FIC (RP): Sherlock BBC, PG13 "The Key of the Crime"
title: The Key of the Crime
authors: rosivan (Sherlock, Lestrade) and xxbakacoconutxx (John and rest)
rating/warnings: PG13, warnings for crime, violence, and a bit of Sherlock/John
wordcount: ~7700
summary: The violinists at the London symphony are being killed and it's up to Sherlock and John to figure out who in time to save the remaining instrumentalists.
a/n: Last month, xxbakacoconutxx and I RPed this for a holmesverse challenge ♥ I just didn't get a chance to post it. :) Thank you to starshipbadass for betaing ♥
Thumb rolling over the touch pad of his Blackberry, Sherlock watched, bored, as it flickered on and off. Taxi rides that day were tedious. All he had to show for the morning spent crawling through the orchestra pit at the Barbican Centre were patches of dust on the knees of his trousers and a handful of disgruntled symphony members.
Two violinists had been murdered, that was simple enough, but it was the signature left by the murderer that intrigued Sherlock the most - an innocent curl of red string. For the first victim, it had been taut over the tuning knob of her violin's 'E' string, and for the second, tied in a neat little bow over the center of his violin bow. Ironic, the forensic investigator had said with misplaced amusement. Unimportant, Sherlock had replied.
Sherlock tugged the collar of his coat higher and leaned back against the seat of the taxi. He watched John from the corner of his eye and slipped his phone back into his pocket. They were stuck in traffic. Again.
John felt fidgety himself. He was trying to make sense of the bodies he’d recently examined.
They were... they made him just a little uneasy, which was impressive since he’d seen more than one person reduced to black and red splotches in the sand. He swallowed thickly and shifted in his seat.
He wanted to get to their destination. He wanted to reach the girl whose recording had sounded so desperate. She’d called the Yard in the morning, voice shaking slightly but with a strand of determination and confidence despite it all. John, in contrast to Sherlock, grew an instant fondness for her and was damning the slow-moving cab, not for the high fare or for the boring ride, but because he wanted her to greet him with that same strong voice.
When a total of three bicyclists that they had already seen passed them by, John’s leg began to bounce. “Fancy the tube?” he asked the window.
Sherlock's gaze refocused out the space between the seats in front of them and beyond the windshield. The next access to the underground was a little ways beyond the bridge. The cars had slowed to a mere crawl, but the walkway to the side for pedestrians was fairly uncluttered by swarms of people. The weather was brisk - more people were driving, more cars, more traffic. It would take them a few minutes to cover on foot what the taxi would cover in ten.
"Restless, John?" Sherlock checked his phone, quickly accessing a copy of the Underground schedule. The few minutes on foot, the time it would take for John to pay the driver and for them to collect tickets... they could make the next departure. Assuming, of course, the tube was on time.
“A little bit, yeah. Innocent lives at risk and all. You know, that rubbish.” John kept his eyes on the street, watching as the station inched closer and closer, set to the soundtrack tapping of Sherlock’s phone. His knee continued to bounce as he felt adrenaline and impatience wash over him in waves of antsy energy.
He thought of the mottled bodies of the two victims and felt his skin crawl anew. Stab wounds, that’s what they died from, but really it looked like someone had pushed them down a hole filled with razor wire. John started tapping his fingers at the thought of trying to identify the girl using only her dental records.
John's face had that distant look of sympathy that Sherlock found tiresome. It was a plain expression wasted on an otherwise usually exceptional man. He sat forward and moved past John, hand coming down firmly on the doctor's bouncing knee to use as leverage while Sherlock pushed open the taxi door. "Let's clear your head, then," he said, as if something so simple as air could manage such a thing. Sherlock took off between the cars, weaving his way towards the sidewalk. He trusted John would keep up.
“Oh, goddammit,” John mumbled in his usual put-upon manner. He quickly leaned forward to hand a couple notes to their driver. “Here, sorry mate.” Leaving the change for the inconvenience, John flung himself out of the open door to jog after the quickly-moving smear of black that was Sherlock.
John told himself that he wasn’t angry at being left behind simply because he had grown used to it. He ignored how warm his knee felt.
Sherlock turned to avoid a pack of schoolchildren and caught a glimpse of John out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock didn't want to lose track of him that day, especially not with another witness to question who was likely to seek comforting words that no, she was not going to die, don't worry. Sherlock would only offer facts and the results of said facts, even with John's pointed prompting to 'be nice.’
To get rid of the jingle of change in his pockets, Sherlock acquired two tickets for the tube and passed one off to John. "Feel better?" he inquired.
“Yes, but I’m dreading another twenty minutes of sitting.” John put his hands in his pockets along with his ticket so he could let his fingers fidget discreetly. His left hand was shaky from the chemicals rushing from his brain, and he really didn’t like it when Sherlock mentioned it. He took a small breath, remembering that he was a soldier, dammit, and that he needed to calm down or he wouldn’t be any good at all. Getting all hyped up wasn’t going to get them there any faster. “I’ll be much better off once we find out what’s going on. Any theories?” he asked, starting off toward the cars.
"Several," Sherlock said slowly, the last syllable of the word rolling off his tongue as he considered John. "Not quite developed." It was easy enough to draw conclusions from the two previous murders, but with the next so-called victim stepping forward and wanting to speak to them, Sherlock was certain the facts would accumulate differently. He still had the strings to analyze when they went back to the flat later on.
The time spent on the train and the taxi ride after went by mostly in silence, John’s apprehension rising and receding like a tide. Every time he would get antsy, he would reprimand himself, telling himself that he was overreacting and that he was far too seasoned for that kind of behavior.
Dusk had fallen by the time they reached the house and John couldn’t stop the fresh wave of dread at the sight of its dark windows; their client had said she wasn’t going to leave her house that day. John swallowed, feeling his muscles tense and he sent Sherlock a furtive glance, checking his expression.
Sherlock was watching John, openly this time, and quirked an eyebrow at him as they went up the walk. Wordlessly, he let his gaze shift back to the unlit house, taking in the messy draping of the curtains, a spill of gravel by the carpark where a set of car tires spun out. "Carefully, John," Sherlock warned. His voice was hushed and pitched lower as he diverted off the walkway path to circle around back. Windows at ground level, a screen slightly ajar - possible entry point? He pushed forward, seeking the back door.
John was thankful he was able to switch modes so quickly. He detached himself from the situation, clinically and efficiently moving along behind Sherlock. He glanced in each window, trying to see what had happened.
There was evidence of a struggle, rumpled carpets and broken lamps; Sherlock would be able to pick up more, but for now all John needed to know was that someone had gotten there before them and there was a chance that they were still there. Distantly, John was aware of the girl’s probable death, but it wasn’t his chief concern then. His hardened mind kept his eyes on Sherlock’s back and the creeping shadows of the trees. He approached the door, drawing his gun from his trousers and checking to make sure Sherlock was ready.
Sherlock knelt to feel along the potted plants by the door and sifted through the soil with a gloved hand. In the third pot he found the key to the door and Sherlock swiftly unlocked the house and crept inside.
The house was quiet and still, and the thin trickle of a chime sounded when they entered, from the silver bells hung from the back door. The kitchen was untouched by struggle, normal signs of occupancy littering the sink and counters. The outside window with the ajar screen had a stack of tipped books beneath it. A partial mark from a boot on a series of torn pages, meaning someone had stepped down and slipped. The screen couldn't close because the frame was bent - likely the murderer gripping it to prevent himself from falling.
Facts and explanations slotted into place as Sherlock moved through the debris and down the hallway towards the bedroom. Light slipped in from the open window - the murderer escaped and quickly - only to shine impassively over the crumpled woman on the floor. "John," Sherlock said reflexively.
John was immediately by Sherlock’s side, gun at the ready, putting all of his half-formed thoughts and observations to the side. He looked down, saw the girl, and felt his hard mindset slip for a moment before remembering he needed to check the rest of the house. He didn’t look back to the girl, kept his cool as he scoped out the room.
Nothing. He nodded to Sherlock, who he knew would understand the gesture, and quietly slipped back out. The disturbed living room seemed pretty obviously empty, since the furniture was easy to see around, and the kitchen they had walked through was empty as well, so John headed for the stairs.
Sherlock examined the body, noted bruising along her throat and forearms, the latter likely from the struggle. Blood pooled slightly on the carpet where one of her palms was laid flat - one finger was missing, a different one than the other two victims. The cut was clean and fresh, and Sherlock skipped over the detail in favour of picking up her mobile, which was also lying on the floor. Through the streak of blood on the screen, Sherlock scrolled through the call logs before setting the phone back down again. He rose and went to find John to see what his dear blogger had found (or missed).
