S3E1 - The Silver Blaze Revival - Part Seven: Revelations
Title: The Silver Blaze Revival
Subtitle: Revelations
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 3,184
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, language
John knocked on the door labeled FULMER. Rachel relocated to a new building a few blocks from her old residence after her husband's funeral, and though the neighborhood was roughly the same, the general feeling of the place was stuffy and defeated.
Or maybe that was just John projecting.
"Hello? Who's there?" Rachel asked from behind the door.
"Mrs. Fulmer? My name is John Watson. We met briefly a few months ago. Can I come in?"
"Are you alone?"
"Yes, ma'am, I am."
Rachel opened the door and waved John inside.
"Apologies," she said. "Wasn't expecting anyone to come by."
"I understand," John said.
"Make yourself at home," she said as she waved him over to the couch.
He sat politely, and she joined him by sitting in the opposite chair. She was clearly nervous, and though John hadn't been in her last flat, he could tell this one was foreign to her. The way she sat, the way she moved, everything about her indicated that this place just wasn't home. Sherlock had rubbed off on him, just a little.
"Do you know why I'm here?" John asked.
"I suppose it's because of the police investigation," she said. "Someone told me it might be re-opened. Even though they found the gun in... that man's flat."
"I want you to know, Mrs. Fulmer, that there's not a doubt in my mind that that man is the killer," John said. "That's why I'm here. I'm hoping you can help me find something."
"Find something?" she repeated. "Like what? I've spoken to the police several times, to you and your...colleague once, too. That's why this whole thing is falling apart, you know. Because of him."
John felt like a horse just kicked him in the stomach, but he understood.
"There is some evidence missing, Mrs. Fulmer," John said. "And the police didn't bother with it before, since the gun was locked in his safe. Will you help me?"
"How can I help you?"
"My notes said that you ordered food in that night, just before your husband arrived home," John said. "Did it arrive before you left?"
"What?"
"Did someone drop off your order before you left?"
"Uh, no. Must've come after I left," she said.
"Do you remember which restaurant?" John asked.
"What?"
"Which restaurant you ordered from?"
"The same one we always did. It's just down the block, called Dragon's Bowl. How is this helpful?" she asked.
"The delivery person could be a witness that the police missed," John lied. He'd prepared for such a question and decided against telling her that her peckishness contributed to her husband's murder. "And I have one more question for you, and I hope you'll forgive me for it."
"What's that?" she asked.
"You told us that the argument you had with your husband was about missing an anniversary dinner that night," John said. "And the late hours he'd been keeping."
"That's right."
"What was the argument really about?" John asked.
"I've told you."
"No," John said. "You weren't technically lying. The missed dinner and the late nights were part of the fight, but that wasn't what it was about."
"Are you calling me a liar?"
"Your husband's PA, Elena, told me that he walked her to her car that night because the parking garage was dark and empty. She said he was calm and composed, maybe a little tired. That hardly sounds like a man late to an important dinner, Mrs. Fulmer."
Rachel sucked down a breath, hard, but she didn't say anything.
"You're right, you know," John said. "We're here because of Sherlock Holmes. Because the media is dragging his name through the mud, and all the cases he assisted on are coming under question. But he's also the reason the police cleared your name, Mrs. Fulmer. He was able to deduce that the evidence incriminating you was planted."
Rachel remained quiet.
"I know what it's like," he continued. "I was there, you know, when he... jumped. I was the last person he spoke to. We were on the phone, and he told me that he was a fake. He apologized to me. At the time, I assumed he was under some kind of duress, but the police keep telling me, there's nothing to indicate such a thing. No reason to think he didn't jump of his own free will. No reason not to accept his confession at face value."
"Clearly you don't," she said.
"I know it's not true," he said. "I might not know why he jumped, but I know why he told me he was a fake."
"If not because it's the truth, then what?" she asked.
"I'm a doctor. I was a soldier. I could go back into practice, you know. My name might be sullied as a detective, but that never was my line of work, not really. Sherlock knew he was going to die, and his last act was to try and free me. Let me recover my name and reputation and go on living," John said. "He knew that if he told me he was being forced to jump or that he was jumping because of his lost reputation, I'd never move on."
"What do you mean?"
"I'd spend every day I had left proving that Sherlock Holmes was not a fake," John replied. "The duress he was under when he gave me his fake confession wasn't a bullet or a bomb, but our friendship."
