Pride, Prejudice, and Sherlock 1/?
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single Sherlock in possession of a good mystery, must be in want of a John.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Hm?” John had to swerve sharply to his right and lean heavily on his cane to avoid crashing into the dark blue bespoke suit suddenly blocking his way to the makeshift bar in the corner of the grandiose assembly room of Netherfield Park. “Sorry, what?”
He was treated to a condescending huff. “Not a very complicated question, is it? Where were you injured, Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Shoulder, actually,” John snapped, glaring up - and then further up - into the piercing grey eyes of the obnoxiously tall, dark-haired man in front of him. God, he was much too sober for this.
“Cute,” the unfamiliar man said, his voice clipped. “Now if you wouldn’t mind acting the…” he tilted his head, eyes narrowing momentarily, “…thirty-six year old army doctor you were up to six months ago and give me an actual answer?”
John caved. “Fine. Afghanistan. How did you kno…”
“I didn’t know, I saw. First of all, your clothes. Good fabric but not tailored. New, so not old money fallen on hard times. Still, none of Mummy’s regular guests would be seen dead in anything off the rack, so one of our new Baker Street neighbours then. Oh joy, she’s clearly hoping that I’ll play nice and make friends. Not going to happen, I’m afraid. I don’t do “friends”.” The unimpressed look John shot him signalled how very not surprised he was about that, but the annoying git simply ignored him. “Anyway, your stance and haircut says military. Or possibly police. Tanned, but not above the wrists so not sunbathing. Means you’re used to working outside, most probably abroad but the English weather has been rather nice lately. Discernible bullet wound and at least partly psychosomatic limp means the circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic so most likely got in the line of duty, therefore still soldier or police. Now who of the people at this ball fits this description? Only the ex Army doctor and the Detective Inspector. And since I do read newspapers I already know what DI Lestrade looks like - and that’s not cheating, by the way, that’s paying attention - so John Watson, Army doctor, it is. Obvious, really.”
The man took a deep breath, the first one since he’d began his little tirade, and painstakingly avoided John’s eyes. John blinked and opened his mouth to say something before closing it again with an audible click and another disoriented blink.
“That,” he finally managed, “was amazing.”
Once again John was the focus of those intense grey eyes. “Do you really think so?”
“Of course it was, it was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”
“Huh. That’s not what people usually say.”
John couldn’t help himself, “What do people usually say?”
“Piss off,” the other man said with a thin smile. “Anyway, the name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is soon to be 223B, Baker Street.”
With a quick wink Sherlock disappeared into the crowd, leaving John to stare dumbly after him. That… had been a lot of words in a very short space of time. And Sherlock Holmes? Unusual name, that. John took a step towards the bar before closing his hand around the phone his sister had bestowed upon him. The phone with internet connection his sister had bestowed upon him. He pursed his lips, gave a small nod, and began to weave his way towards the entrance where other mobile users were already gathered, their heads bent and their fingers flying. Leaning against a powder blue wall he opened the browser and clumsily started tapping S-H-E-R…
***
“There you are, Sherlock. Come now, we must have you mingle.”
“We most certainly must not, dear brother,” Sherlock said, insincere emphasis on the last two words. He crossed his arms and kicked sullenly at a particularly annoying table leg. “I can think of no worse punishment than to be forced to talk to any of the dullards attending this… diversion.”
Mycroft’s smile was uncharacteristically sincere. “Oh, I’d say that there are one or two that aren’t entirely tedious.”
“You would say that, seeing as you’re monopolising the only intelligent man in the room,” muttered Sherlock, his eyes darting over to where Greg Lestrade was standing by the buffet.
“Hm. Quite. Still, there is his friend sitting just behind you. He seems bright enough, and quite attractive to boot.”
Sherlock turned round and caught John’s eye. Without lowering his voice, he declared, “He’s tolerable I suppose, but not intelligent enough to tempt me. I am also not in the mood to converse with someone just because he’s too boring for anyone else to bother with. Go, return to your DI, you’re wasting your time with me.”
