S3E1 - The Silver Blaze Revival - Part One: In Memorandum
Title: The Silver Blaze Revival
Subtitle: In Memorandum
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 1,807
Rating: R
Warnings: language, violence
Sally Donovan walked down the hospital hallway, annoyed that she was the only one who thought following up on this case was top priority. As much as she suspected Sherlock Holmes kidnapped Claudette and Max Bruhl, that didn't mean he did it alone.
She waved at Amelia, the primary nurse on the floor, before turning the corner of the hall that led to the Bruhl's hospital rooms. Donovan stopped in the doorway.
"Hey, Claude," Sally said. "You remember me?"
The girl nodded slowly. "Sally isn't it?"
"Yeah. Can I come in?"
"Okay," Claudette said.
After Donovan passed into the room, the girl started screaming hysterically.
"What is it? What?"
Claudette pointed out the door, and Donovan followed. She spotted the swish of a long coat going around the hall and quickly followed.
"Excuse me," Donovan said. "Excuse me!"
The long coat turned around. It was a woman with curly black hair. She wasn't terribly tall, just over a meter and a half, and something about her felt...ill.
"Sorry, miss?" she said.
"Uh, right. Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan," she said. "Sorry, I was just - "
Something occurred to Donovan. It made her sick to her stomach to consider, but her job wasn't supposed to be comfortable.
"I'm Emily Riley," the woman said.
"Can I ask you to help me with something?"
"Well, I - I'm not all that well dear."
"It'll just take half a moment, and it's very important," Donovan pressed.
"What can I do for you, Detective Sergeant?" the woman said wearily.
Donovan walked in first, and after about a minute, Emily stepped in. Her coat was open as to not cover her face, but Claudette screamed anyway, clearly frightened out of her mind.
"Thank you, Mrs. Riley," Donovan said as she walked the ill-looking woman back out.
After she tottered away, Donovan cursed quietly. She had assumed that the girl recognized Sherlock Holmes when he walked into the room, but it wasn't him. It was his coat, which was almost identical to the one Mrs. Emily Riley had on.
She despised the man, and she still suspected his involvement. But they couldn't get an identification out of a young girl who was scared to death by a coat. She'd find evidence elsewhere, she was certain of it. That being said, she had to fill Lestrade in about it.
There was no way for Donovan to know that, at that precise moment, Sherlock Holmes was standing on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, preparing to jump to save the lives of his three closest friends.
"You've got a concussion," the doctor told John Watson. "Do you have anyone to look after you tonight?"
"I - yes," John replied.
"Good, then I can discharge you," the doctor said as he handed off some paper work. "You have any questions?"
John sat on the patient's table, his mind drifting out of focus. It had nothing to do with the concussion, though. Less than an hour ago, he watched as his best friend plummeted into the pavement. He felt for a radial pulse. There was nothing.
The words of Sherlock's last phone conversation with him echoed through his head. He claimed that he was a fraud. A fraud. Then he - he -
"Doctor Watson?" the doctor asked. "Do you have any other questions?"
"Uh, no, thank you. I'll just, grab a cab home," he replied.
The truth was that Doctor Watson had hundreds of questions but none about his concussion.
John answered the same questions over and over again. "Can you tell me what happened?" Then, "Why did you originally come to Bart's?" The occasional, "How much do you remember about the conversation?" And of course, "What did he say?"
Luckily, Lestrade wrangled John a break and allowed him to go back to 221B Baker Street instead of into a holding cell. Something to do with being "taking hostage," then later concussed after watching his friend commit suicide. Whatever the reason, John ended up home much sooner than he'd imagined.
Except the flat wasn't right. It felt smaller somehow, the way some places look after all the furniture's been removed. John told himself it was the head injury.
Even though he knew it was rubbish.
Molly Hooper preformed the autopsy and confirmed that Sherlock Holmes died of blunt force trauma to the head. John stared at the coroner's report, which methodically categorized the injuries Sherlock received from the fall. Compound factures, shattered bones -
John's breath hitched.
"You okay?" Molly asked him. "John?"
"You - you did the autopsy?" he asked her.
She nodded as her eyes became very wet.
"H-how?" he asked. "I mean... how did you manage it?"
Molly looked at the floor for a moment. "It's what he would've done. Isn't it? Look at what's there."
"I can't even - read this, Molly."
"Don't think I didn't bawl my eyes out," she replied. "Because I did. More than once, but... a lot of people here think he's a fraud now. Colors their ideas about him. And I couldn't let any of them take over."
John nodded. "I just came by to, uh, say goodbye, Molly."
"Goodbye?" she asked.
"Well, I suspect I won't be seeing you again, now that Sherlock is... now that I'll no longer be working on cases."