John crept along the halls, peering into each room with caution before moving to the next. He would look more in-depth later. None of them held anything of interest or out of place - until the last room. Nothing was immediately eye-catching, but as he turned to leave a spark of colour stole his attention. On the bureau rested her hairbrush, around it was tied a red string. John went over to pick it up and as he took a closer look he recognised it as a string for an orchestral instrument. The others were violin strings, but he didn’t want to jump to conclusions; he wasn’t versed enough in them to know. Why a string? Why was it placed there? How did it connect to the murder?
At the thought of the girl, John felt his disappointment, guilt and grief creep up on him. If they had gotten there sooner, they could have helped, and she could have helped them solve the case. If John had suggested the tube sooner, maybe -
John stopped that line of thought, knowing from experience that nothing came of it. Sometimes there are just things you can’t help, things you can’t fix. You can only move on. He reeled himself in and moved to rejoin Sherlock.
"What do you have?" Sherlock asked, if only to tear John's attention away from whatever he was pondering internally. He stood in the doorway and waited, his eyes darting around the room and then back to John. He had texted Scotland Yard on his way up the stairs, his very short message reading 3rd violinist dead.
Sherlock paused a moment, thoughts lingering on the message. He glanced up at John, waiting for an answer, and pulled his mobile out again to do a search of the violinist victims.
John had started a bit at Sherlock’s sudden appearance, and he scolded himself for the reaction; it wasn’t like it was a rare occurrence. “A lead, I think,” he said, holding out the brush. “Found another one of these. Know what it’s a string to?”
Red string in the hairbrush - it looked like the ones that they'd found on the previous two bodies. "Not quite," Sherlock said evenly, thinking of the strings back in the flat, waiting to be compared to the third. He offered the string back to John after wrapping it in his handkerchief. "We should find a taxi."
A few minutes later and John found himself once again in the back seat of a taxi. He sank into the leather, wishing for the unbridled energy he had earlier. Now that he could relax some, he let himself briefly feel sorry for the girl. She hadn’t been a personal acquaintance, but she’d been someone he could have helped. He’d had plenty of experience with that in the war. It was always painful - but short-lived, thankfully. With a shake of his head, he put the feeling aside; another regret to join the others. He turned to Sherlock with his head held up. “So, any theories?”
Sherlock had folded himself against the window of the taxi cab, moodily pondering into the collar of his jacket. He answered, in response to John's question, "Text Lestrade. Tell him we're looking for a male, size ten shoe. And to check the living room window." The pieces of the puzzle were falling together, but the symphony was running out of violinists.
The string, the woman's phone, and more importantly, the last number on the call log. "How long was she dead, do you think?" They'd talked to her that morning, so that narrowed the field.
John curled his finger around his chin as he thought. “Well, I didn’t stop to take too close of a look, but by first glance I’d say rigor mortis hadn’t set in too far, so six hours or less. You looked at her though, you’d probably be able to tell better than me,” he said, before his mind caught up to what Sherlock had said and the standard Holmsian Confusion set in. “Wait, how do you know what size shoe the killer wore? And what about the window?”
"Mud from underneath the window, broken screen, books torn and stepped on inside the house," Sherlock said easily, pondering John's estimated time of death. He ran through one of his many mental maps of London, eyes distant on the window ahead of them. "And yet you found the red string..." Sherlock half shrugged, slouching further into his collar. "An improvement, I suppose."
John chuckled at the half compliment. “Well, I do need to be useful for something,” he said as he pulled his mobile from his pocket. Lestrade, he expected, would want them down to the yard for statements later, but he hoped that he would at least be able to have a cuppa before dashing off.
They’d been out and about for most of the day and John felt he would very much like to have a mere moment of peace. It’d be a nice opportunity to make sure he separated himself enough from any lingering emotions to make clinical evaluations. Lestrade wasn’t always the best with technology, sometimes having to fiddle with his phone for some time before getting it to work, and John distantly hoped it would hold him up for at least an hour. John smiled to himself as their cab eased to a halt in front of their flat.
Sherlock braced himself against the backseat of the cab, slipping the driver a few notes to cover the ride. Normally he wouldn't, since he and John had something of a shared expense in Sherlock's mind, but this time... Well, this time was simply a time for him to do it. It had absolutely nothing to do with the quiet smile or John's distant expression.
Sherlock pushed out of the cab and up towards their flat. Strings. The strings ought to have been ready by now, and he had a third one to analyze.
John pushed the door to the flat open with anticipation, ridding himself of his jacket and shoes before flopping into his chair. Oh, his chair; it was just what he needed. Well, that and tea. “Oh,” he sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, “just an hour. Oh God, just an hour.” He kept that position for a few moments, not yet willing to move, before dragging himself out of the cushions lovely depths to the kitchen. “You want some tea?” he called behind him.
Sherlock was folding his scarf carefully over the coat rack, to be followed by his jacket. "Please," he said lightly, and followed after John. The apparatus on the kitchen table was simmering lightly and Sherlock stooped near by it to look at the beakers and fluids. "The string," he requested of John, and held out his hand for the new one, waiting.
John, who should have been to being ordered around, gave Sherlock his patented you’re joking look. Like every other time, however, he gave in. He fished in his pocket, pulling the string of red out and into the light. It was brilliant, either ruby or crimson, and John ran his fingers across it; he felt it vibrate slightly in his hold. He eventually handed it over and turned back to his whistling kettle.
Sherlock examined the string again, noting similarities with the other two; the frayed edges, the wire centres. It had a residue of some sort, not picked up by its time curled in the hairbrush. From the results with his small experiment and Sherlock's own experience, the strings had faint traces of rosin on them, too dark to be for a violinist, so that ruled out transfer from the victims, and too dark for it to be cello rosin, either. Sherlock smiled to himself, inexplicably pleased.
John turned with their cups in hand and set them both on the table. He left Sherlock’s black while he put milk and honey in his own. He saw Sherlock’s pleased expression and couldn’t help but smile himself; he’d caught the scent of the trail. John lifted his cup to his lips, quietly observing while Sherlock worked. He watched his hands the most, taking in the way they held things with just the right amount of pressure and how the tips of his fingers paled with it.
Feeling content at last, John had his long-desired rendezvous with his seat. He sank into it for what he hoped would be forever. He sipped slowly, thinking of the case with a much calmer mindset. “Any progress in there, Sherlock?”
"In three days," Sherlock promised, sipping lightly from his tea, "we will catch our killer."
“Oh? You going to tell me how this time or do I have to wait with Scotland Yard?” John’s phone chimed in his pocket and he groaned loudly. He didn’t need to check what it said, but he did anyway. Sure enough, Lestrade’s name was on the front LED. He sighed, taking another mouthful of his tea that he was now certain he wouldn’t get to finish, reading the brief text. “Lestrade wants us down there.”
"Dull," Sherlock concluded immediately. He stood, teacup going with him. "Let him puzzle it out. He needs the practice." He breezed into the living room and settled down on the couch, stretching out to fill it like if he didn't the ends would snap up and eat him.
John blinked at his tea, making sure he’d just heard right. “You - you’re just going to let Lestrade handle it?” He got up, setting his cup aside, to go stand next to Sherlock’s prone figure. “What about the new string? The girl? Your three days theory?” He had his hands on his hips and prepared himself to give another lecture on why Sherlock should bother to care more about whether or not lives were at risk in his games.
"If Lestrade goes in 'guns blazing'," Sherlock explained impatiently, his finger running the smooth path around the rim of his cup, "he'll scare our killer away. Better to wait the three days and watch the fourth violinist and any bassist that goes near her in the mean time."
“Bassist? You think a bassist would be the killer?” John decided to settle onto the coffee table, after all it handled Sherlock stomping on it all the time, it could handle a few moments of being sat on.
Sherlock flicked a disappointed look in John's direction and set his teacup on John's knee. He needed his hands to explain things. "Of course it's a bassist, John. Three victims, each killed and each missing a different finger. Each finger corresponds with a string on a violin. Each string is two notes apart, hence each victim is killed with two days between them."
Sherlock waved his hands, fingers rolling in example of how he would hold his violin that was on the other side of the room. ...Or perhaps under his bed. He couldn't remember. "The string, covered in rosin residue, but not the sort violinists use. Too dark. Bassists use a certain type of rosin, John. Then, of course, the phone log."
“From the girl’s phone?” John readjusted Sherlock’s cup on his knee, balancing it better. He had to resist the urge to drink from it out of habit. He could just go get his own, but he was comfortable now and Sherlock had already started and he didn’t want to interrupt. A small voice said he should take a sip just because it was Sherlock’s, but he pushed it aside and told himself he didn’t like the way Sherlock took his anyway.