Rachel hadn't met his eye for several minutes, and after he finished, she kept looking down at her hands.
"I thought he was cheating on me," she said very quietly. "He always came home smelling of perfume, not mine mind you, and whenever I asked him about work, he just said he was in meetings."
"Were there phone calls?" John asked. "Letters? Emails? Anything like that?"
She nodded. "He insisted the emails were spam of some kind, but that and the perfume... what else was I supposed to think?"
"So you brought up the affair that night? That's what you were really fighting about?"
She nodded slowly. "And he told me I was being crazy, seeing things, you know? And when I asked him about the perfume - "
"Who did he have the affair with?" John asked.
Rachel looked miserable. "No one," she replied.
"No one?"
She shook her head. "I went to my mother's that night, and before the police came round in the morning, I got a call from my office. A young lady had come by to speak with me, saying it was urgent. I had already called in sick for the day; I wasn't in any shape to work."
"Who was it?" John asked.
"Elena," Rachel replied. "My husband's PA. She'd come around to talk to me in person, since no one at home was answering."
"Sorry, your husband's PA went to your office?" John asked.
Rachel nodded. "I accused Thomas of sleeping with her, so, I guess he must've, called her or something before - before he was killed. She said she wanted to have a proper chat, face to face, you know?"
"Did you ever get to speak with her?" John asked.
"Yes, after I was released," Rachel replied. "She explained that she used the perfume as an air freshener... never occurred to her that it'd be considered... well, you know. And she showed me his meetings, even the security camera footage from his office. He hadn't been lying, and Thomas never cheated on me."
"When was the last time you spoke with Elena?" John asked.
"I guess that day we cleaned out the office," she said.
"Do you have her contact information?" John asked casually.
Rachel fumbled about for a phone before grabbing a scrap of paper and scribbling down the number. "This is her mobile, I think. I haven't spoken to her in months, though."
"Thank you," John said. "Just one more question, if you will."
"Right."
"Do you have some kind of locked box at work? Locked filing cabinet, maybe?" John asked. "Something that's specifically yours."
"I, uh, yes, I have a locker at work," she said.
"Thank you, so much," John said. "For your time."
Indigo Kendall Berwyn had never been fond of her name, but what was she to do about it? Even if she changed it, it'd still be her name. She used to go by "Indie" but it never really fit her, so she started going by her middle name in her school years. That's why she believed that every name had an important story, its own meaning, that said something about the person who it belonged to.
Stanley William James III didn't agree with her. She guessed it was something to do with the fact that his father and grandfather shared his name, and in his mind, they'd somehow used up all the meaning instead of adding to it.
"Better to be named Stanley than Indigo," she said playfully.
"Easy for you to say!" Stanley replied.
She handed him some more cords and wires. "I'm gonna walk you through the black box set up, okay?" she asked.
"You've already done that," he said.
"Right, but you showed me the forensics behind banking and money wiring and all that," she pointed.
"But you're the one who figured the whole sneaky bank file swap out thing," he said. "Seriously, it's like... you're the computer whisperer."
"Maybe I am," she replied with a twisted smile. "'Sides, eventually I want to go on vacation. That'll never happen if I'm the only one who can use this thing."
Stanley smiled and took the wires. "Okay, then, guarantee my job security and ruin my life," he said lightheartedly.
"Uh, right," Lestrade said, finally approaching the two sickeningly affectionate IT specialists. "Tolbert told me you had your report done," he said to Stanley. "Any chance I could..."
"Cheers," Stanley said handing off the file. "But I sent that up ages ago to Tolbert."
"This one's for me," Lestrade replied. "Thanks."
Lestrade stopped in the hallway, not willing to go any farther without knowing. He flipped the file open, rolling his eyes at all the technical jargon and pages of numbers and highlighted symbols. Finally, he found the summary page. He read, "Conclusion: No evidence that Sherlock Holmes or any of his affiliates contributed funds or financial support by means of currency or goods to any of the listed aliases of RICHARD HANSEL BROOK."
He exhaled. There was additional information about falsified bank accounts, falsified wire transfers, and the like, but the volume of the file made Lestrade's head hurt. The short version was good enough for him.
His mobile rang.
"Lestrade."
"Hi, it's John," John Watson said from the other line. "Could you check something for me?"
"Sure what's that?"
