Chapter Text
Sherlock stares curiously at the piece of paper in his hands.
“Could it be a password perhaps?” I supply.
“No,” Sherlock answers curtly, “who puts that many periods in their passwords? It’s clearly some sort of identification number. But for what?”
“Clearly," I repeat sarcastically, as it was certainly not clear to me at all, nor would it have been for any normal individual, "Someone’s ID card then? Social security?”
Sherlock dismisses my offers silently and leans back in his chair with his fingers placed lightly together and resting against the tip of his nose.
As he sits ponderously, Mrs. Hudson waddles into the room, two steaming cups of tea in hand.
“I see you two are at it again,” She notes, “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. A nice cuppa should help you both think."
She places one by me and the other by Sherlock. I thank her graciously. Holmes, however, is far too focused on solving the mystery behind the piece of paper to notice she had even entered the room at all.
The piece of paper in question was acquired by the two of us earlier that morning when Inspector Lestrade had sent a text to Sherlock that it was urgent he meet him at Langley Park. Upon receiving said text, Sherlock and I hopped onto the first train going along the Hayes line, and then took a cab the rest of the way. Once we arrived at the park, all we had to do was look for the flashing blue and red lights and bright yellow caution tape, which did not take long at all.
"Great, him again," Donovan commented scornfully, being the first to see us approaching. Her mess of curls was pulled up into a bun, which showed off her contemptuous expression even more so than usual.
"Lovely to see you as well, Donovan," Sherlock bit back, as he flashed a fake smile for a second before dropping immediately back to his usual cold seriousness. He turned to Lestrade who stood next to her, "What seems to be the problem this time?"
"See for yourself," Lestrade dipped his head down.
Our eyes followed his gesture and noticed the body of a young man with curly red hair lying lifelessly on the ground, a bullet wound between his shoulder and chest. Blood had stained through his white shirt, and his grey eyes were lifeless and dull. His skin appeared to have a blueish-green tint, and his body was covered in dirt and old leaves. Insects had already seemed to have begun eating through his clothes and skin, and flies hovered around him lazily.
Without another word, Sherlock pulled out his tiny magnifying glass and began examining the decaying body closely. He leaned in close to look at the man's suit, and shoes. Then he turned the corpse's head to the side and studied it for a moment. He lifted the dead man's left hand, then carelessly let it flop back onto the ground. He started to dig around the man's pockets.
"If you're looking for ID we've already got it," Lestrade announced, "His name is Percy Glyde. We also found this." He held up an evidence bag with a tiny piece of paper inside.
Sherlock jumped to his feet and grabbed it. He peered through the plastic at the numbers written in black ink on a yellow sticky note. Holmes then unzipped the bag and pulled out the piece of paper.
"Hold it! That's evidence," Donovan objected.
"If you want my help you have to accept my methods," Sherlock calmly answered as he studied the piece of paper. On it is a series of letters, numbers, and periods. "Tell me Lestrade, when did you find this body and where?"
"A little over an hour ago is when we found it. Got a call from a woman who was walking her dog. Said her dog started digging a hole nearby. She didn't think much of it until she saw a hand sticking out of the ground."
"Sure that was...quite a shock to her," I piped up.
Donovan glared at me.
Sherlock walked over to a disturbed pile of leaves and dirt, where it seemed like the body had been fully dug up. He squatted down and put his finger in the dirt then licked it. He spat it out immediately after and wiped his hands on his coat.
"What a wackjob," Donovan muttered.
"You realize that this body is not fresh, right?" Sherlock asked, as if he didn't hear her remarks, "In fact, it is at least a week old. Anyone could see that from the way the blood has turned nearly black due to oxidation, and the cadaver's skin has already begun to lose color."
"We..er, figured as much," Lestrade replied, though his hesitation said otherwise.
Sherlock closed his magnifying glass and tucked it into his jacket. Before anyone could ask him to, in true Sherlock Holmes fashion, he began listing off a slew of deductions,
"He is in his late 20s, and comes from a family of high status, hence the name brand pants and shoes. He also is recently married hence the wedding ring on his finger which is a style that has become popular only in the last year and was freshly polished not long ago. I suggest you look up the name of his spouse. She likely has been looking for her husband for some time now and is worried."
"Is that all?" Donovan asked, sharply.
"No, he also did not die instantaneously. He was shot in a spot that would not have immediately killed him, but it would have certainly caused him to pass out. This tells me whoever shot him was not a particularly good shot. Notice the bruising on his temple. He likely woke up briefly and was knocked out again. The shape of the bruise is that of the same shovel he was likely buried with. If he was buried all the way out here that means whoever killed him did not want people to know he had been killed."
