him?'
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his shrug eloquent as his gaze drifted around the room. ‘I’m not so sure.’
Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, tearing his eyes away from the room to glance at the screen. 'Donovan's been looking into the family. They have, of course, been informed. Parents are divorced. Millie was an only child. Doted upon, from the look of things. Both have strong alibis for the night in question, so they, at least, we can set to one side.' He tucked his phone away. 'Not that the parents were truly suspects. A sibling, on the other hand...' He shook his head. 'Irrelevant, since one does not exist. Our best chance at finding our suspect still lies here, within this room.'
'Yeah, all right, but how do we pick them out? So far we've got nothing beyond a few guesses.'
Sherlock gave him a quick, calm look. 'We wait.'
John huffed, settling back down at Sherlock's side. It wasn't that he was an impatient man, but his feet were starting to ache and his belly had begun to growl. Sherlock might ignore food on a case, but John was another matter, and the fried breakfast at lunchtime felt like a distant memory.
He should have grabbed a snack before they left the flat. As it was, the constant complaints of his stomach were far from peaceful. They continued, ignored, for almost another twenty minutes before Sherlock made a tight, irritated noise. He reached into his pocket, pulling out some loose change and grabbing John's wrist, depositing the coins in his open palm.
'What's this for?'
'There's a vending machine outside. Go and get something.'
John huffed, but he didn't turn down the invitation. He should have known Sherlock would get annoyed with the persistent interruption of his hunger before long. 'Thanks. You want anything?'
Sherlock shook his head, his gaze never shifting from the crowd before them. One finger curled over his lips, and the slant of his brow suggested intense concentration. There'd be no tempting him away, so John surrendered to the inevitable, promising he'd be back by Sherlock's side as soon as possible.
Except, of course, nothing was ever that easy. The vending machine stood silent and dark; its glass smashed into sparkling feathers that were strewn upon the floor. It had been emptied by someone or other, and nothing but bare coils greeted John's gaze. Even posh schools had vandals and selfish idiots. It was just his luck that they'd chosen today to indulge in their little crime spree.
Grumbling, he set off in search of something else. It was late enough that all the school cafes had closed for the day. The last lectures had ended hours ago, and the halls stood, ominous in their tranquillity.
Shoving his hands in his coat pockets, he kept his head down, sparing glances for the closed, blind doorways that pocked the walls to his left and right. None of them looked like they could lead him to any sustenance, and he took a few random turns until, at last, he came across another bank of vending machines, each one gleaming and mercifully stocked.
The first bite of his Snickers tasted wonderful, and he scoffed it quicker than was polite. Buying a bottle of coke to wash the claggy texture of chocolate from his mouth, he took a sip before screwing the cap on tight and putting it in his coat pocket. Its weight made the fabric drag at his shoulders, but the rush of sugar and caffeine was more than worth it, chasing back the weary cobwebs that hazed his mind.
Setting off, he made more than one wrong turn in his effort to find his way. After more than fifteen minutes of wandering through unremarkable corridors, he found a campus map on one of the walls.
John wrinkled his nose, sighing in irritation before turning back the way he had come, counting hallways until he returned to more familiar territory. The double doors to the practice room stood shut, though light still glowed through the panes in the wood. A gentle push showed they had been locked. No doubt the main training had ended for the evening. The swipe card in his pocket let him in with an obliging beep, and he slipped through, easing it closed behind him as he took in the scene.
The room was almost empty. No more white-clad fighters dashed through their paces on the mats. They'd all disbanded, wandering off to get changed and head off into the night. Only one figure remained, his Belstaff discarded and his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Sherlock's posh shoes lay to one side, their laces trailing as his sock-clad feet moved him through the same, solitary drills he and John had witnessed only a short while ago.
And maybe John was no expert, but right away he could see the difference. He'd thought Phil's other "good fighters" were professional, but Sherlock moved as if he were dancing, his balance perfect. The sword was an extension of his arm: natural and confident, even as the tight fit of his shirt stretched across his back, practically a second skin.