"The last phone calls made from Thomas Fulmer's mobile and home phones. Oh, and the times they were made."
"I'll text'em to you, okay?"
"Thank you, Lestrade."
Lestrade hesitated for a moment. He wondered if he should tell John about the evidence the forensics people were digging up in Sherlock's case, but he decided against it. "Right, talk to you soon."
John sat down in his favorite chair to glance over his notes again. His eyes wandered over to the mantle where Sherlock's skull usually rested. It was one of the first objects John boxed up; he very nearly buried the thing with him. But now that Sherlock wasn't here, and Mrs. Hudson was out, John understood the appeal of such a lifeless object.
John was halfway to unpacking the skull before he realized what he was doing. "I'm losing my mind," he whispered to himself. He resisted the temptation and returned to his notes.
Lestrade's text message came through: 'HOME Last call 7:59pm Dragon's Bowl Restaurant & MOBILE Last call 6:43pm Home, nothing sent or received after.'
John stared at the message for a long time. If Lestrade was right, then Thomas Fulmer didn't contact Elena about the fight with his wife. Technically, it was possible that he e-mailed her... John shrugged. He had to speak with her anyway, so he decided this might play out to his advantage. He dialed her up and waited.
"Hello?" a woman answered. Her voice was unclear over the crackling.
"Hello, it's Elena isn't?" John asked.
"Yes, it is, can you give me a moment to get somewhere with better reception?" she asked. At least, that's what John thought she asked, given the state of her phone.
"Sure."
Less than a minute passed. "Sorry about that. Elena speaking."
"Dunno if you remember me - "
"John Watson?" she said.
"Yes, how did you know?" he asked.
"I thought you might call," she said.
"Can we meet?" John asked.
"No," she replied. "Ask me anything, Dr. Watson, but I will not meet you in person."
"Why?"
"Is that really what you want to know?" she asked.
"I want to know why you went to Rachel Fulmer's office the morning after her husband was murdered," John said.
"I heard about the murder the night prior," she said. "On the news. I went to speak with her in person because she thought I had an affair with her husband."
John had expected a lie about getting a call or e-mail. He wasn't sure what she said made any kind of sense, though. "Okay, you realize that's not exactly clear, don't you?"
"I was paid to make her believe that her husband was cheating on her with me," she replied simply.
"You helped kill Thomas Fulmer?" John said loudly into his phone.
"No."
"But you just said - "
"I was asked to bait the wife," she interrupted. "Make her think her husband was unfaithful, provoke a fight between them. So I spritzed him with perfume and added meetings to his schedule and sent suggestive emails. Made a few late night calls. That's it."
"Why would anyone ask you to do that?" John asked in a dangerous whisper.
"I didn't ask," she replied. "Once I saw the news, I did what I could."
"What does that mean?"
"The man's not wrong, you know," she said. "That gun was planted, or more correctly, put back, in his safe. But it wasn't by Sherlock Holmes."
"You - you moved the gun?"
"I take it you already knew that," she said.
"Where's the suppressor?" John asked.
"What suppressor?"
"The suppressor! The one the killer used to muffle the shot!" John replied.
"Burkhart planted the gun in Rachel Fulmer's locker at work. There was no suppressor there with it, or I'd've moved that as well."
John was ready to scream. "How do I know that you didn't do all this? Killed Mr. Fulmer? Framed Clyde Burkhart?"
"You met me, John. So did Sherlock Holmes. Did either of you suspect me of killing anyone?"
"Neither of us suspected you of... baiting Mrs. Fulmer!" John said.
"Actually, he did," she pointed out. "He asked me about the men's deodorant." After a brief pause, she said, "I thought I could prevent all this from happening. That I could stop anyone from dying."
John stiffened. "What does that mean?"
"It means, the person who paid me wasn't Clyde Burkhart, just someone who agreed to help him."
"You let a man die, for money?"
"No," she replied. "I was trying to get close to someone, get him to trust me. To tell me the whole plan. Clearly, he didn't."
"Who were you trying to get close to?" John asked.
"It doesn't matter anymore."
"Of course it matters!" John barked. "Tell me now, or - "
"You know who it is, John," she replied. "James Moriarty."
"No, no, you're making this up - "
"If I was, wouldn't I think that Moriarty was played by an actor like it says on the tele? But I know better, John," she said. "I was trying to get close to Moriarty, to get something on him, so he assigned me this case, this job, as a test. Needless to say, I failed."