Sherlock glanced at John's face and flapped his hand at the teacup. He was done drinking it anyway. "You estimated she had been dead six hours before we arrived and we'd been at the concert hall all morning. She received two calls from the hall - one late last night, telling her to arrive for full orchestra so we could speak with everyone. Another call was this morning, not forty minutes before her death, and why? She was the only member of the orchestra, other deceased violinists aside, to be absent in attendance. The killer didn't want her to talk to us because she knew in advance that she would be next, but the killer didn't want her to tell us how she knew, and didn't want to be suspiciously absent either."
Sherlock stopped for a breath, his fingers drumming on his stomach. "The killer called to tell her that she need not come to rehearsal. It had to be someone she knew well, because if it were someone unfamiliar or out of place, she would have been suspicious. You found the string in her hairbrush. The killer had been here before. There would be plenty of time between our chat with the sectionals and our observation of the orchestra to drive to her flat and back without our notice. Rosin, familiarity, clues in the strings. Bassist."
“But if the killer was familiar with her, why would he need to break in through the window? Did they, I don’t know, not want her to know who they were? It couldn’t have been for stealth, it would have made too much noise.” John took a swig and tried not to feel embarrassed about it. There was no reason to be, they were flatmates, friends and colleagues, and he’d shared water with fellow soldiers before. John tried to not look at the drop of tea that was left from where Sherlock’s lips had been; there were other things to worry about.
John's question drew Sherlock to a stop, just short of him tipping into a spiral of observations. He let his hands press together and rest light over his mouth as he thought. The window. An excellent point. The side of his mouth that John couldn't see curled in a pleased smile. Well done, John. "He parked out front, entered through the front door. After the struggle, the flat was a mess, and he slipped on the books by the window, reached out to break his fall and bent the frame. The window was open when he arrived," Sherlock concluded.
“Alright, makes sense. But why is he doing this? His victims are members of his own orchestra, possibly even friends. He plays a different instrument, so their deaths wouldn’t get him a better part. Maybe,” John paused, swilling the tea in his mug as if it held the answers, “they weren’t friends? A personal thing?” John went to take a drink, but stopped himself short. “And why wouldn’t ‘going in with guns blazing’ work? We know who he is and we could find where he is, why lure him out?”
"I know it's a bassist, John." Sherlock shifted on the couch, staring down at his socked feet on the arm rest. He sighed, tired with the idea of motivations once again, "It doesn't matter why. If we want to lure him out, we only need to watch the last violinist."
John stood, finished with Sherlock’s cup and a little disappointed in the conversation. “Huh, thought you of all people would want to know every motivation possible. But I guess you’re right about just watching.” John walked to the kitchen to rinse out the cup, leaving his own for now. With the tap running, he mumbled to himself, “I just don’t want to be too late again.”
Sherlock glared at his toes and crossed his arms over his chest as he turned into the couch. "Text Lestrade," he yelled over his shoulder. "Tell him." It would be worth the small annoyance of a pack of police officers if John would stop making that face at him. Sherlock disliked that expression.
John smiled into the sink. Sherlock was - he was being nice. He was being considerate of him. It wasn’t like Sherlock was a complete ass all the time, or that he never thought about John, it just was rare of him to act on it. John took his phone out and typed out as brief a summary as he could for Lestrade. He felt - what he called brotherly - affection make a quick circuit around his chest. He dimly registered that he had been feeling that way more and more often. Brotherly affection, camaraderie. Right. John nodded firmly to himself before returning to the living room.
Two days later and Sherlock was standing in front of the sitting room window, peering down over the dark street. The next day would be (hopefully) eventful. Lestrade was keeping tabs on the remaining violinist as well as the bassists. They would catch the killer. John would be pleased. Sherlock would start waiting for the next case.
Violin in hand, Sherlock plucked at the strings idly, creating tunes and melodies from the rummage of thoughts pinging around inside his head. Waiting. The waiting was one of Sherlock's least favourite things. He sighed, frowning slightly at the reflected lamplight against the window. Soon.
John watched Sherlock from his chair. He had a habit of doing that, especially lately. The violin in his hands bespoke of his boredom and John desperately wanted him to either play something decent or put the damn thing down. Thankfully, John was a man of great patience and had acquired the ability, through much practice, to hold his peace.
The violin got him thinking though. Two days. Two days of pondering and waiting and going through the facts, and still he couldn’t think of a motivation. Why on earth would any of the bassists turn to murder? As far as their investigations went, there weren’t any obvious signs of tension or animosity between any members in the orchestra as a whole. It bothered him. He was usually pretty good at figuring out their suspects - not great, but good enough at it to be frustrated by this case’s ambiguity. Sherlock was the expert, so John was hoping he would shed some light on the situation eventually, though he had no idea how.
Time was short and John had grown accustomed to having everything figured out by now, of knowing what he was getting himself into. He wasn’t scared, but he was a little anxious about how many things were still up in the air. It was afternoon. The next murder would have to happen soon and yet there was still no word on any new red strings or suspicious activities. He’d asked Lestrade to keep them posted, but if something had happened it would be easy to get caught up in the moment and forget.
John was bored, and fidgety, so finally he turned to Sherlock and said, “You mind playing something else? I’ve got a bit of a headache.”
It took several moments for John's request to filter through Sherlock's attention. When it did register, he slid his gaze across the window glass to look over at the pale reflection sitting in the chair by the fireplace. "Stop fretting," he suggested. He plucked at the strings a little longer and then drew the bow across slowly. Sorting through the half jumble of music in his head, Sherlock settled on something soft and sighing, a bit sweeter than what he normally would play.
John sighed and settled back into his chair. He honestly loved it when Sherlock played actual music, and the lilting melody he was creating eased some of his tension; not all of it, but now he at least knew what the remaining weight in his chest was about.
John wouldn’t say he was in love, not even close.
Attracted though, God yes. He’d had time to think over the past few days, in the lull of excitement and adrenaline. He tried to work through some of his reactions the past few days, and could really only come to that conclusion. The weird, awkward warmth he kept feeling was probably the biggest factor in that theory. It wasn’t that he’d never gotten it from Sherlock before, but it was an infrequent occurrence and he had brushed it off as hormones. He was now fairly certain that he had been wrong.
“Sherlock, I - ” he cut himself off, horrified by his own traitorous mouth. He wasn’t even positive about his feelings yet! No way could he talk to Sherlock about it already! He glanced over to the couch, hoping that Sherlock’s violin had drowned out his mistake.
Sherlock finished the last few bars, but instead of looping back as he had been, he went back to plucking pizzicato at the strings. "What was that, John?" He calmly turned from the window, glancing over at his companion. He tried not to read the doctor's expression, a futile act on his part.
John considered for only a second whether or not to lie and hoped Sherlock hadn’t seen. “I - uh, I’m worried about the case. Isn’t it getting late?” God, he wanted to talk, but he didn’t want to say something foolish and regret it later. Though he’d never had a relationship with a man, he had always felt that he was open to having one, so his sexuality wasn’t the issue.
It was that this was Sherlock Holmes and nothing involving the man should be taken lightly. A relationship with him would mean more danger, probably more kidnapping, and another complicated layer to their already unusual life; he hadn’t had much time to figure out if the risk was worth the reward. Only in the last few days did he even accept that he had feelings for Sherlock, and he didn’t want to jump headfirst into something.
Except Sherlock usually made him want to do just that.
"Tomorrow he'll act," Sherlock murmured. He stooped for a moment to collect his case and set his violin and bow away. A soft, dry cloth was folded inside the case and he wiped down the body of the violin, as well as the strings. "Perhaps you should sleep." He couldn't keep a thin vein of disinterest out of the idea of sleep. Sherlock found it a pointless, focus-sapping task.
“Yeah, yes. That’s probably a good idea,” John said, moving to make a hasty retreat from the room. His damn heart though, that horrible pulling sensation, made him hesitate with his hand on the doorknob. This was a chance, perhaps the only chance he had to make his feelings known. If he ran away now - for all the good, logical reasons he had stockpiled - would he ever work up the guts to tell Sherlock? What he was doing was running away, and all of his logic was simply covering his fear. Well, John Watson wasn’t the type of man who was okay with that.
“Sherlock, what I meant to say earlier,” he swallowed, keeping his eyes on the handle; he didn’t want Sherlock reading his face just then. He couldn’t find the right words either. Saying something like “I like you” sounded juvenile, while “I have feelings for you” was vague and lacked conviction, and “I love you” was taking things too far. Tightening his grip, he set his mouth into a thin line of determination.
“I think I’m attracted to you,” he said, and deciding that still sounded vague, he clarified with, “romantically.”
"Do you." Sherlock closed the violin case with a soft 'click' of the buckles. He leisurely crossed the room, his hands slipped casually in the pockets of his trousers. He'd given John the perfect out, and the man had gone and surprised Sherlock by staying. Doctor Watson had far too much heart at the best of times. It was obvious and something that Sherlock witnessed on almost a daily basis. For him to find attraction in the consulting detective wasn't much of a leap.