The thick, protective jacket the fencers wore hid the bodies beneath. Now, even from this distance, John could see how Sherlock's muscles moved, the strain they had to endure in order to push Sherlock's frame into such elegant, stable poses. If this was him out of practice – and he'd never wielded a sword in John's presence before, so he had to be – then he dreaded to think what Sherlock had been like at his peak.
Bloody lethal.
Yet it was not just Sherlock's obvious skill that John admired. He was a gorgeous man; anyone with eyes could see that. Now, the focus on his face was almost serene. He had never seen Sherlock so utterly at peace. Even lost in his mind palace he was not so focussed.
Fencing engaged Sherlock’s body as well as his intellect: devoting his entire being to a craft he had mastered years ago and clearly never forgotten.
John swallowed, his throat dry. It was a bit voyeuristic, watching Sherlock like this, but he could not bring himself to call out and break the spell. That would be sacrilege. Instead, he kept himself to the shadows, allowing himself the guilty pleasure of observing Sherlock unnoticed.
John could not say how long he stood there; long enough for a gloss of sweat to gather upon Sherlock's brow. He lingered, captivated, and only a glimmer of movement on the other side of the room tore his attention away.
Immediately, John tensed, his body straightening and his slack hands bunching into fists. The fencer was dressed in the same, white kit as the others wore, the thick mesh mask pulled down over their face. Blank fabric covered them from head to toe, stark and anonymous.
They looked like a person made from paper, cut out and placed into a colourful world in which they could not possibly belong. Unease prickled along John's spine, intensifying into shrilling alarm when he saw the long, clean line of the weapon in their hand. It was no light foil or épée, but something heavy and brutal: a weapon of war. The blade curved, and John thought of the sword in the Dean's office: a cavalry sabre, Sherlock had said. Except back there, in its display case, it had been nothing but an interesting piece of history.
Now, it glinted with wicked purpose.
'I wondered how long it would take.'
John twitched at Sherlock's bored voice, as if the stranger's arrival were banal and predictable. Of course, he should have known. Sherlock had not been indulging in an old hobby. He'd grown frustrated at the lack of definitive evidence, and so he had taken matters into his own hands.
He had set a trap, using himself as bait.
'Bugger,' John hissed, thinking of his gun back in the safety of Baker Street. He'd left it at home. It was too risky bringing it with them whenever he and Sherlock worked a case. Now, though, he regretted his caution. Images of Millie's sliced body kept flashing through his mind's eye, and all he could think of was Sherlock falling to a similar blow. A cold wash of sweat itched between his shoulder blades, and he wet his lips, torn between the urge to rush to Sherlock's aid and the knowledge that, for now at least, he could handle this himself.
Besides, if he interrupted, the masked fucker could turn and flee. Better to let them get too involved in the stand-off to do a runner before he joined the fray. Sherlock knew John was there, watching. That knowledge wrote itself in the confidence of his stance and the way he pitched his voice. Even if it didn't, the quick "wait" gesture Sherlock made with the hand behind his back removed any doubt. He trusted John to intervene the moment it became necessary, not before.
Clenching his jaw, John focussed on keeping his breathing steady, his gaze alert and his body motionless. The stranger had not noticed him, but that advantage could easily slip through their fingers if John were not careful.
It felt like torture, standing there within the cloak of gloom that nestled between the pillars. He itched to act, and the only way he could fight the urge was by glaring at the stranger, trying to pick out something – anything – that would let him put a name to the face behind the mask.
His efforts met with little success.
The person in fencing gear was tall and broad enough that John would guess they were male, but beyond that, all distinguishing features were hidden beneath the shroud of white. Sherlock might be able to get more from the figure, but to John it could be any one of two-dozen people, and the uncertainty set his teeth on edge.
'You're not here for a bout, not with that sword. You think you can do to me what you did to Millie. Perhaps you think that, without me, the case will remain unsolved and you will get away with it?'
Sherlock wasted no energy on idle movement. He did not flick the sword in his hand back and forth, or shift his weight. He did not prowl or fidget. He remained still, apparently disinterested even as the stranger took up his place at the end of the piste, the white toes of his shoes touching the starting line. 'Or perhaps my reputation as a fencer precedes me,' Sherlock mused. 'If so, I'm afraid I will have to disappoint you. I don't waste my time with amateurs.'