"So...what does that tell us then?" Lestrade inquired.
Sherlock looked at him as if he was an utter fool, "Isn't it obvious?"
"Just tell us," Donovan quipped back, clearly growing more and more agitated.
"Whoever killed him did not actually intend to pull the trigger. It seems as though they were only intending to threaten him. Some type of scuffle then took place, and the murderer shot him out of either panic or self-defense. They then hid the body on an impulse, not wanting to be caught for their crime."
"So, how do we find them?"
"I don't know," Sherlock answered.
I snort, "You don't say that often."
"I don't like saying it," He retorted. He looked at the piece of paper and frowned, "Where did you find this piece of paper?"
"It was in his inner coat pocket," Lestrade answered.
"It hasn't even a crease in it. One would think it just came off the stack..." Holmes muttered, "It was important to him for some reason. I believe this piece of paper will tell us why this man was out in the first place, and where he was really murdered."
"You don't think he was murdered here?" I asked, "What makes you say that?"
"He is still wearing his work clothes. A man of status like his likely works closer to Central London. What would he then be doing all the way out here?"
"Perhaps he was meeting someone for the evening?"
"He was not murdered in the evening."
"How do you know that?"
"Temperatures during this time of year drop at least 10 degrees more in the evening. He has no coat on his back, therefore it had to have been warm enough out for him to have no need for one. He was murdered middle of the day at best."
"How on earth does someone get murdered in the middle of the day in Central London without anyone noticing?" Donovan asked, though it comes off more accusatory than curious.
"Stranger things have happened," Sherlock shrugged, he turned to Lestrade, "Let me know when you've found this man's wife. I would like to question her. In the meantime, Watson and I are getting lunch."
With that he spun and left the team behind as he usually did, Lestrade looking baffled, and Donovan scowling.
I thanked both of them with an awkward half-smile, then hurried after Holmes.
After a quick bite, we found ourselves back at the flat, where Sherlock was now sitting in his chair staring at the piece of paper like life's greatest mysteries were written upon it.
"Come on, Sherlock think!" He shouts at himself, throwing the piece of paper onto the table beside him. He stands up and goes to stare out the window.
"Goodness, what has him all riled up at this hour?" Mrs. Hudson whispers to me.
"A murder, it would seem," I answer, sipping my tea calmly.
"Oh, that makes the third one this month. Do people have hobbies these days?" She scoffs.
The old landlady is about to turn and leave when her eyes land on the precariously high pile of books lying about on Sherlock's desk, as well as a few which had been knocked carelessly onto the floor. She huffs exasperatedly.
“Goodness now Sherlock, what have I told you about things like this? Why you continue to buy new books when you leave the rest lying about like this completely baffles me,” She began organizing them into more orderly stacks, “I swear, one would think you were running a library in here.”
Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes light up, as they often did when a solution sprung to mind.
“That it!” He exclaims, turning to face us with a devilish grin.
Mrs. Hudson jumps, throwing the books up in the air at Holmes's sudden proclamation.
He grabs her by the shoulders, still grinning, "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you are brilliant!" He kisses her on the cheek.
"W-well, I, ahm," She flounders confusedly.
“Hold on, what's it, exactly?" I ask, also confused.
“Don’t you see?” He asks, though I knew it wasn’t really a question. His blue eyes were alight with the answer, and he was already grabbing his coat and scarf.
Nonetheless, I entertain him with a reply, rising onto my feet as well, “See what?”
He turns the doorknob and swings the door open, “It’s a library call number," He states matter of factly, "Hah! I cannot believe I didn’t realize it sooner. C’mon Watson we are going to The Brtish Library.”
With that he is out the door, me rushing after him while pulling on my coat.
Sherlock keeps a brisk pace upon arriving at The British Library. Not taking any time to admire the expansive, modern, and highly populated lobby.
"Why The British Library of all places? Why not the small one right on Baker Street? This place is massive," I ask him, distressed by the library's overwhelming scale, "The lobby alone is the size of parliament!"
"Because, if any book exists in the world, we will undoubtedly find it here," Sherlock answers calmly.
"And if the call number doesn't match up?"
"It will."
"How do you know that?"
"That system of numbers and letters is specifically used at The British Library. I should know. As a detective, I spend a good deal of my time reading. You should consider the hobby.”
“I read!” I retort, offended.
“Ah yes, I forgot that your collection of romance novels is unmatched.”
I hold back a cutting remark about him being such a know it all, and roll my eyes.
Sherlock's heels click along the marble flooring, up the steps, and straight to the information desk. He hits the bell dramatically, despite the fact that there was already someone seated behind the desk who could very clearly see us approaching.