"Yeah, well, it took Sherlock Holmes to bring James Moriarty down," John said quietly. "I doubt the likes of you could do anything about it."
Her voice was very quiet when she replied, "I suppose, in that way, Sherlock Holmes died because of me. I hope what I have done is some solace for you, Doctor John Watson. I'm not so much a crime fighter as I am an engineer."
The line disconnected.
John tried to call back over and over again, because that would not be the last thing she said to him. But the number wouldn't go through.
The conversation had stolen his attention so much that he hadn't noticed that it started to pour. He bundled up and ran downstairs for a taxi. Lestrade should be able to find this woman.
Stanley paged through the data from the black box. It was like scanning through the world's most detailed log files, but twenty times more complex. Kendall clearly spent hours pouring over this data to find evidence of tampering. As if summoned by thought, he found the lines of code she'd mentioned. That was good. That meant he could verify her findings by reproducing them himself. Solid evidence through and through.
Damn, he needed a pint.
Kendall returned to the lab, "Sorry I had to step out, we get terrible reception down here."
"Don't I know it?" he said. "Look what I've found."
"Oh, excellent. That means I can finally go home and sleep," she said.
"You don't wanna go out for a drink?" Stanley asked.
She grabbed her stuff and pulled out her big umbrella. "I do, but not after being awake for three days straight. Tomorrow night, I promise."
John's taxi pulled up to the Yard. The rain continued to pour down as he paid his fee. He didn't bring a proper umbrella with him, so he wound up turning his coat up to the wind and hoping it wouldn't be too bad.
"Taxi!" a young woman yelled. She had a sturdy black umbrella tipped with a maroon rim, and she had just come out of the Yard as far as John could tell.
"You can have mine!" John yelled over the winds, waving to her. "Come on, then!"
"Thanks for holding it for me," she said with a smile. "Here, take my umbrella," she continued as she sat in the back seat.
"No, I couldn't," he replied.
She took his hand and placed the umbrella in it. Then she shut the door with an, "I insist, Doctor Watson!"
The taxi took off immediately. John didn't hear where she asked to go because he had been too distracted by the fact this woman knew his name... and he couldn't be completely certain, given the rain, but he swore he smelled Old Spice Swagger coming off her. His brain added up these facts, and he tried to get a proper look at her face now that he had her umbrella, but she was already gone.
"Damn it!" he yelled.
For all he could tell, Elena Wilhelm-Glass just disappeared right from under his nose.
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Part Eight: The Frame Job, A Ship in a Bottle
The Silver Blaze Revival - Series 3, Episode 1 - Primary Post
Subtitle: Revelations
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 3,184
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, language
John knocked on the door labeled FULMER. Rachel relocated to a new building a few blocks from her old residence after her husband's funeral, and though the neighborhood was roughly the same, the general feeling of the place was stuffy and defeated.
Or maybe that was just John projecting.
"Hello? Who's there?" Rachel asked from behind the door.
"Mrs. Fulmer? My name is John Watson. We met briefly a few months ago. Can I come in?"
"Are you alone?"
"Yes, ma'am, I am."
Rachel opened the door and waved John inside.
"Apologies," she said. "Wasn't expecting anyone to come by."
"I understand," John said.
"Make yourself at home," she said as she waved him over to the couch.
He sat politely, and she joined him by sitting in the opposite chair. She was clearly nervous, and though John hadn't been in her last flat, he could tell this one was foreign to her. The way she sat, the way she moved, everything about her indicated that this place just wasn't home. Sherlock had rubbed off on him, just a little.
"Do you know why I'm here?" John asked.
"I suppose it's because of the police investigation," she said. "Someone told me it might be re-opened. Even though they found the gun in... that man's flat."
"I want you to know, Mrs. Fulmer, that there's not a doubt in my mind that that man is the killer," John said. "That's why I'm here. I'm hoping you can help me find something."
"Find something?" she repeated. "Like what? I've spoken to the police several times, to you and your...colleague once, too. That's why this whole thing is falling apart, you know. Because of him."
John felt like a horse just kicked him in the stomach, but he understood.
"There is some evidence missing, Mrs. Fulmer," John said. "And the police didn't bother with it before, since the gun was locked in his safe. Will you help me?"
"How can I help you?"