Standing next to John, almost to the point of crowding him against the closed door, Sherlock peered down at him. "Facts, John. The rest is all just... clutter." He disliked wasting his time, even when it came to his blogger.
“Well, sorry I didn’t go through the Scientific Method,” he grumbled. John felt a little cornered, to be honest, but in a good way. It felt like he was on the brink of something waiting to be pushed over. He told himself to stop being defensive and evasive and just get on with it.
“Alright then, if you want it cut and dry, I’m attracted to you and would like to be in a relationship.” His face was set, expression hard and not the sort of look one would normally wear when confessing their affections.
Sherlock examined John for a moment, a slightly amused smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He reached over to tug at John's shirt collar and pull it even with the other side. He wondered what John saw when he looked at their interactions, what was too subtle for him to latch onto.
Leaning down, Sherlock brushed a kiss over John's mouth, his fingers curling beneath the other man's chin to hold him at an agreeable angle. Surprisingly pleasant. "We have a relationship, John."
John blinked for a moment, eyelashes skipping across Sherlock’s cheeks, surprised by how easily that went. “Oh - well, then.” He cleared his throat and looked Sherlock straight in the eye. “Now that that’s cleared up, I believe we were about to go to bed?” John thought about how that sounded for a second and tried very hard not to blush. He had a feeling he failed spectacularly. “Not, um, I mean, not like that though. Sleep, we were going to go to sleep.” He could feel his bravado slipping a bit and had to drop his gaze down to Sherlock’s chin.
With a small amount of mischief in his voice, Sherlock noted, "I don't sleep much, especially while on a case." It was something he'd said a long time ago, but had a lovely second meaning, now.
“You’ll just have to bring something to occupy yourself with, then,” John said, picking up the mischievous tone and running with it. He finally turned and left through the door, heading up the stairs grinning like a madman.
"Indeed," Sherlock said, mostly to himself. He followed after John, smile lingering, his fingers twisting at the buttons to his shirt sleeves.
-
John moved slowly, quietly. It was dark inside the lobby and he planned to fully take advantage of that. There weren’t many hiding places since the hall was mostly empty, purposed for housing a large number of people milling about after a performance. It would be better once he was inside - there were at least chairs in the main concert hall that he could duck behind. It was about six in the evening then. Lestrade had texted roughly twenty minutes prior, rousing John from his sleep and causing his adrenaline to fly sky-high. He reached the door to the hall and checked to make sure Sherlock was still with him.
Sherlock had been shadowing John down the corridor, coat flaring out silent behind him as they moved. Lestrade and his men were pressing through the rest of the rooms at Barbican Centre. Sherlock and John had lost the officer accompanying them. The consulting detective wasn't certain when and ultimately didn't care. He was sure he was around somewhere. She was around somewhere. Or was it a he?
Through the slot in the hall door, Sherlock peered over the top of John's head, looking inside. On the stage, two figures were highlighted by one of the spotlights. Posture of the woman - bending away, tension through her shoulders and the way she gripped the chair; clearly distressed. The man looming over her had his hands loose at his sides, holding something. The pose was very hostile. The killer.
"John," Sherlock murmured, his words ruffling the other man's hair. "This way, quickly." He turned away to move down the hall and around the corner. The door on the orchestra level would lead them to the side stage door. Entering from the back would be loud, noisy. Very obvious and the distance was too great to cross quickly.
John followed Sherlock to a side hallway, stairs dipping down to the lower level, landing sloping towards where the stage would be. There was a door not too far, and it sounded like things were coming to a head; yelling, whimpering. John made his footfalls a quiet as possible without slowing his approach so he could listen in.
“...doit! My GOD you disgust me, you piece of shit! Why, whywhywhywhy - WHY ARE YOU HERE?!” There was a thud and a female voice cried out. John wanted to run, wanted to get there faster but he couldn’t give them away. He couldn’t hear anything more than the hum of the man mumbling something and John didn’t know if that was good or not. He got to the door, and thought he wanted to sprint through and end the situation right then, he didn’t want to do anything stupid; the war had taught him that a tactical plan was always better than a spontaneous one. He opened the door a crack so he could see and hear what was happening.
“You bitch. I hate you beyond what your tiny, simple mind could ever fathom. Do you know, do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” The man was hunched over the girl, one hand on the back of the chair the girl was tied to, the other brandishing a knife. He spoke with calm, vicious clarity, much different from that raging hysterics he had been in before. He took a shaky breath. “You, you make my ears BLEED!!”
John jumped as the word echoed off the walls, screaming back at him over and over. He thought now would be a good time to move, before the man went on another tangent. He brought up his gun, flicking the safety off.
Sherlock eased the door open and slid a propping block from the other side into place. The echo of the killer's voice would be heard by any officers in the hall. With one glance to John, Sherlock moved into the hall and up the side stair by the curtain. The killer was monologuing. Sherlock sighed inwardly and pushed through the curtain. He leapt at the bassist, reaching to grab the knife.
The killer turned, knife arcing up and away from Sherlock’s grasp before coming back down toward Sherlock’s chest. John run up behind him to twist the man’s wrist before it the knife managed to connect. He dropped it, hand twitching and mouth open in a scream of both pain and outrage. John did his best to secure both of his arms behind his back. He was fighting back with the force of a man completely unhinged and it took all of John’s strength to not be knocked over by it. He screamed curses at the girl, whipping his head back and forth, spit flying.
John managed to get him to his knees and at that point, he calmed, just like he did before, quietly boiling with hatred. “You stole from me. You stole my days, my music, my love. You and your slut violin, sucking up the spotlight with your talentless, burlesque dance. You squeal and screech and I can’t stand it, I can’t fucking stand it, you deserve to die. You should have been born fingerless. You should have spared me your cruelty. You stole so much from me, stole so muchsomuchsomuch,” he mumbled continuously. He seemed stuck in a loop for a moment and John looked to Sherlock because honestly, he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.
Expressionless, Sherlock threw a solid punch at the man, making his head snap to the side. He went limp in John's grasp and Sherlock watched with faint displeasure. "There's your why, John. Unhinged jealousy."
Sherlock sent Lestrade a text - caught killer. Main stage, girl alive. As he pocketed his phone, he glanced over at the violinist, shocked and shaking in her seat. Third violin, Elizabeth Mason, still fairly new to the orchestra. Lucky to be alive. Sherlock found her pizzicato particularly striking, much improved since her debut, and hardly talentless.
Sherlock turned away without saying anything and focused on John. "Dinner?" He concluded. The villain was caught, and the victim saved. His blogger had a tendency towards regular meals, especially after an adrenaline rush, and Sherlock felt like a cup of tea.
Lestrade burst in through the main hall doors before John could respond, at least three officers in two. "What part," he said, coming down the side aisle towards the stage, "Of 'let us take him down' don't you two understand?" He climbed the side stairs and approached Sherlock and John, grudgingly nodding his approval at seeing the violinist alive. Two of the officers took the bassist from John, cuffing his hands immediately.
"Honestly." Lestrade shifted his shoulders under his jacket, holstering his gun when the murderer was completely cuffed. Then, at length, "You all right?"
Sherlock spared John a small smile, not bothering to answer the question. The answer was too obvious to waste time replying to.
“Yeah, thanks,” John said, straightening himself after the struggle. He glanced up to see their suspect starting to stir again, the change in hands apparently rousing him from his daze. “You might want to sedate him, though, he fights hard.”
John rotated his left shoulder, feeling stiff from strain. The bastard thrashed around like a fish and his old wound wasn’t too fond of that. He smiled over at Sherlock and remembered how lovely dinner had sounded. The killer was caught, the lovely lady was safe, and neither of them had eaten. He turned pleasantly to Lestrade. “You mind if we go? This one’s not eaten again and I don’t want him collapsing on me.” He bobbed his head in Sherlock’s direction in an offhanded kind of way.
Sherlock looked miffed at being blamed for the supposed hunger, and Lestrade didn't give him the opportunity to start off about it. "I need statements," he said, and waved at the sour expression that Sherlock immediately made. "Just give them and you can go. Donovan's outside." Lestrade turned away to go over to the victim, leaving John and Sherlock alone.
Once they were gone, John’s smile turned back to Sherlock. The dim lighting cast shadows from all the right places and John thought he was looking rather gorgeous so he leaned in, dropping a quick kiss onto Sherlock’s lips, careless and happy. He pulled back, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. “Good job, mate. You feel like Chinese or Indian tonight?”