It happened so fast that John sucked in a gasp, ready to shout a warning. The fencer lunged, the line of the sword tracing a wide arc that would have cut deep into Sherlock's shoulder, but he was already gone. His own blade deflected the blow and slid it harmlessly away as he stepped back out of reach.
How he could look so unflustered boggled the mind. John felt like his heart was about to burst out from his ribs, bloody with alarm, but Sherlock merely sneered. He had struck a nerve with his jibe at the fencer's skill, that much was clear. Now, he intended to push that advantage.
'A poor attempt. Perhaps I should show you how it's done.'
A flurry of blows, so quick they dazzled the eye: all gleaming light and vivid power. Sherlock attacked from one side then the other, hemming in the stranger and forcing them onto the defence. Vicious and unrelenting, John smirked as he saw the other fighter falter, apparently taken aback.
Whoever hid behind the mask might have expected a struggle, but they clearly had not anticipated Sherlock's level of skill. Suddenly, all of the stranger's attention was focussed on Sherlock by necessity, locked into a brutal exchange of blows that made the room ring with the chime of steel-on-steel.
Shaking himself free from his rapt reverie, John bit his lip and shifted around the back of the pillar. The lights had been turned off when the class ended, leaving only the piste bathed in the glow from the spots above. He needed to make use of that to get behind the idiot fighting Sherlock, and he had to do it without being seen. From there, he'd be ideally placed to take the fucker by surprise.
Drifting like a ghost, John tore his eyes away from the fight, focusing on anything that might trip him and give away his position. He picked his way around, listening as Sherlock threw out questions and jibes, all the while making sure the stranger's attention stay focussed on the battle. Sherlock hounded him, forcing him to react with increasing desperation. There was only so long that could go on before it blew up in their faces.
Sherlock may have superior skill, but the weapon in the stranger's hand was not a blunt practice foil. They had all seen what that sword could do, and John's blood ran cold as it flashed forward, a decisive stab that ripped through the fabric of Sherlock's sleeve, leaving the cloth gaping. There was no cry of pain or glimmer of blood, but it was a close call all the same.
Sherlock shifted his grip on the hilt of his sabre, his teeth bared in a parody of a grin. 'Perhaps I should put down my blade? Would that make it easier for you? It's the only way you could triumph over Millie, after all. She was unarmed. Did you steal her sword before you killed her, to ensure your success, or after, as a trophy?'
He tilted his head, stepping back again as the stranger lunged, more desperate, more ragged than before. He missed, and Sherlock side-stepped like a matador dodging a charging bull, his left-hand slamming into the stranger's back and pushing, sending him staggering so that they had traded places on the piste.
John let out a quiet huff of annoyance. All that effort he'd put in to getting behind Sherlock's attacker, and now they were all back where they started. Except, of course, that was probably part of the plan.
Even from here he could see the way the stranger's chest and shoulders heaved, driven by his fury. His grace had vanished, evaporating like mist beneath the rising sun and leaving every movement jagged and raw. Sherlock was driving him to distraction, narrowing his focus until he noticed nothing but his target, blinding him to anything else beyond the narrow boundaries of the piste. Sherlock had engineered this situation, bringing their nameless suspect out into the light and stripping him of all control.
John had to make the most of it.
'Before, I imagine,' Sherlock decided, his eyes gleaming so bright they matched his blade. 'This was never about someone taking her place as champion. You would certainly never step into her shoes, not at your age. This was about punishing her. She didn't deserve her sabre, so you took it from her, didn't you, Mister Townsend?'
John's eyebrows shot up, and he stared at the stranger, trying to see whatever had tipped Sherlock off. Not that he was wrong. The other fighter staggered as if from a physical blow, reeling backwards before reaching up and stripping off his mask and hood. Exertion flushed the face beneath, but there was no denying it. Millie's coach snarled back at Sherlock, his stormy eyes narrowed in hatred and his teeth gleaming in the light.