"My notes said that you ordered food in that night, just before your husband arrived home," John said. "Did it arrive before you left?"
"What?"
"Did someone drop off your order before you left?"
"Uh, no. Must've come after I left," she said.
"Do you remember which restaurant?" John asked.
"What?"
"Which restaurant you ordered from?"
"The same one we always did. It's just down the block, called Dragon's Bowl. How is this helpful?" she asked.
"The delivery person could be a witness that the police missed," John lied. He'd prepared for such a question and decided against telling her that her peckishness contributed to her husband's murder. "And I have one more question for you, and I hope you'll forgive me for it."
"What's that?" she asked.
"You told us that the argument you had with your husband was about missing an anniversary dinner that night," John said. "And the late hours he'd been keeping."
"That's right."
"What was the argument really about?" John asked.
"I've told you."
"No," John said. "You weren't technically lying. The missed dinner and the late nights were part of the fight, but that wasn't what it was about."
"Are you calling me a liar?"
"Your husband's PA, Elena, told me that he walked her to her car that night because the parking garage was dark and empty. She said he was calm and composed, maybe a little tired. That hardly sounds like a man late to an important dinner, Mrs. Fulmer."
Rachel sucked down a breath, hard, but she didn't say anything.
"You're right, you know," John said. "We're here because of Sherlock Holmes. Because the media is dragging his name through the mud, and all the cases he assisted on are coming under question. But he's also the reason the police cleared your name, Mrs. Fulmer. He was able to deduce that the evidence incriminating you was planted."
Rachel remained quiet.
"I know what it's like," he continued. "I was there, you know, when he... jumped. I was the last person he spoke to. We were on the phone, and he told me that he was a fake. He apologized to me. At the time, I assumed he was under some kind of duress, but the police keep telling me, there's nothing to indicate such a thing. No reason to think he didn't jump of his own free will. No reason not to accept his confession at face value."
"Clearly you don't," she said.
"I know it's not true," he said. "I might not know why he jumped, but I know why he told me he was a fake."
"If not because it's the truth, then what?" she asked.
"I'm a doctor. I was a soldier. I could go back into practice, you know. My name might be sullied as a detective, but that never was my line of work, not really. Sherlock knew he was going to die, and his last act was to try and free me. Let me recover my name and reputation and go on living," John said. "He knew that if he told me he was being forced to jump or that he was jumping because of his lost reputation, I'd never move on."
"What do you mean?"
"I'd spend every day I had left proving that Sherlock Holmes was not a fake," John replied. "The duress he was under when he gave me his fake confession wasn't a bullet or a bomb, but our friendship."
Rachel hadn't met his eye for several minutes, and after he finished, she kept looking down at her hands.
"I thought he was cheating on me," she said very quietly. "He always came home smelling of perfume, not mine mind you, and whenever I asked him about work, he just said he was in meetings."
"Were there phone calls?" John asked. "Letters? Emails? Anything like that?"
She nodded. "He insisted the emails were spam of some kind, but that and the perfume... what else was I supposed to think?"
"So you brought up the affair that night? That's what you were really fighting about?"
She nodded slowly. "And he told me I was being crazy, seeing things, you know? And when I asked him about the perfume - "
"Who did he have the affair with?" John asked.
Rachel looked miserable. "No one," she replied.
"No one?"
She shook her head. "I went to my mother's that night, and before the police came round in the morning, I got a call from my office. A young lady had come by to speak with me, saying it was urgent. I had already called in sick for the day; I wasn't in any shape to work."
"Who was it?" John asked.
"Elena," Rachel replied. "My husband's PA. She'd come around to talk to me in person, since no one at home was answering."
"Sorry, your husband's PA went to your office?" John asked.
Rachel nodded. "I accused Thomas of sleeping with her, so, I guess he must've, called her or something before - before he was killed. She said she wanted to have a proper chat, face to face, you know?"
"Did you ever get to speak with her?" John asked.
"Yes, after I was released," Rachel replied. "She explained that she used the perfume as an air freshener... never occurred to her that it'd be considered... well, you know. And she showed me his meetings, even the security camera footage from his office. He hadn't been lying, and Thomas never cheated on me."
"When was the last time you spoke with Elena?" John asked.
"I guess that day we cleaned out the office," she said.
"Do you have her contact information?" John asked casually.