Sherlock paused and turned to lean in after John, chasing his lips. After a slightly longer (proper) kiss, Sherlock moved back, half-smiling. "The usual cook at Mao's has the night off. You'll like the curry better." Turning away, Sherlock went to hail down a taxi, pulling his scarf tighter against the cool breeze. He didn't bother looking to see if John had followed him. Sherlock knew he would be a mere few steps behind.
end.
authors: rosivan (Sherlock, Lestrade) and xxbakacoconutxx (John and rest)
rating/warnings: PG13, warnings for crime, violence, and a bit of Sherlock/John
wordcount: ~7700
summary: The violinists at the London symphony are being killed and it's up to Sherlock and John to figure out who in time to save the remaining instrumentalists.
a/n: Last month, xxbakacoconutxx and I RPed this for a holmesverse challenge ♥ I just didn't get a chance to post it. :) Thank you to starshipbadass for betaing ♥
Thumb rolling over the touch pad of his Blackberry, Sherlock watched, bored, as it flickered on and off. Taxi rides that day were tedious. All he had to show for the morning spent crawling through the orchestra pit at the Barbican Centre were patches of dust on the knees of his trousers and a handful of disgruntled symphony members.
Two violinists had been murdered, that was simple enough, but it was the signature left by the murderer that intrigued Sherlock the most - an innocent curl of red string. For the first victim, it had been taut over the tuning knob of her violin's 'E' string, and for the second, tied in a neat little bow over the center of his violin bow. Ironic, the forensic investigator had said with misplaced amusement. Unimportant, Sherlock had replied.
Sherlock tugged the collar of his coat higher and leaned back against the seat of the taxi. He watched John from the corner of his eye and slipped his phone back into his pocket. They were stuck in traffic. Again.
John felt fidgety himself. He was trying to make sense of the bodies he’d recently examined.
They were... they made him just a little uneasy, which was impressive since he’d seen more than one person reduced to black and red splotches in the sand. He swallowed thickly and shifted in his seat.
He wanted to get to their destination. He wanted to reach the girl whose recording had sounded so desperate. She’d called the Yard in the morning, voice shaking slightly but with a strand of determination and confidence despite it all. John, in contrast to Sherlock, grew an instant fondness for her and was damning the slow-moving cab, not for the high fare or for the boring ride, but because he wanted her to greet him with that same strong voice.
When a total of three bicyclists that they had already seen passed them by, John’s leg began to bounce. “Fancy the tube?” he asked the window.
Sherlock's gaze refocused out the space between the seats in front of them and beyond the windshield. The next access to the underground was a little ways beyond the bridge. The cars had slowed to a mere crawl, but the walkway to the side for pedestrians was fairly uncluttered by swarms of people. The weather was brisk - more people were driving, more cars, more traffic. It would take them a few minutes to cover on foot what the taxi would cover in ten.
"Restless, John?" Sherlock checked his phone, quickly accessing a copy of the Underground schedule. The few minutes on foot, the time it would take for John to pay the driver and for them to collect tickets... they could make the next departure. Assuming, of course, the tube was on time.
“A little bit, yeah. Innocent lives at risk and all. You know, that rubbish.” John kept his eyes on the street, watching as the station inched closer and closer, set to the soundtrack tapping of Sherlock’s phone. His knee continued to bounce as he felt adrenaline and impatience wash over him in waves of antsy energy.
He thought of the mottled bodies of the two victims and felt his skin crawl anew. Stab wounds, that’s what they died from, but really it looked like someone had pushed them down a hole filled with razor wire. John started tapping his fingers at the thought of trying to identify the girl using only her dental records.
John's face had that distant look of sympathy that Sherlock found tiresome. It was a plain expression wasted on an otherwise usually exceptional man. He sat forward and moved past John, hand coming down firmly on the doctor's bouncing knee to use as leverage while Sherlock pushed open the taxi door. "Let's clear your head, then," he said, as if something so simple as air could manage such a thing. Sherlock took off between the cars, weaving his way towards the sidewalk. He trusted John would keep up.
“Oh, goddammit,” John mumbled in his usual put-upon manner. He quickly leaned forward to hand a couple notes to their driver. “Here, sorry mate.” Leaving the change for the inconvenience, John flung himself out of the open door to jog after the quickly-moving smear of black that was Sherlock.
John told himself that he wasn’t angry at being left behind simply because he had grown used to it. He ignored how warm his knee felt.
Sherlock turned to avoid a pack of schoolchildren and caught a glimpse of John out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock didn't want to lose track of him that day, especially not with another witness to question who was likely to seek comforting words that no, she was not going to die, don't worry. Sherlock would only offer facts and the results of said facts, even with John's pointed prompting to 'be nice.’
To get rid of the jingle of change in his pockets, Sherlock acquired two tickets for the tube and passed one off to John. "Feel better?" he inquired.
“Yes, but I’m dreading another twenty minutes of sitting.” John put his hands in his pockets along with his ticket so he could let his fingers fidget discreetly. His left hand was shaky from the chemicals rushing from his brain, and he really didn’t like it when Sherlock mentioned it. He took a small breath, remembering that he was a soldier, dammit, and that he needed to calm down or he wouldn’t be any good at all. Getting all hyped up wasn’t going to get them there any faster. “I’ll be much better off once we find out what’s going on. Any theories?” he asked, starting off toward the cars.
"Several," Sherlock said slowly, the last syllable of the word rolling off his tongue as he considered John. "Not quite developed." It was easy enough to draw conclusions from the two previous murders, but with the next so-called victim stepping forward and wanting to speak to them, Sherlock was certain the facts would accumulate differently. He still had the strings to analyze when they went back to the flat later on.
The time spent on the train and the taxi ride after went by mostly in silence, John’s apprehension rising and receding like a tide. Every time he would get antsy, he would reprimand himself, telling himself that he was overreacting and that he was far too seasoned for that kind of behavior.
Dusk had fallen by the time they reached the house and John couldn’t stop the fresh wave of dread at the sight of its dark windows; their client had said she wasn’t going to leave her house that day. John swallowed, feeling his muscles tense and he sent Sherlock a furtive glance, checking his expression.
Sherlock was watching John, openly this time, and quirked an eyebrow at him as they went up the walk. Wordlessly, he let his gaze shift back to the unlit house, taking in the messy draping of the curtains, a spill of gravel by the carpark where a set of car tires spun out. "Carefully, John," Sherlock warned. His voice was hushed and pitched lower as he diverted off the walkway path to circle around back. Windows at ground level, a screen slightly ajar - possible entry point? He pushed forward, seeking the back door.
John was thankful he was able to switch modes so quickly. He detached himself from the situation, clinically and efficiently moving along behind Sherlock. He glanced in each window, trying to see what had happened.
There was evidence of a struggle, rumpled carpets and broken lamps; Sherlock would be able to pick up more, but for now all John needed to know was that someone had gotten there before them and there was a chance that they were still there. Distantly, John was aware of the girl’s probable death, but it wasn’t his chief concern then. His hardened mind kept his eyes on Sherlock’s back and the creeping shadows of the trees. He approached the door, drawing his gun from his trousers and checking to make sure Sherlock was ready.
Sherlock knelt to feel along the potted plants by the door and sifted through the soil with a gloved hand. In the third pot he found the key to the door and Sherlock swiftly unlocked the house and crept inside.
The house was quiet and still, and the thin trickle of a chime sounded when they entered, from the silver bells hung from the back door. The kitchen was untouched by struggle, normal signs of occupancy littering the sink and counters. The outside window with the ajar screen had a stack of tipped books beneath it. A partial mark from a boot on a series of torn pages, meaning someone had stepped down and slipped. The screen couldn't close because the frame was bent - likely the murderer gripping it to prevent himself from falling.
Facts and explanations slotted into place as Sherlock moved through the debris and down the hallway towards the bedroom. Light slipped in from the open window - the murderer escaped and quickly - only to shine impassively over the crumpled woman on the floor. "John," Sherlock said reflexively.
John was immediately by Sherlock’s side, gun at the ready, putting all of his half-formed thoughts and observations to the side. He looked down, saw the girl, and felt his hard mindset slip for a moment before remembering he needed to check the rest of the house. He didn’t look back to the girl, kept his cool as he scoped out the room.
Nothing. He nodded to Sherlock, who he knew would understand the gesture, and quietly slipped back out. The disturbed living room seemed pretty obviously empty, since the furniture was easy to see around, and the kitchen they had walked through was empty as well, so John headed for the stairs.
Sherlock examined the body, noted bruising along her throat and forearms, the latter likely from the struggle. Blood pooled slightly on the carpet where one of her palms was laid flat - one finger was missing, a different one than the other two victims. The cut was clean and fresh, and Sherlock skipped over the detail in favour of picking up her mobile, which was also lying on the floor. Through the streak of blood on the screen, Sherlock scrolled through the call logs before setting the phone back down again. He rose and went to find John to see what his dear blogger had found (or missed).