'No more than you did, I bet. I remember you, back in the day. Sherlock Holmes, British Champion, and what did you do with it?' The sword slashed through the air, bleeding out his rage as he hacked at nothing. 'Fuck all. You quit. Turned your back and walked away like it didn't even matter. Like a hundred others wouldn't give their teeth to be in your shoes! You gave it up, for what? This?' He gestured at Sherlock incredulously, his face a rictus of disdain. 'Running like a dog behind the police, hoping for a pat on the head?'
'Millie told you she was quitting the sport, and you would not let her.' Sherlock eased his weight onto his back foot, looking, for the first time, as if he were unsure how this encounter would end.
'She was mine. MY champion! All that bloody work and she was just going to throw it all away!'
'So you killed her.'
Sherlock's words cut through the air like a physical blow, and Townsend rocked back, his face eerily blank before the thunderous rage returned. Words were gone, wiped away as a strange, animal sound erupted from his mouth, half-snarl, half howl. Thin lips twisted over bared teeth and pale eyes narrowed. The sweat on his brow glittered under the lights as he tensed, muscles coiling to launch his body forward in a sudden explosion of power.
Sherlock dodged to the side, spinning away and putting John once again at Townsend's back. This time, Townsend’s body and blade moved as one, whipping around, and the wicked barb of the sword sliced clean across Sherlock's torso, leaving parted fabric and a long, bloody line in its wake.
A hiss of pain rasped over John's hearing, a cry for help and a warning all at once. Instinct took over, and John pulled the mostly-full bottle of coke from his coat pocket as he shouted something unintelligible: a raw, coarse noise designed to grab Townsend's attention.
The bottle was already swinging, gathering momentum as Townsend spun around, eyes wide and confused. It hit him across the jaw like a club, sending him staggering. Before he had a chance to recover, John ripped the lid off, sending a geyser of carbonated liquid into Townsend's face. He screamed as it gushed into his eyes, and John ducked beneath the flailing sword to land a second, solid blow on his chin, right where the bottle had whacked him only moments before.
Townsend went down like a tree, crashing out on the piste. The sabre in his grip skittered away, the very tip gleaming obscene red. John didn't even bother to check his pulse as he leapt over his prone form, hands already outstretched towards Sherlock.
'Shit, are you all right?' Sherlock had pulled off the tattered remains of his shirt, and John snatched it from him, bunching up the fine cotton and pressing it against the wound, his other hand bracing against Sherlock's back to keep even pressure. 'Sit down before you fall down, will you? Can you taste blood? Do you feel dizzy?'
'John –'
'Maybe I should call an ambulance,' he muttered, guiding Sherlock to the floor and trying to ignore how hard his own hands were shaking.
'John.' Sherlock's fingers covered his knuckles, and he looked up into that clear gaze, unshadowed by dimming consciousness. 'It's just a scratch. I expected it, but his reach exceeded my estimate.'
John blinked, looking down and seeing the evidence in front of him. The blood staining the fabric was not insignificant, but nor was it a steady flow. Pulling the ruined shirt aside revealed a long, narrow cut, nowhere near deep enough to need stitches.
Relief left him dizzy, and he sat back on his heels, closing his eyes before shaking his head. 'I thought –'
'I'm fine,' Sherlock promised. 'I think he got off worse.' He jerked his head towards Townsend, who had a fine bruise blooming on his jaw.
'Bastard deserved it for what he did to Millie,' John snapped, trying to ignore the way adrenaline's ebb made him shake. His knuckles hurt, too, from their collision with Townsend's skull, but nothing seemed broken. He scrubbed a palm over his face before reaching for his phone. 'I s'pose I'd better call Greg, have someone come and take him away. You sure you're all right?'
Sherlock nodded, struggling to his feet and examining the ravaged remains of his shirt. In the end, he pulled it on before shrugging the discarded Belstaff on top and doing up the buttons to hide the damning evidence. He stood, toeing into his shoes, and waited for John to finish his call.
'They're on their way,' he said as he hung up. 'It won't take long. They're only at Millie's place, which is a couple of streets over. We just need to make sure he doesn't vanish in the meantime.’