“I need to find a book,” Sherlock announces, not missing a beat.
Behind the desk sits a rather heavyset old woman with a startled look on her wrinkled face. Her outdated, red reading glasses match the smear of red lipstick stuck to her thin shriveled lips, as well as her unnecessarily fuzzy, red jumper. She adjusts her glasses, which are connected behind her neck by a string of fake pearls.
“O-oh, alright then. What kind of book?” She asks, her croaking voice hitting harshly on the ears.
Sherlock holds up the piece of paper, “I don’t know the title. Just the call number. If you type it into that monster of a computer then we will both know.” He gestures to the massive screen in front of the woman, which she was sitting far too close to.
The woman, taken aback by Sherlock's bluntness bumbles out an “o-oh, okay,” and then takes the paper into her unsteady hands.
She holds it up to her eyes, then with an ungodly level of slowness types in the numbers. She makes a face. Squints. Sherlock’s eyebrow furrows. Then the woman looks at the paper again. This time she holds it a little further from her face and squints. She types it in again, with the same speed as before. She huffs. Then again looks at the paper. Then back at the screen. Then-
“I’m sorry, what is the holdup?” Holmes demands, raising his voice unapologetically.
“It would appear that the book you are looking for does not exist. Are you sure this is the right number?”
“Yes I’m sure!” Sherlock irritatedly answers, “Dammit!” He hisses, spinning away from the woman.
“Perhaps it’s not a library call number,” I offer simply.
“It is!” He shouts angrily, “I know it is. Come now, Watson, what else could it possibly be?”
“Well any number of things, I mean-“
“You know,” The woman suddenly pipes up again. We both spun to face her, “We acquire a vast collection of new books daily, and our system is not always updated as properly as it should. If you want to see if we have it I would suggest you ask our bookkeeper, Amelia Eames.”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
“Amelia...Who’s Amelia?” I ask.
“She is in charge of sorting and reshelving our books, as well as manages the archives. She knows this library better than anyone. Got a...erm what do you call it... a photography memory, she does. She can tell you the title of any book based on the simplest detail. It is quite impressive really."
“Sorry, do you mean she has a photographic memory?” I offer.
“Yes! That’s it! She is bright, that girl is. Though also very odd. Yes very odd...” the old woman trails off, and shakes her head, “Well anyway, if you want to find her she just told me a bit ago she was going to sort books over in the historical fiction section. Just look for someone with a name tag like mine.”
The woman gestures towards the little tag attached to her jumper.
“Historical fiction. Got it,” Sherlock immediately begins to head in that direction. Always in a rush, that man.
“T-thank you, ma’am,” I stammer then hurry after him.
“So, a photographic memory eh?” I think aloud, trying to supply some small talk as we hurry up several flights to the historical fiction section, “Sounds a bit like you.”
Sherlock scoffs, “How’s that? Just because she can remember things doesn’t make us alike in any manner.”
“Well, she’s also 'very odd', apparently,” I note, "You two should get along."
Sherlock stops abruptly and turns to face me, “You think I’m odd?”
I hesitate, unable to read if he is offended or curious, “Ah, well just a bit.”
“Hmm.”
Sherlock spins back around without another word and moves even quicker to our destination.
I sigh exasperatedly, muttering to myself about how a grown man of such intelligence could be so childish a the same time.
We finally reach the historical fiction section, the scale of which takes up an entire floor, and encircles the building. If one looked over the railing they could see back down into the lobby, where our dear information desk woman was just a bright red speck among the crowd. Holmes starts peeking around every shelf and poking through the gaps in the books. People nearby cast us strange looks. His lanky frame does not allow for much subtlety.
“Sherlock, what are you doing?” I hiss, as a woman rushes her kids past us.
“Watson, I suggest you take that end and I will look down this one,” he answers ignoring my question, “We will find her quicker if we divide and conquer.”
"Right..." I watch him continue his strange behavior of ducking and bobbing through the aisles and shake my head. I then head in the opposite direction and take my time, strolling around the shelves. I notice a few people with their noses buried in books, and others with stacks of materials sitting at their desks. But, no other librarians. Then I see it. A library cart sticking out of one of the aisles.
“Aha, got you now,” I whisper to myself.
I head over to the aisle and turn the corner.
When I do I am a bit caught off guard. Before me is a beautiful young woman. Her skin is a rich, warm tone and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses sit atop her head of wavy brunette locks. Her trim waistline is accentuated by her attire of a close-to-the-body black turtleneck and plaid skirt. She is intensely focused on the book in her delicate hands.