John crept along the halls, peering into each room with caution before moving to the next. He would look more in-depth later. None of them held anything of interest or out of place - until the last room. Nothing was immediately eye-catching, but as he turned to leave a spark of colour stole his attention. On the bureau rested her hairbrush, around it was tied a red string. John went over to pick it up and as he took a closer look he recognised it as a string for an orchestral instrument. The others were violin strings, but he didn’t want to jump to conclusions; he wasn’t versed enough in them to know. Why a string? Why was it placed there? How did it connect to the murder?
At the thought of the girl, John felt his disappointment, guilt and grief creep up on him. If they had gotten there sooner, they could have helped, and she could have helped them solve the case. If John had suggested the tube sooner, maybe -
John stopped that line of thought, knowing from experience that nothing came of it. Sometimes there are just things you can’t help, things you can’t fix. You can only move on. He reeled himself in and moved to rejoin Sherlock.
"What do you have?" Sherlock asked, if only to tear John's attention away from whatever he was pondering internally. He stood in the doorway and waited, his eyes darting around the room and then back to John. He had texted Scotland Yard on his way up the stairs, his very short message reading 3rd violinist dead.
Sherlock paused a moment, thoughts lingering on the message. He glanced up at John, waiting for an answer, and pulled his mobile out again to do a search of the violinist victims.
John had started a bit at Sherlock’s sudden appearance, and he scolded himself for the reaction; it wasn’t like it was a rare occurrence. “A lead, I think,” he said, holding out the brush. “Found another one of these. Know what it’s a string to?”
Red string in the hairbrush - it looked like the ones that they'd found on the previous two bodies. "Not quite," Sherlock said evenly, thinking of the strings back in the flat, waiting to be compared to the third. He offered the string back to John after wrapping it in his handkerchief. "We should find a taxi."
A few minutes later and John found himself once again in the back seat of a taxi. He sank into the leather, wishing for the unbridled energy he had earlier. Now that he could relax some, he let himself briefly feel sorry for the girl. She hadn’t been a personal acquaintance, but she’d been someone he could have helped. He’d had plenty of experience with that in the war. It was always painful - but short-lived, thankfully. With a shake of his head, he put the feeling aside; another regret to join the others. He turned to Sherlock with his head held up. “So, any theories?”
Sherlock had folded himself against the window of the taxi cab, moodily pondering into the collar of his jacket. He answered, in response to John's question, "Text Lestrade. Tell him we're looking for a male, size ten shoe. And to check the living room window." The pieces of the puzzle were falling together, but the symphony was running out of violinists.
The string, the woman's phone, and more importantly, the last number on the call log. "How long was she dead, do you think?" They'd talked to her that morning, so that narrowed the field.
John curled his finger around his chin as he thought. “Well, I didn’t stop to take too close of a look, but by first glance I’d say rigor mortis hadn’t set in too far, so six hours or less. You looked at her though, you’d probably be able to tell better than me,” he said, before his mind caught up to what Sherlock had said and the standard Holmsian Confusion set in. “Wait, how do you know what size shoe the killer wore? And what about the window?”
"Mud from underneath the window, broken screen, books torn and stepped on inside the house," Sherlock said easily, pondering John's estimated time of death. He ran through one of his many mental maps of London, eyes distant on the window ahead of them. "And yet you found the red string..." Sherlock half shrugged, slouching further into his collar. "An improvement, I suppose."
John chuckled at the half compliment. “Well, I do need to be useful for something,” he said as he pulled his mobile from his pocket. Lestrade, he expected, would want them down to the yard for statements later, but he hoped that he would at least be able to have a cuppa before dashing off.
They’d been out and about for most of the day and John felt he would very much like to have a mere moment of peace. It’d be a nice opportunity to make sure he separated himself enough from any lingering emotions to make clinical evaluations. Lestrade wasn’t always the best with technology, sometimes having to fiddle with his phone for some time before getting it to work, and John distantly hoped it would hold him up for at least an hour. John smiled to himself as their cab eased to a halt in front of their flat.
Sherlock braced himself against the backseat of the cab, slipping the driver a few notes to cover the ride. Normally he wouldn't, since he and John had something of a shared expense in Sherlock's mind, but this time... Well, this time was simply a time for him to do it. It had absolutely nothing to do with the quiet smile or John's distant expression.
Sherlock pushed out of the cab and up towards their flat. Strings. The strings ought to have been ready by now, and he had a third one to analyze.
John pushed the door to the flat open with anticipation, ridding himself of his jacket and shoes before flopping into his chair. Oh, his chair; it was just what he needed. Well, that and tea. “Oh,” he sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, “just an hour. Oh God, just an hour.” He kept that position for a few moments, not yet willing to move, before dragging himself out of the cushions lovely depths to the kitchen. “You want some tea?” he called behind him.
Sherlock was folding his scarf carefully over the coat rack, to be followed by his jacket. "Please," he said lightly, and followed after John. The apparatus on the kitchen table was simmering lightly and Sherlock stooped near by it to look at the beakers and fluids. "The string," he requested of John, and held out his hand for the new one, waiting.
John, who should have been to being ordered around, gave Sherlock his patented you’re joking look. Like every other time, however, he gave in. He fished in his pocket, pulling the string of red out and into the light. It was brilliant, either ruby or crimson, and John ran his fingers across it; he felt it vibrate slightly in his hold. He eventually handed it over and turned back to his whistling kettle.
Sherlock examined the string again, noting similarities with the other two; the frayed edges, the wire centres. It had a residue of some sort, not picked up by its time curled in the hairbrush. From the results with his small experiment and Sherlock's own experience, the strings had faint traces of rosin on them, too dark to be for a violinist, so that ruled out transfer from the victims, and too dark for it to be cello rosin, either. Sherlock smiled to himself, inexplicably pleased.
John turned with their cups in hand and set them both on the table. He left Sherlock’s black while he put milk and honey in his own. He saw Sherlock’s pleased expression and couldn’t help but smile himself; he’d caught the scent of the trail. John lifted his cup to his lips, quietly observing while Sherlock worked. He watched his hands the most, taking in the way they held things with just the right amount of pressure and how the tips of his fingers paled with it.
Feeling content at last, John had his long-desired rendezvous with his seat. He sank into it for what he hoped would be forever. He sipped slowly, thinking of the case with a much calmer mindset. “Any progress in there, Sherlock?”
"In three days," Sherlock promised, sipping lightly from his tea, "we will catch our killer."
“Oh? You going to tell me how this time or do I have to wait with Scotland Yard?” John’s phone chimed in his pocket and he groaned loudly. He didn’t need to check what it said, but he did anyway. Sure enough, Lestrade’s name was on the front LED. He sighed, taking another mouthful of his tea that he was now certain he wouldn’t get to finish, reading the brief text. “Lestrade wants us down there.”
"Dull," Sherlock concluded immediately. He stood, teacup going with him. "Let him puzzle it out. He needs the practice." He breezed into the living room and settled down on the couch, stretching out to fill it like if he didn't the ends would snap up and eat him.
John blinked at his tea, making sure he’d just heard right. “You - you’re just going to let Lestrade handle it?” He got up, setting his cup aside, to go stand next to Sherlock’s prone figure. “What about the new string? The girl? Your three days theory?” He had his hands on his hips and prepared himself to give another lecture on why Sherlock should bother to care more about whether or not lives were at risk in his games.
"If Lestrade goes in 'guns blazing'," Sherlock explained impatiently, his finger running the smooth path around the rim of his cup, "he'll scare our killer away. Better to wait the three days and watch the fourth violinist and any bassist that goes near her in the mean time."
“Bassist? You think a bassist would be the killer?” John decided to settle onto the coffee table, after all it handled Sherlock stomping on it all the time, it could handle a few moments of being sat on.
Sherlock flicked a disappointed look in John's direction and set his teacup on John's knee. He needed his hands to explain things. "Of course it's a bassist, John. Three victims, each killed and each missing a different finger. Each finger corresponds with a string on a violin. Each string is two notes apart, hence each victim is killed with two days between them."
Sherlock waved his hands, fingers rolling in example of how he would hold his violin that was on the other side of the room. ...Or perhaps under his bed. He couldn't remember. "The string, covered in rosin residue, but not the sort violinists use. Too dark. Bassists use a certain type of rosin, John. Then, of course, the phone log."
“From the girl’s phone?” John readjusted Sherlock’s cup on his knee, balancing it better. He had to resist the urge to drink from it out of habit. He could just go get his own, but he was comfortable now and Sherlock had already started and he didn’t want to interrupt. A small voice said he should take a sip just because it was Sherlock’s, but he pushed it aside and told himself he didn’t like the way Sherlock took his anyway.
Sherlock glanced at John's face and flapped his hand at the teacup. He was done drinking it anyway. "You estimated she had been dead six hours before we arrived and we'd been at the concert hall all morning. She received two calls from the hall - one late last night, telling her to arrive for full orchestra so we could speak with everyone. Another call was this morning, not forty minutes before her death, and why? She was the only member of the orchestra, other deceased violinists aside, to be absent in attendance. The killer didn't want her to talk to us because she knew in advance that she would be next, but the killer didn't want her to tell us how she knew, and didn't want to be suspiciously absent either."