'I don't think there's any chance of that. Not considering how hard you hit him.' Sherlock pursed his lips. 'Thank you for that, by the way. I suspect the next time I might not have been quite so fortunate in my escape.'
John shuddered, an all over tremor that he couldn't hide. This was not the first time Sherlock had ended up bleeding after a case, and it wouldn't be the last. Still, he kept remembering the look in Townsend's eyes. The sharp, utter hatred. He would have run Sherlock through without a hint of remorse if John hadn't stopped him. He would have left the most remarkable man John ever knew bleeding to death on the floor and walked away, and all for what?
'John?' Sherlock's hand on his shoulder made him look up, and he swallowed hard, trying to get himself under control.
'He just – he just moved so quick...'
Sherlock hesitated before tugging John closer, those long arms folding him an unexpected, awkward embrace.
For a split second, John resisted out of habit. A heartbeat later, he lost his internal battle, sagging forward. The steady flow of Sherlock's breath and the subtle warmth of him soothed John's frayed nerves. He sighed, taking comfort in the familiar scent of wool and whatever Sherlock used in his hair.
'He was a skilled fighter in his time,' Sherlock explained, his voice rumbling from his ribs to John's chest, making his heart dance. ‘Stopped due to injury. Achilles tendon. He walked with a slight unevenness to his gait. It’s how I knew the masked assailant was Townsend.’
John pulled back, his exhaustion stripping away everything from him but the most basic kind of honesty. 'He had nothing on you, Sherlock. Even I could see that.'
The expression on Sherlock's face tugged at John's heart strings. It reminded him of when Sherlock had explained his deductions all that time ago, back when John had first breathed "amazing". A delicate mixture of wary surprise and soft delight suffused Sherlock’s features, so vulnerable that John could barely breathe for it.
Blankness wiped across his mind, silencing every niggling doubt, blocking it out until there was nothing but the sound of his own pulse in his ears and the hot, heady tingle of want humming beneath his skin. He wet his lips without thinking, a prickle of electricity working its way down his back as Sherlock echoed the gesture: an erotic flash of pink skating over the lush curve of his mouth.
John was lost.
He forgot about everything: the fact that a killer lay a few feet away, unconscious but unrestrained; Lestrade's imminent arrival... There was only Sherlock and the pleasure of those lips beneath his own as he claimed the kiss he had craved for so long.
A small, soft noise caught in Sherlock's throat, but before John could pull back, a hand cupped his jaw. Long fingers splayed around John's ear and tunnelled into his hair. The flat of Sherlock's palm guided him, changing the angle and holding him in place as Sherlock kissed him back.
Noises from outside barely pierced his perception, and it was only when someone cleared their throat that John broke away, blinking as reality interceded.
Greg's grin practically cracked his face in half, only widening at John's flush. If Sherlock were embarrassed, he did not show it, but his scowl made it clear he did not welcome the intrusion. That alone made John grin to himself, and he took half a step back, allowing the Work to flood in once more. There'd be time for him and Sherlock in a little bit. Judging from the look on Sherlock's face, he'd make time.
'Sorry, am I interrupting?' Greg asked, a picture of innocence as two of his men slapped some cuffs on Townsend's prone form.
‘Obviously,' Sherlock snapped, jabbing a finger across the room towards where Townsend lay. 'Your killer. The coach. Millie Russell was his shining star and he did not like that she was leaving the sport. Seems to have some deep-rooted issues with those with skill who throw their talent away. He confessed, or near enough. Search his home; you should find plenty of evidence there. He said Millie did not deserve her blade. He probably took it when he killed her.’
Sherlock indicated the military sword, discarded on the floor. ‘That's the murder weapon. I suspect he stole it from the Dean's office. Though feel free to question her. She might have had some sort of role I've yet to deduce.'
Those pale eyes slid in John's direction. He smiled down at his shoes, flattered that Sherlock still hadn't dismissed his theory, even if Townsend's ravings had suggested he acted alone. It meant more to him than he cared to admit, and he had to clench his hands inside his pockets, using every ounce of self-restraint not to reach out and touch him again.