"Oh, right," she said. "John, I'm sorry."
"Me too."
Lestrade wasn't allowed to investigate Sherlock's death. Donovan agreed that she shouldn't work on it, either, and both of them continued to work on the kidnapping of the Bruhl Children.
Donovan told him about the girl's reaction to the coat about an hour before they got the call about Sherlock's fall. But in the past week, they've had nothing in the way of evidence or leads, which wasn't helping their already dire situation.
"Yes, sir, I understand that," Lestrade said for what felt like the hundredth time. "But Donovan is right. The girl reacted to the coat. Only thing we really know from her is that it was a man with black hair who was taller'n her."
It had become clear in the past week, however, that Sherlock Holmes was not involved in the kidnapping.
John Watson had given a statement about their flat being under surveillance of some kind, which lead to the recovery of several cameras. After a whole lot of technical crap Lestrade didn't really care to understand, they managed to identify where the video was being sent. More technical crap confirmed authenticity and the timestamp, and it proved one important thing: on the night the children were abducted, Sherlock Holmes was in his flat annoying John Watson with his violin.
Donovan, of course, started looking into the activities of one Richard Brook, the actor Sherlock supposedly hired to play the criminal mastermind Moriarty. She discovered that, on the night of the kidnappings, said man spent the entire night with a local tabloid reporter.
"Then who the hell kidnapped these kids?" Lestrade asked.
"I dunno," she said. "Running financials on Holmes didn't get me anywhere."
"'Course it didn't."
"What's that suppose to mean?" she asked.
"It means that the only reason you were suspicious to being with was the girl's screaming, and you yourself proved that it wasn't even him she was reacting to! Just his coat!" Lestrate shot back.
"So you're saying you don't think Sherlock is involved? Still?" she asked incredulously. "Even after what he said to John on the phone?"
"I'm saying that we've never had any evidence that Sherlock was involved," Lestrade replied.
"Right," Donovan replied shortly. "We want to close this case? Then we need to figure out something, anything, to keep it active. Because by this time next week, we're gonna have a lot more on our plates, courtesy of that freak."
Lestrade replied, "His name was Sherlock."
"Whatever."
It was partially true. Now that Sherlock's character was coming under question, all the cases he assisted on were also being questioned. Fortunately, most of the cases had strong forensics and witness testimony. Sherlock gave them direction but not answers.
Unfortunately, there were a handful of cases that relied solely on Sherlock pulling answers out of his hat. Donovan was right to assume they'd be pulled off this case if they couldn't find anything in the next day or so.
The trouble was that he had no idea where to look now.
Two weeks after Sherlock died, Mycroft took over the rent for the flat, insisting that he need time to decide what to do with his brother's possessions. He and John did not discuss the real reason, nor did John broach the topic of James Moriarty. It hardly mattered anymore, now did it?
Oddly, John's abandoned blog became even more popular as the papers continued to print slanderous things about Sherlock Holmes. Apparently a fraudulent private detective was more web-worthy than an honest one. It made John's head hurt, and he considered more than once taking the damn thing down.
But that felt so final, and John wasn't ready to slam that door just yet.
Mrs. Hudson spoke up, "John, dear? You've a visitor."
"Ah, thank you," he said. He looked up to see Greg Lestrade in his flat.
"You've some nerve to come here," John said dangerously.
"He was my friend, too," Lestrade said defensively. "In a manner of speaking, anyway."
"Except for arresting him - "
"Boys," Mrs. Hudson said, "if you'd please. I'd like to take a nap and don't want too much carrying on."
John nodded. "My apologies, Lestrade. Please do come in." His voice was stiff and measured, but he did mean it. Mostly.
"I need your help," Lestrade said. "One of the cases you and Sherlock worked, it's - the guy is trying to get the charges dropped."
"Because everyone believes Sherlock was a fraud."
"I don't," Lestrade said. "We know the guy did it, John, but I've got dozens of other cases I've gotta look over, and..." he struggled for a moment but finally finished with, "I can really use your help."
"All right," John said. If Molly Hooper could keep her head on straight and stare at Sherlock's dead body as she did his autopsy for the sake of his memory, then John could certainly help Lestrade for the same. "Which case?"
"You remember the one, about four months ago, with the weird evidence?" Lestrade asked. "I think you wound up calling it The Frame Job."
John pulled the text up on his computer. It was one of the shorter entries, only a dozen or so paragraphs.
"Oh, right," John said. "That one. It was between two other cases that we were more involved in. I meant to go back and update the entry with my notes when I got a chance, but I never got around it."
"So you do have more notes? More information?" Lestrade asked.
"Yes."
"Let's see it then."