Sherlock stopped for a breath, his fingers drumming on his stomach. "The killer called to tell her that she need not come to rehearsal. It had to be someone she knew well, because if it were someone unfamiliar or out of place, she would have been suspicious. You found the string in her hairbrush. The killer had been here before. There would be plenty of time between our chat with the sectionals and our observation of the orchestra to drive to her flat and back without our notice. Rosin, familiarity, clues in the strings. Bassist."
“But if the killer was familiar with her, why would he need to break in through the window? Did they, I don’t know, not want her to know who they were? It couldn’t have been for stealth, it would have made too much noise.” John took a swig and tried not to feel embarrassed about it. There was no reason to be, they were flatmates, friends and colleagues, and he’d shared water with fellow soldiers before. John tried to not look at the drop of tea that was left from where Sherlock’s lips had been; there were other things to worry about.
John's question drew Sherlock to a stop, just short of him tipping into a spiral of observations. He let his hands press together and rest light over his mouth as he thought. The window. An excellent point. The side of his mouth that John couldn't see curled in a pleased smile. Well done, John. "He parked out front, entered through the front door. After the struggle, the flat was a mess, and he slipped on the books by the window, reached out to break his fall and bent the frame. The window was open when he arrived," Sherlock concluded.
“Alright, makes sense. But why is he doing this? His victims are members of his own orchestra, possibly even friends. He plays a different instrument, so their deaths wouldn’t get him a better part. Maybe,” John paused, swilling the tea in his mug as if it held the answers, “they weren’t friends? A personal thing?” John went to take a drink, but stopped himself short. “And why wouldn’t ‘going in with guns blazing’ work? We know who he is and we could find where he is, why lure him out?”
"I know it's a bassist, John." Sherlock shifted on the couch, staring down at his socked feet on the arm rest. He sighed, tired with the idea of motivations once again, "It doesn't matter why. If we want to lure him out, we only need to watch the last violinist."
John stood, finished with Sherlock’s cup and a little disappointed in the conversation. “Huh, thought you of all people would want to know every motivation possible. But I guess you’re right about just watching.” John walked to the kitchen to rinse out the cup, leaving his own for now. With the tap running, he mumbled to himself, “I just don’t want to be too late again.”
Sherlock glared at his toes and crossed his arms over his chest as he turned into the couch. "Text Lestrade," he yelled over his shoulder. "Tell him." It would be worth the small annoyance of a pack of police officers if John would stop making that face at him. Sherlock disliked that expression.
John smiled into the sink. Sherlock was - he was being nice. He was being considerate of him. It wasn’t like Sherlock was a complete ass all the time, or that he never thought about John, it just was rare of him to act on it. John took his phone out and typed out as brief a summary as he could for Lestrade. He felt - what he called brotherly - affection make a quick circuit around his chest. He dimly registered that he had been feeling that way more and more often. Brotherly affection, camaraderie. Right. John nodded firmly to himself before returning to the living room.
Two days later and Sherlock was standing in front of the sitting room window, peering down over the dark street. The next day would be (hopefully) eventful. Lestrade was keeping tabs on the remaining violinist as well as the bassists. They would catch the killer. John would be pleased. Sherlock would start waiting for the next case.
Violin in hand, Sherlock plucked at the strings idly, creating tunes and melodies from the rummage of thoughts pinging around inside his head. Waiting. The waiting was one of Sherlock's least favourite things. He sighed, frowning slightly at the reflected lamplight against the window. Soon.
John watched Sherlock from his chair. He had a habit of doing that, especially lately. The violin in his hands bespoke of his boredom and John desperately wanted him to either play something decent or put the damn thing down. Thankfully, John was a man of great patience and had acquired the ability, through much practice, to hold his peace.
The violin got him thinking though. Two days. Two days of pondering and waiting and going through the facts, and still he couldn’t think of a motivation. Why on earth would any of the bassists turn to murder? As far as their investigations went, there weren’t any obvious signs of tension or animosity between any members in the orchestra as a whole. It bothered him. He was usually pretty good at figuring out their suspects - not great, but good enough at it to be frustrated by this case’s ambiguity. Sherlock was the expert, so John was hoping he would shed some light on the situation eventually, though he had no idea how.
Time was short and John had grown accustomed to having everything figured out by now, of knowing what he was getting himself into. He wasn’t scared, but he was a little anxious about how many things were still up in the air. It was afternoon. The next murder would have to happen soon and yet there was still no word on any new red strings or suspicious activities. He’d asked Lestrade to keep them posted, but if something had happened it would be easy to get caught up in the moment and forget.
John was bored, and fidgety, so finally he turned to Sherlock and said, “You mind playing something else? I’ve got a bit of a headache.”
It took several moments for John's request to filter through Sherlock's attention. When it did register, he slid his gaze across the window glass to look over at the pale reflection sitting in the chair by the fireplace. "Stop fretting," he suggested. He plucked at the strings a little longer and then drew the bow across slowly. Sorting through the half jumble of music in his head, Sherlock settled on something soft and sighing, a bit sweeter than what he normally would play.
John sighed and settled back into his chair. He honestly loved it when Sherlock played actual music, and the lilting melody he was creating eased some of his tension; not all of it, but now he at least knew what the remaining weight in his chest was about.
John wouldn’t say he was in love, not even close.
Attracted though, God yes. He’d had time to think over the past few days, in the lull of excitement and adrenaline. He tried to work through some of his reactions the past few days, and could really only come to that conclusion. The weird, awkward warmth he kept feeling was probably the biggest factor in that theory. It wasn’t that he’d never gotten it from Sherlock before, but it was an infrequent occurrence and he had brushed it off as hormones. He was now fairly certain that he had been wrong.
“Sherlock, I - ” he cut himself off, horrified by his own traitorous mouth. He wasn’t even positive about his feelings yet! No way could he talk to Sherlock about it already! He glanced over to the couch, hoping that Sherlock’s violin had drowned out his mistake.
Sherlock finished the last few bars, but instead of looping back as he had been, he went back to plucking pizzicato at the strings. "What was that, John?" He calmly turned from the window, glancing over at his companion. He tried not to read the doctor's expression, a futile act on his part.
John considered for only a second whether or not to lie and hoped Sherlock hadn’t seen. “I - uh, I’m worried about the case. Isn’t it getting late?” God, he wanted to talk, but he didn’t want to say something foolish and regret it later. Though he’d never had a relationship with a man, he had always felt that he was open to having one, so his sexuality wasn’t the issue.
It was that this was Sherlock Holmes and nothing involving the man should be taken lightly. A relationship with him would mean more danger, probably more kidnapping, and another complicated layer to their already unusual life; he hadn’t had much time to figure out if the risk was worth the reward. Only in the last few days did he even accept that he had feelings for Sherlock, and he didn’t want to jump headfirst into something.
Except Sherlock usually made him want to do just that.
"Tomorrow he'll act," Sherlock murmured. He stooped for a moment to collect his case and set his violin and bow away. A soft, dry cloth was folded inside the case and he wiped down the body of the violin, as well as the strings. "Perhaps you should sleep." He couldn't keep a thin vein of disinterest out of the idea of sleep. Sherlock found it a pointless, focus-sapping task.
“Yeah, yes. That’s probably a good idea,” John said, moving to make a hasty retreat from the room. His damn heart though, that horrible pulling sensation, made him hesitate with his hand on the doorknob. This was a chance, perhaps the only chance he had to make his feelings known. If he ran away now - for all the good, logical reasons he had stockpiled - would he ever work up the guts to tell Sherlock? What he was doing was running away, and all of his logic was simply covering his fear. Well, John Watson wasn’t the type of man who was okay with that.
“Sherlock, what I meant to say earlier,” he swallowed, keeping his eyes on the handle; he didn’t want Sherlock reading his face just then. He couldn’t find the right words either. Saying something like “I like you” sounded juvenile, while “I have feelings for you” was vague and lacked conviction, and “I love you” was taking things too far. Tightening his grip, he set his mouth into a thin line of determination.
“I think I’m attracted to you,” he said, and deciding that still sounded vague, he clarified with, “romantically.”
"Do you." Sherlock closed the violin case with a soft 'click' of the buckles. He leisurely crossed the room, his hands slipped casually in the pockets of his trousers. He'd given John the perfect out, and the man had gone and surprised Sherlock by staying. Doctor Watson had far too much heart at the best of times. It was obvious and something that Sherlock witnessed on almost a daily basis. For him to find attraction in the consulting detective wasn't much of a leap.