Sherlock’s regal outburst, followed by an imperious flick of his hand, was somewhat ruined by a snort and a loud giggle. Both brothers spun around and looked at John, who shook his head and widened his eyes in attempted innocence while using his left hand to cover his mouth. Sherlock glowered darkly at him before storming off towards the terrace doors and Mycroft followed Sherlock’s movement with his eyes, making a face as Sherlock almost took out a couple who were on their way to the ball room. Not until his brother had safely reached the outside did he turn to John.
“Yes, he’s always like that,” he assented with a small, apologetic smile.
***
John was still stifling the occasional giggle when his flatmate caught up with him.
“Hey, was wondering where you’d got to. Drink?” John held out the yet untouched glass of whisky in his right hand.
“Thanks. How many of these have you had?” Greg asked, relieving John of not only the proffered drink but also the almost full one in John’s left hand.
“Just…” John gave Greg an indignant look when both glasses were firmly placed on a nearby table, “that one.”
“Good. Good.” Greg said absently. “Good,” he said again, coming back to himself. “I need your help, and I definitely need you sober.”
“Well, you can at least have the sober part. Might even get the help if you explain what the fuck’s going on.”
By now Greg was tugging him towards the glass doors Sherlock had disappeared through five minutes earlier, and John choked on another giggle.
“Did you know that I am tolerable?” he asked, grinning at Greg who furrowed his brow in confusion.
“You sure you only had a taste of that whisky?”
John suddenly remembered his woes and nodded glumly. “Best one I’ve ever had, too. Care to tell me why someone calling himself my friend would stop me from drinking a glass of what probably costs the equivalent of my share of the rent?”
By now they had left the terrace behind them and were following a gravel path through the garden and towards a dimly lit greenhouse.
“Suicide. Fourth one. Or at least I think it is, which is where you come in.”
“What? Why?”
“Because while my forensic squad is stuck in a car somewhere that’s not here, my good friend the doctor happens to be just that. Here.”
John stopped and leaned on his cane.
“I aim to please. Who is on forensics by the way?”
“Anderson.”
They shared a grimace, neither of them a devotee of their priggish neighbour.
“A possible suicide and Anderson? Oh great, it’s Christmas...”
“Suicide?” There was no mistaking the interest in the deep voice coming from behind.
“Sherlock?”
“Is this about the serial killings?”
“Sherlock?”
“Please tell me it’s about the serial killings, I love serial killings.”
“Sherlock!”
“What?” Sherlock finally stopped his eager prancing and looked at John. As did Greg.
“Timing,” John said grimly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Who’s this?” Greg asked, eyeing Sherlock cautiously. Sherlock looked back.
“I’m with him,” he said, pointing at John.
“Yes, but who are you?” Greg insisted.
Sherlock straightened up and smiled warmly, his whole persona changing in an instant. “Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector Lestrade. The name is Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, just moved here from Derbyshire where I’ve been working closely with the police force, something I hope to continue doing while staying in your beautiful city. I’m sure Chief Constable Gregson will be more than happy to serve as a reference if need be.”
“And apparently he’s with me,” John added dryly.
“Don’t encourage him,” Greg muttered to John before turning back to Sherlock. “Yes, fine, Gregson said you were bound to turn up. Well, what he actually said was to listen to everything you have to say and, if possible, try not to punch you. Somehow I understand that latter part a bit better now.”
“Yes. Fine. Whatever. Where’s the body?” The polite façade was gone as quickly as it had appeared and John and Greg exchanged an amused look.
“Inside. I can give you until the experts arrive.” Greg handed out the two pairs of latex gloves he’d somehow obscured on his person and opened the door to the greenhouse, “And I’m going to need everything you get. The victim’s name is Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. Hasn’t been here long. Mr Lauriston, the gardener, found her.”