Next Part: >>>
Part Two: The Frame Job, A Lesson in Watermelon
The Silver Blaze Revival - Series 3, Episode 1 - Primary Post
Subtitle: In Memorandum
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 1,807
Rating: R
Warnings: language, violence
Sally Donovan walked down the hospital hallway, annoyed that she was the only one who thought following up on this case was top priority. As much as she suspected Sherlock Holmes kidnapped Claudette and Max Bruhl, that didn't mean he did it alone.
She waved at Amelia, the primary nurse on the floor, before turning the corner of the hall that led to the Bruhl's hospital rooms. Donovan stopped in the doorway.
"Hey, Claude," Sally said. "You remember me?"
The girl nodded slowly. "Sally isn't it?"
"Yeah. Can I come in?"
"Okay," Claudette said.
After Donovan passed into the room, the girl started screaming hysterically.
"What is it? What?"
Claudette pointed out the door, and Donovan followed. She spotted the swish of a long coat going around the hall and quickly followed.
"Excuse me," Donovan said. "Excuse me!"
The long coat turned around. It was a woman with curly black hair. She wasn't terribly tall, just over a meter and a half, and something about her felt...ill.
"Sorry, miss?" she said.
"Uh, right. Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan," she said. "Sorry, I was just - "
Something occurred to Donovan. It made her sick to her stomach to consider, but her job wasn't supposed to be comfortable.
"I'm Emily Riley," the woman said.
"Can I ask you to help me with something?"
"Well, I - I'm not all that well dear."
"It'll just take half a moment, and it's very important," Donovan pressed.
"What can I do for you, Detective Sergeant?" the woman said wearily.
Donovan walked in first, and after about a minute, Emily stepped in. Her coat was open as to not cover her face, but Claudette screamed anyway, clearly frightened out of her mind.
"Thank you, Mrs. Riley," Donovan said as she walked the ill-looking woman back out.
After she tottered away, Donovan cursed quietly. She had assumed that the girl recognized Sherlock Holmes when he walked into the room, but it wasn't him. It was his coat, which was almost identical to the one Mrs. Emily Riley had on.
She despised the man, and she still suspected his involvement. But they couldn't get an identification out of a young girl who was scared to death by a coat. She'd find evidence elsewhere, she was certain of it. That being said, she had to fill Lestrade in about it.
There was no way for Donovan to know that, at that precise moment, Sherlock Holmes was standing on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, preparing to jump to save the lives of his three closest friends.
"You've got a concussion," the doctor told John Watson. "Do you have anyone to look after you tonight?"
"I - yes," John replied.
"Good, then I can discharge you," the doctor said as he handed off some paper work. "You have any questions?"
John sat on the patient's table, his mind drifting out of focus. It had nothing to do with the concussion, though. Less than an hour ago, he watched as his best friend plummeted into the pavement. He felt for a radial pulse. There was nothing.
The words of Sherlock's last phone conversation with him echoed through his head. He claimed that he was a fraud. A fraud. Then he - he -
"Doctor Watson?" the doctor asked. "Do you have any other questions?"
"Uh, no, thank you. I'll just, grab a cab home," he replied.
The truth was that Doctor Watson had hundreds of questions but none about his concussion.
John answered the same questions over and over again. "Can you tell me what happened?" Then, "Why did you originally come to Bart's?" The occasional, "How much do you remember about the conversation?" And of course, "What did he say?"
Luckily, Lestrade wrangled John a break and allowed him to go back to 221B Baker Street instead of into a holding cell. Something to do with being "taking hostage," then later concussed after watching his friend commit suicide. Whatever the reason, John ended up home much sooner than he'd imagined.
Except the flat wasn't right. It felt smaller somehow, the way some places look after all the furniture's been removed. John told himself it was the head injury.
Even though he knew it was rubbish.
Molly Hooper preformed the autopsy and confirmed that Sherlock Holmes died of blunt force trauma to the head. John stared at the coroner's report, which methodically categorized the injuries Sherlock received from the fall. Compound factures, shattered bones -
John's breath hitched.
"You okay?" Molly asked him. "John?"
"You - you did the autopsy?" he asked her.
She nodded as her eyes became very wet.
"H-how?" he asked. "I mean... how did you manage it?"
Molly looked at the floor for a moment. "It's what he would've done. Isn't it? Look at what's there."
"I can't even - read this, Molly."
"Don't think I didn't bawl my eyes out," she replied. "Because I did. More than once, but... a lot of people here think he's a fraud now. Colors their ideas about him. And I couldn't let any of them take over."
John nodded. "I just came by to, uh, say goodbye, Molly."
"Goodbye?" she asked.
"Well, I suspect I won't be seeing you again, now that Sherlock is... now that I'll no longer be working on cases."
"Oh, right," she said. "John, I'm sorry."
"Me too."