'Right.' Greg folded his arms, taking in the scene with an air of disbelief. 'I'll need statements –' He held up a hand as Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. '–but it can wait a day or so.' He tilted his head, his grin softening into something friendly and knowing. 'If that suits you, of course.'
'Yes,' John said before Sherlock could ruin the moment. 'Yeah, that suits us great. Thanks, Greg.’
The DI waved them off with a flick of his hand, turning his attention to unpicking the mess of evidence. He'd contact them again when he needed their help. For now, they had been offered a reprieve.
The air lay thick and heavy between them with all that remained unsaid as they made their way through the corridors of King’s. He kept expecting Sherlock to say something, but silence reigned supreme, tightening like a violin string with each passing moment.
John's mind raced. His heart thudded, caught between joy and terror. Something had finally happened between them. After all this time, they’d moved beyond the realm of friendship, but would Sherlock change his mind? Would he decide it was all some kind of mistake?
He chewed his lip, still swollen from Sherlock's kisses, trying not to let his circling fears gain any ground. Not that it worked. By the time they stepped out onto the street, John felt brittle with uncertainty, like he might just snap in two.
'Stop.' Sherlock's fingers around his wrist pulled him up short, and John's mouth twisted in a grimace he could not hide. His shoulders slumped, and he pinned a smile in place, knowing that it contradicted the hurt pinching his eyes. He braced himself for a let-down, torn between the desire to argue – to convince Sherlock that they had something worth fighting for – and protecting the friendship that meant more to him than he could say.
If it came to that, John knew what his choice would be. If he could have Sherlock as a friend or not at all, then he would settle for less, just as he had been doing for months, now. Still, the thought of knowing how Sherlock tasted – of only having one sweet kiss to sustain him – cleaved his heart in two.
'If – if this...' Sherlock trailed off, wrinkling his nose as he chose his words with care. 'If you would rather things stayed as they were – if what happened was a result of...' He shrugged, apparently at a loss even as realisation dawned through John's mind.
Sherlock wasn't trying to retreat. He was giving John a way out.
'You bloody prat,' he breathed, shaking his head and stepping forward. His hand clenched in the collar of the Belstaff, tugging Sherlock down so he could kiss him soundly, chasing away whatever lingering ridiculousness had been about to fall from Sherlock's lips. 'You –' he murmured, 'are the best thing that's ever happened to me. Mad as that sounds. You think I don't want more?'
'I would not be a better lover than I am a flatmate. All my habits and behaviours – they will not magically improve.'
'I wouldn't want them to.' John raised his eyebrows, leaning back to get a better look at Sherlock's face. He read the truth in the faint lines of insecurity etching themselves into that expression: uncertainty painting its mask over the bright glow of hope. He was no genius, but he would bet a month's wages that someone in Sherlock's past had expected him to change. Someone had thought they'd be able to mould him into what they wanted.
They were a fool.
‘I know what you're like. I know how it is.' He shrugged, his grin turning a little wicked. 'It's no hardship, Sherlock, living with you. And even if it was, then this?' He rubbed a thumb over the line of Sherlock's collar before lifting his hand to press, light but firm, along the blade of Sherlock's jaw. 'What we're starting? That'd be a bloody good consolation.'
'It will change things'
'Will it?' John cocked his head, watching the cogs turn behind Sherlock's eyes. 'Really? Or will it be just the same as before, but better?'
He sighed, knowing he was right. This was right. He could feel it all the way down to his bones, like coming home after years away. Sherlock knew it too; of that he was certain. It would not always be plain sailing, every relationship took work to make it last the years, but John was more than willing to put in the effort.
'You might have a point,' Sherlock replied at last, offering a soft smile that John answered in kind.
‘Might?' John murmured. A bubble of laughter rose in his throat as Sherlock kissed all replies from his lips and thoughts from his head, leaving him blissfully indifferent to everything but the new world of potential opening up between them.
He was right. It would be better, the two of them together at last, and he had the rest of his life – at Sherlock's side and in his arms – to prove it.