Standing next to John, almost to the point of crowding him against the closed door, Sherlock peered down at him. "Facts, John. The rest is all just... clutter." He disliked wasting his time, even when it came to his blogger.
“Well, sorry I didn’t go through the Scientific Method,” he grumbled. John felt a little cornered, to be honest, but in a good way. It felt like he was on the brink of something waiting to be pushed over. He told himself to stop being defensive and evasive and just get on with it.
“Alright then, if you want it cut and dry, I’m attracted to you and would like to be in a relationship.” His face was set, expression hard and not the sort of look one would normally wear when confessing their affections.
Sherlock examined John for a moment, a slightly amused smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He reached over to tug at John's shirt collar and pull it even with the other side. He wondered what John saw when he looked at their interactions, what was too subtle for him to latch onto.
Leaning down, Sherlock brushed a kiss over John's mouth, his fingers curling beneath the other man's chin to hold him at an agreeable angle. Surprisingly pleasant. "We have a relationship, John."
John blinked for a moment, eyelashes skipping across Sherlock’s cheeks, surprised by how easily that went. “Oh - well, then.” He cleared his throat and looked Sherlock straight in the eye. “Now that that’s cleared up, I believe we were about to go to bed?” John thought about how that sounded for a second and tried very hard not to blush. He had a feeling he failed spectacularly. “Not, um, I mean, not like that though. Sleep, we were going to go to sleep.” He could feel his bravado slipping a bit and had to drop his gaze down to Sherlock’s chin.
With a small amount of mischief in his voice, Sherlock noted, "I don't sleep much, especially while on a case." It was something he'd said a long time ago, but had a lovely second meaning, now.
“You’ll just have to bring something to occupy yourself with, then,” John said, picking up the mischievous tone and running with it. He finally turned and left through the door, heading up the stairs grinning like a madman.
"Indeed," Sherlock said, mostly to himself. He followed after John, smile lingering, his fingers twisting at the buttons to his shirt sleeves.
-
John moved slowly, quietly. It was dark inside the lobby and he planned to fully take advantage of that. There weren’t many hiding places since the hall was mostly empty, purposed for housing a large number of people milling about after a performance. It would be better once he was inside - there were at least chairs in the main concert hall that he could duck behind. It was about six in the evening then. Lestrade had texted roughly twenty minutes prior, rousing John from his sleep and causing his adrenaline to fly sky-high. He reached the door to the hall and checked to make sure Sherlock was still with him.
Sherlock had been shadowing John down the corridor, coat flaring out silent behind him as they moved. Lestrade and his men were pressing through the rest of the rooms at Barbican Centre. Sherlock and John had lost the officer accompanying them. The consulting detective wasn't certain when and ultimately didn't care. He was sure he was around somewhere. She was around somewhere. Or was it a he?
Through the slot in the hall door, Sherlock peered over the top of John's head, looking inside. On the stage, two figures were highlighted by one of the spotlights. Posture of the woman - bending away, tension through her shoulders and the way she gripped the chair; clearly distressed. The man looming over her had his hands loose at his sides, holding something. The pose was very hostile. The killer.
"John," Sherlock murmured, his words ruffling the other man's hair. "This way, quickly." He turned away to move down the hall and around the corner. The door on the orchestra level would lead them to the side stage door. Entering from the back would be loud, noisy. Very obvious and the distance was too great to cross quickly.
John followed Sherlock to a side hallway, stairs dipping down to the lower level, landing sloping towards where the stage would be. There was a door not too far, and it sounded like things were coming to a head; yelling, whimpering. John made his footfalls a quiet as possible without slowing his approach so he could listen in.
“...doit! My GOD you disgust me, you piece of shit! Why, whywhywhywhy - WHY ARE YOU HERE?!” There was a thud and a female voice cried out. John wanted to run, wanted to get there faster but he couldn’t give them away. He couldn’t hear anything more than the hum of the man mumbling something and John didn’t know if that was good or not. He got to the door, and thought he wanted to sprint through and end the situation right then, he didn’t want to do anything stupid; the war had taught him that a tactical plan was always better than a spontaneous one. He opened the door a crack so he could see and hear what was happening.
“You bitch. I hate you beyond what your tiny, simple mind could ever fathom. Do you know, do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” The man was hunched over the girl, one hand on the back of the chair the girl was tied to, the other brandishing a knife. He spoke with calm, vicious clarity, much different from that raging hysterics he had been in before. He took a shaky breath. “You, you make my ears BLEED!!”
John jumped as the word echoed off the walls, screaming back at him over and over. He thought now would be a good time to move, before the man went on another tangent. He brought up his gun, flicking the safety off.
Sherlock eased the door open and slid a propping block from the other side into place. The echo of the killer's voice would be heard by any officers in the hall. With one glance to John, Sherlock moved into the hall and up the side stair by the curtain. The killer was monologuing. Sherlock sighed inwardly and pushed through the curtain. He leapt at the bassist, reaching to grab the knife.
The killer turned, knife arcing up and away from Sherlock’s grasp before coming back down toward Sherlock’s chest. John run up behind him to twist the man’s wrist before it the knife managed to connect. He dropped it, hand twitching and mouth open in a scream of both pain and outrage. John did his best to secure both of his arms behind his back. He was fighting back with the force of a man completely unhinged and it took all of John’s strength to not be knocked over by it. He screamed curses at the girl, whipping his head back and forth, spit flying.
John managed to get him to his knees and at that point, he calmed, just like he did before, quietly boiling with hatred. “You stole from me. You stole my days, my music, my love. You and your slut violin, sucking up the spotlight with your talentless, burlesque dance. You squeal and screech and I can’t stand it, I can’t fucking stand it, you deserve to die. You should have been born fingerless. You should have spared me your cruelty. You stole so much from me, stole so muchsomuchsomuch,” he mumbled continuously. He seemed stuck in a loop for a moment and John looked to Sherlock because honestly, he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.
Expressionless, Sherlock threw a solid punch at the man, making his head snap to the side. He went limp in John's grasp and Sherlock watched with faint displeasure. "There's your why, John. Unhinged jealousy."
Sherlock sent Lestrade a text - caught killer. Main stage, girl alive. As he pocketed his phone, he glanced over at the violinist, shocked and shaking in her seat. Third violin, Elizabeth Mason, still fairly new to the orchestra. Lucky to be alive. Sherlock found her pizzicato particularly striking, much improved since her debut, and hardly talentless.
Sherlock turned away without saying anything and focused on John. "Dinner?" He concluded. The villain was caught, and the victim saved. His blogger had a tendency towards regular meals, especially after an adrenaline rush, and Sherlock felt like a cup of tea.
Lestrade burst in through the main hall doors before John could respond, at least three officers in two. "What part," he said, coming down the side aisle towards the stage, "Of 'let us take him down' don't you two understand?" He climbed the side stairs and approached Sherlock and John, grudgingly nodding his approval at seeing the violinist alive. Two of the officers took the bassist from John, cuffing his hands immediately.
"Honestly." Lestrade shifted his shoulders under his jacket, holstering his gun when the murderer was completely cuffed. Then, at length, "You all right?"
Sherlock spared John a small smile, not bothering to answer the question. The answer was too obvious to waste time replying to.
“Yeah, thanks,” John said, straightening himself after the struggle. He glanced up to see their suspect starting to stir again, the change in hands apparently rousing him from his daze. “You might want to sedate him, though, he fights hard.”
John rotated his left shoulder, feeling stiff from strain. The bastard thrashed around like a fish and his old wound wasn’t too fond of that. He smiled over at Sherlock and remembered how lovely dinner had sounded. The killer was caught, the lovely lady was safe, and neither of them had eaten. He turned pleasantly to Lestrade. “You mind if we go? This one’s not eaten again and I don’t want him collapsing on me.” He bobbed his head in Sherlock’s direction in an offhanded kind of way.
Sherlock looked miffed at being blamed for the supposed hunger, and Lestrade didn't give him the opportunity to start off about it. "I need statements," he said, and waved at the sour expression that Sherlock immediately made. "Just give them and you can go. Donovan's outside." Lestrade turned away to go over to the victim, leaving John and Sherlock alone.
Once they were gone, John’s smile turned back to Sherlock. The dim lighting cast shadows from all the right places and John thought he was looking rather gorgeous so he leaned in, dropping a quick kiss onto Sherlock’s lips, careless and happy. He pulled back, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. “Good job, mate. You feel like Chinese or Indian tonight?”
Sherlock paused and turned to lean in after John, chasing his lips. After a slightly longer (proper) kiss, Sherlock moved back, half-smiling. "The usual cook at Mao's has the night off. You'll like the curry better." Turning away, Sherlock went to hail down a taxi, pulling his scarf tighter against the cool breeze. He didn't bother looking to see if John had followed him. Sherlock knew he would be a mere few steps behind.
end.