Lestrade wasn't allowed to investigate Sherlock's death. Donovan agreed that she shouldn't work on it, either, and both of them continued to work on the kidnapping of the Bruhl Children.
Donovan told him about the girl's reaction to the coat about an hour before they got the call about Sherlock's fall. But in the past week, they've had nothing in the way of evidence or leads, which wasn't helping their already dire situation.
"Yes, sir, I understand that," Lestrade said for what felt like the hundredth time. "But Donovan is right. The girl reacted to the coat. Only thing we really know from her is that it was a man with black hair who was taller'n her."
It had become clear in the past week, however, that Sherlock Holmes was not involved in the kidnapping.
John Watson had given a statement about their flat being under surveillance of some kind, which lead to the recovery of several cameras. After a whole lot of technical crap Lestrade didn't really care to understand, they managed to identify where the video was being sent. More technical crap confirmed authenticity and the timestamp, and it proved one important thing: on the night the children were abducted, Sherlock Holmes was in his flat annoying John Watson with his violin.
Donovan, of course, started looking into the activities of one Richard Brook, the actor Sherlock supposedly hired to play the criminal mastermind Moriarty. She discovered that, on the night of the kidnappings, said man spent the entire night with a local tabloid reporter.
"Then who the hell kidnapped these kids?" Lestrade asked.
"I dunno," she said. "Running financials on Holmes didn't get me anywhere."
"'Course it didn't."
"What's that suppose to mean?" she asked.
"It means that the only reason you were suspicious to being with was the girl's screaming, and you yourself proved that it wasn't even him she was reacting to! Just his coat!" Lestrate shot back.
"So you're saying you don't think Sherlock is involved? Still?" she asked incredulously. "Even after what he said to John on the phone?"
"I'm saying that we've never had any evidence that Sherlock was involved," Lestrade replied.
"Right," Donovan replied shortly. "We want to close this case? Then we need to figure out something, anything, to keep it active. Because by this time next week, we're gonna have a lot more on our plates, courtesy of that freak."
Lestrade replied, "His name was Sherlock."
"Whatever."
It was partially true. Now that Sherlock's character was coming under question, all the cases he assisted on were also being questioned. Fortunately, most of the cases had strong forensics and witness testimony. Sherlock gave them direction but not answers.
Unfortunately, there were a handful of cases that relied solely on Sherlock pulling answers out of his hat. Donovan was right to assume they'd be pulled off this case if they couldn't find anything in the next day or so.
The trouble was that he had no idea where to look now.
Two weeks after Sherlock died, Mycroft took over the rent for the flat, insisting that he need time to decide what to do with his brother's possessions. He and John did not discuss the real reason, nor did John broach the topic of James Moriarty. It hardly mattered anymore, now did it?
Oddly, John's abandoned blog became even more popular as the papers continued to print slanderous things about Sherlock Holmes. Apparently a fraudulent private detective was more web-worthy than an honest one. It made John's head hurt, and he considered more than once taking the damn thing down.
But that felt so final, and John wasn't ready to slam that door just yet.
Mrs. Hudson spoke up, "John, dear? You've a visitor."
"Ah, thank you," he said. He looked up to see Greg Lestrade in his flat.
"You've some nerve to come here," John said dangerously.
"He was my friend, too," Lestrade said defensively. "In a manner of speaking, anyway."
"Except for arresting him - "
"Boys," Mrs. Hudson said, "if you'd please. I'd like to take a nap and don't want too much carrying on."
John nodded. "My apologies, Lestrade. Please do come in." His voice was stiff and measured, but he did mean it. Mostly.
"I need your help," Lestrade said. "One of the cases you and Sherlock worked, it's - the guy is trying to get the charges dropped."
"Because everyone believes Sherlock was a fraud."
"I don't," Lestrade said. "We know the guy did it, John, but I've got dozens of other cases I've gotta look over, and..." he struggled for a moment but finally finished with, "I can really use your help."
"All right," John said. If Molly Hooper could keep her head on straight and stare at Sherlock's dead body as she did his autopsy for the sake of his memory, then John could certainly help Lestrade for the same. "Which case?"
"You remember the one, about four months ago, with the weird evidence?" Lestrade asked. "I think you wound up calling it The Frame Job."
John pulled the text up on his computer. It was one of the shorter entries, only a dozen or so paragraphs.
"Oh, right," John said. "That one. It was between two other cases that we were more involved in. I meant to go back and update the entry with my notes when I got a chance, but I never got around it."
"So you do have more notes? More information?" Lestrade asked.
"Yes."
"Let's see it then."
Next Part: >>>
Part Two: The Frame Job, A Lesson in Watermelon
The Silver Blaze Revival - Series 3, Episode 1 - Primary Post