Perhaps, it was the sun spilling through the window behind her, which cast a golden hue around her. Or, perhaps it was her demeanor of peacefulness and focus. Regardless as to if it were a trick of the light or her countenance, I found myself tongue-tied as I try to force out an introduction.
“Ah, ehm, sorry, hullo there,” I stammer through my words.
Her head snaps up and she shuts her book immediately. Her eyes are angled, bright, and the color of honey.
“How can I help you?” She asks politely. Her voice is gentle and light. Now that she is facing me I can see she does have a name tag attached to her shirt.
“I’m looking for-er, well actually, my friend and I are looking for a book of sorts.”
The corner of her lip quirks, “Well you’re certainly in the right place. If you had said anything else I’d have to send you away.”
I chuckle nervously, “Ha, yes right. This is a library, after all. Hah, quite good." I want to punch myself for sounding so incredibly stupid.
She, however, does not share my discomfort, “So what’s the book?” She asks.
“Hm? Oh yes, right. Well, I don’t know.”
She raises an eyebrow, “You don’t know?”
“Ah well you see I do know, er sort of. See I don’t have the title but-“
“Watson, what the devil is taking you so long, I’ve searched all other aisles for this damned woman.”
Sherlock rounds the corner and comes next to me, frowning.
“Well, what is your excuse?” He badgers.
I clear my throat and tilt my head to the woman in front of me that he somehow has yet to notice.
He follows my gaze and finally sees her.
“Oh, I see. Well, good job then.”
He is, unsurprisingly, not at all caught off guard by the woman’s striking appearance. After all, despite being someone of all the wit and brilliance you could ask for when it came to women, especially beautiful ones, Sherlock Holmes was as daft as they came.
She, however, did not seem bothered by his dismissive reaction. In fact, she looked rather amused.
“We are here to find a book,” Sherlock explains to her.
“Ah yes, so I’ve heard,” She replies, “I take it you don’t know the title either?”
“No, but I have the call number,” He quickly returns, and holds out the paper, “Are you Amelia?”
“I am,” she replies and takes the paper from his hands. She studies it for a moment. I notice a sudden look on her face. One I was very familiar with seeing. Her eyes moving quickly back and forth along the numbers, intensely focused.
“Well do you have it?” Sherlock demands after hardly two seconds had passed.
I'm ready to scold him for expecting her to recognize a complex string of numbers and letters so quickly, but before I can she answers confidently, “Yes we do. Follow me," She turns and pushes her cart out of the aisle and past us. I catch a whiff of her perfume which smells like vanilla.
Sherlock and I share looks. Mine is baffled. His is...how do I explain it? A mix between surprised and intrigued. We quickly follow before she's gone too far.
She leads us to the library's employees elevator, and with a swipe of her ID card the doors open. We all cram inside. It is not a very comfortable fit when you include the giant cart of books between us. Amelia presses a button several floors up.
"So, why are you looking for this book?" Amelia asks. Her tone reflects less curiosity and more suspicion. Sherlock seems to pick up on this as well.
"Oh, it's a favorite of my fathers," Sherlock answers, putting on one of his typical character acts. That of a wistful, and somber son, "He passed away just last year. He told me where to find it in the British Library, but due to his failing health could not recall the title. He had checked it so many times out of the library, however, that he could remember with perfect precision the call number." Sherlock fakes a sniffle, as if he were holding back tears, "So very like my father to remember such seemingly insignificant details."
I almost want to kick him the story sounds so unbelievable.
The corner of Amelia's lip quirks up again.
"Ah, really? A favorite of his you say?"
"Yes, very much so," Sherlock dabs at his eyes.
"So he was much into BDSM then?"
I choke on my own spit, and try to cover it with a sudden fit of coughing.
"Oh, I don't judge," Amelia answers before Sherlock can form a coverup explanation. I could tell she was fighting a humorous smile. Her lips tightly together, but curved upward, with an impish look of laughter behind those bright hazel eyes of hers. Sherlock clears his throat, his posture stiffening.
"Right, yes, well, seems dear old dad wanted to play a joke on me. How very like him," Sherlock replies smoothly. The tears brimming his eyes only seconds before mysteriously gone, "Nonetheless, it was his dying wish, so perhaps there is something more to this joke of his."
"Oh like a puzzle?" Amelia asks, "Did he like puzzles?"
"Ah, yes very much so," I chime in, now jumping in on the teasing towards my dear friend, "In fact, we often called him the Puzzle King. And you've got little Puzzle Prince Jr. right here next to you."
Sherlock scowls at me, and I try to suppress my laughter.
"Yes, and I couldn't possibly go anywhere without my Puzzle Jester, now could I?" Sherlock cuts back.