Sherlock had stopped paying attention and was instead focusing on the body, dressed in a remarkably pink overcoat and just as pink high heel shoes, stretched out on the dirt floor. John nodded politely at the two men guarding the crime scene, one of them easily recognisable as the gardener, before following suit. He examined the body carefully while trying to ignore the dark shadow circling him like an oversized vulture.
“Well?” Sherlock demanded impatiently.
John looked up. “Well, she is dead,” he confirmed.
“Oh, perfectly sound analysis, doctor, but I had hoped you would go deeper.”
“Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out and choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell
any alcohol on her. Possibly drugs. Most probable is you have your fourth victim though,” John said, directing his answer to Greg rather than Sherlock. Not that that stopped the consulting detective from gloating.
“Great, we’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those, there’s always something to look forward to.”
“And I’m sure Jennifer here agrees with you, but if you could give me what you have?” Lestrade said, crossing his arms and glaring at Sherlock.
“Fine. Cardiff. Invited. Unhappy marriage. Works with media. I’ll know more once you let me examine her purse.”
“For God’s sake, if you’re just making it up…”
“The train ticket and her invitation card, also in the name of Jennifer Wilson by the way, are what real policemen might call clues. Her wedding ring does not get the same care as the rest of her jewellery, the only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. State of her marriage right there. She’s a professional person going by her clothes, probably media going by that alarming shade of pink.”
“That’s brilliant!” John blurted out. Both Greg and Sherlock turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Um. Sorry,” he apologised sheepishly.
“Right. What about the writing, then?” Greg pointed to the letters Jennifer had scrawled into the dirt. “Janu. Any ideas?”
“She’s Indian. Janu is an Indian endearment derived from the Hindi word jaan, meaning life. Probably a crime passionnel. Find the boyfriend and you’ll find your murderer.”
They all turned to the door where a tall, slightly rat faced man stood looking smugly at them.
“Yes, thank you for your input. And you are?” Sherlock asked, his voice icy cold.
“Sherlock, this is forensic expert Joseph Anderson and Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan. Joseph, Sally, meet Sherlock Holmes.” Greg made a talk-amongst-yourselves hand movement before adding, “So. India?”
“Of course not, only an idiot would suggest that,” Sherlock said dismissively. Anderson glared and Sally took a step forward.
“Who are you calling an idiot?” she challenged.
“How sweet, defending your boyfriend,” Sherlock sneered back.
“Can I arrest him? Please?” Sally said to Lestrade, who shook his head resignedly. She turned back to Sherlock. “Flatmate, not boyfriend. Get your facts straight, freak.”
“Hm. In that case I’d rethink borrowing underwear from someone whose mother labels his,” he took a step back and eyed her speculatively, “white y-fronts? It so often gives the wrong impression.”
“Could we please get back to the murder,” Greg asked without much hope, his right hand covering his eyes.
“Yes, hand me her purse and have dumb and dumber over there find out who Janus is.”
“She was writing Janus?”
“No, she was writing love poems in Hindi… Of course she was writing Janus, there’s no other word it could be.” Sherlock looked like he had reached his limit of stupid.
“How do you know she had a purse?”
“Look at her lips, that shade of pink need constant touch up to keep its lustre.”
“So?”
“Where is the lipstick, did she eat it? Of course she had a purse, now where is it?”
“Sherlock, there Was. No. Purse.” Lestrade was clearly running out of patience too.
“But… Oh!” Sherlock’s eyes widen and he clapped his hands together, holding them to his mouth.
“Sherlock? What is it?” John asked, sounding worried.
“Serial killers are always hard, you have to wait for them to make a mistake.”
“We can’t just wait,” Lestrade objected.
“Oh, we’re done waiting. Look at her, really look. Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff, find Jennifer’s family and friends. Find Janus!”
“Of course, but what mistake??”
Sherlock was vibrating like a racehorse in the starting gate.
“Pink!” he shouted before rushing out the door.
John gave Greg his sunniest smile. “Yeah. Apparently he’s always like that.”
“Of course he is. God help me,” Greg said, waving at his team to get to work.
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