My smiling drops to a frown. Sherlock grins mischievously. The elevator bell dings.
"Ah, here we are then," Sherlock announces and is the first to exit, with me, Amelia, and her cart of books following suit.
He spins around, suddenly appearing confused.
"Hold on. This is not the mature section of literature," He announces, brow furrowed.
He is right. Though it doesn't take a master detective to notice that. After all, the word Mystery is hanging over the entryway in big, bolded letters.
"Ah you caught me," Amelia replied, throwing her hands up as if in defeat, "I do apologize, but I simply couldn't resist playing a trick on the famous Sherlock Holmes and his partner Dr. Watson."
Surprise reflects across our expressions.
"How did you-?" I start.
"Come on now, the curt behavior, dark curly hair, and dramatic coat and scarf?" She explains as if it were painfully obvious, "Subtlety is clearly not in your vocabulary, Mr. Holmes," She looks at him pointedly, then furrows her brow, "Though I did expect you to be a bit taller...Anyway, I read a great deal. And, I'll be the first to admit I have read every tabloid known to man on the famous Boffin Sherlock Holmes. I am disappointed not to see you in that snazzy hat of yours."
Sherlock grimaces at the detestable nickname and hat comment. I chuckle.
"And, of course, the only man who would ever be by his side other than London's own Inspector Lestrade, is Dr. Watson himself. It's quite simple really."
"Is it now?" I pipe up, smirking that this funny young woman just used one of Sherlock's own favorite phrases on him.
He, however, seems less than amused. He squints and scans her critically. Probably trying to pick something minimal out in her appearance to then use against her as he so often loves doing.
"Are you trying to figure me out, Mr. Holmes?" She asks, again her expression shows a sort of restrained amusement.
"I already have," He replies sharply.
"Sherlock, don't-" I begin, but it is too late.
Without missing a beat, he quickly begins to list off everything he's deduced about her in the time frame we've known her, "You're a single woman, been single for years in fact. Likely because you have a certain discomfort around men. This is obvious by the way you have been using that book cart of yours to keep your distance from us. Clearly such discomfort stems from often receiving unwanted attention from men."
"Sherlock-" I cut in, trying to stop him from hurting this poor girl, but he continues relentlessly.
"You are indeed a reader. You read so often in fact that you have several paper cuts along with your fingers. You also have a nervous tick of chewing at the skin around your fingernails, but you keep your actual nails very manicured. That tells me you are wealthy enough to afford a proper manicure. But your high-end clothing gives this away even more so. After all, those shoes are real nappa leather, and that skirt isn't cheap material neither. In fact, it looks as if you just bought it yesterday based on the fact that there is still the plastic wire from the store tag that you didn't properly remove sticking out. But where do you get that kind of money exactly? Certainly not as a librarian."
"Sherlock, stop it," I try again. Again he ignores me.
"No, you get that kind of money elsewhere. A second job? Not likely. With someone at your level of management for a library as large as this one, you wouldn't have that kind of time. And, as I've stated before you have no spouse to support you. A boyfriend is even more doubtful. Therefore, your parents are the next best assumption. Both wealthy enough to send you money regularly, and giving you a comfortable flat on the edge of London. In fact, they would be more than pleased to support you for the rest of your life. But, like any young woman who's old enough to take care of herself, you resent them just a bit for it. That's why you chose to work in a library despite your parents likely wishing you had gone to university. It's your own way of giving your parents a hard time, as their smothering treatment both exhausts and irritates you. It is also why you still choose to dress the way you do even though you utterly despise the attention it gets you from men, because you know it drives your parents batty wearing short skirts and tight sweaters which accetuate your-"
"SHERLOCK!" I shout.
"...curves." He finally stops.
I sigh and rub my temples.
I anxiously brace myself for this poor woman to break down in tears that this man just completely exposed every seemingly private detail of her life. But, to my surprise, I hear her start laughing. Laughing rather boisterously too. Sherlock is as taken aback as I am.
"Hahaha, you really are as good as you say!" She exclaims, between laughs, "Goodness, you are really much more fun than I thought you would be. Thank you for that."
"You are...welcome?" Sherlock's reply comes out as a question. I'm just as confused as he is. Anyone else would have been angry, or upset. Finding such a thing amusing...that was new.
"Ah, I haven't laughed like that in quite a while," She sighs, ignoring our confusion, "Well then, let's find that book for your dear old daddy, why don't we?"
She sets her shoulders back and parks her cart to the side, then struts ahead of us.
"C'mon now, I haven't got all day," She calls out seeing Sherlock and I have yet to budge.
Sherlock adjusts his coat and straightens up, "Right, lets go Watson."
"R-right."