Rachel fumbled about for a phone before grabbing a scrap of paper and scribbling down the number. "This is her mobile, I think. I haven't spoken to her in months, though."
"Thank you," John said. "Just one more question, if you will."
"Right."
"Do you have some kind of locked box at work? Locked filing cabinet, maybe?" John asked. "Something that's specifically yours."
"I, uh, yes, I have a locker at work," she said.
"Thank you, so much," John said. "For your time."
Indigo Kendall Berwyn had never been fond of her name, but what was she to do about it? Even if she changed it, it'd still be her name. She used to go by "Indie" but it never really fit her, so she started going by her middle name in her school years. That's why she believed that every name had an important story, its own meaning, that said something about the person who it belonged to.
Stanley William James III didn't agree with her. She guessed it was something to do with the fact that his father and grandfather shared his name, and in his mind, they'd somehow used up all the meaning instead of adding to it.
"Better to be named Stanley than Indigo," she said playfully.
"Easy for you to say!" Stanley replied.
She handed him some more cords and wires. "I'm gonna walk you through the black box set up, okay?" she asked.
"You've already done that," he said.
"Right, but you showed me the forensics behind banking and money wiring and all that," she pointed.
"But you're the one who figured the whole sneaky bank file swap out thing," he said. "Seriously, it's like... you're the computer whisperer."
"Maybe I am," she replied with a twisted smile. "'Sides, eventually I want to go on vacation. That'll never happen if I'm the only one who can use this thing."
Stanley smiled and took the wires. "Okay, then, guarantee my job security and ruin my life," he said lightheartedly.
"Uh, right," Lestrade said, finally approaching the two sickeningly affectionate IT specialists. "Tolbert told me you had your report done," he said to Stanley. "Any chance I could..."
"Cheers," Stanley said handing off the file. "But I sent that up ages ago to Tolbert."
"This one's for me," Lestrade replied. "Thanks."
Lestrade stopped in the hallway, not willing to go any farther without knowing. He flipped the file open, rolling his eyes at all the technical jargon and pages of numbers and highlighted symbols. Finally, he found the summary page. He read, "Conclusion: No evidence that Sherlock Holmes or any of his affiliates contributed funds or financial support by means of currency or goods to any of the listed aliases of RICHARD HANSEL BROOK."
He exhaled. There was additional information about falsified bank accounts, falsified wire transfers, and the like, but the volume of the file made Lestrade's head hurt. The short version was good enough for him.
His mobile rang.
"Lestrade."
"Hi, it's John," John Watson said from the other line. "Could you check something for me?"
"Sure what's that?"
"The last phone calls made from Thomas Fulmer's mobile and home phones. Oh, and the times they were made."
"I'll text'em to you, okay?"
"Thank you, Lestrade."
Lestrade hesitated for a moment. He wondered if he should tell John about the evidence the forensics people were digging up in Sherlock's case, but he decided against it. "Right, talk to you soon."
John sat down in his favorite chair to glance over his notes again. His eyes wandered over to the mantle where Sherlock's skull usually rested. It was one of the first objects John boxed up; he very nearly buried the thing with him. But now that Sherlock wasn't here, and Mrs. Hudson was out, John understood the appeal of such a lifeless object.
John was halfway to unpacking the skull before he realized what he was doing. "I'm losing my mind," he whispered to himself. He resisted the temptation and returned to his notes.
Lestrade's text message came through: 'HOME Last call 7:59pm Dragon's Bowl Restaurant & MOBILE Last call 6:43pm Home, nothing sent or received after.'
John stared at the message for a long time. If Lestrade was right, then Thomas Fulmer didn't contact Elena about the fight with his wife. Technically, it was possible that he e-mailed her... John shrugged. He had to speak with her anyway, so he decided this might play out to his advantage. He dialed her up and waited.
"Hello?" a woman answered. Her voice was unclear over the crackling.
"Hello, it's Elena isn't?" John asked.
"Yes, it is, can you give me a moment to get somewhere with better reception?" she asked. At least, that's what John thought she asked, given the state of her phone.
"Sure."
Less than a minute passed. "Sorry about that. Elena speaking."
"Dunno if you remember me - "
"John Watson?" she said.
"Yes, how did you know?" he asked.
"I thought you might call," she said.
"Can we meet?" John asked.
"No," she replied. "Ask me anything, Dr. Watson, but I will not meet you in person."
"Why?"
"Is that really what you want to know?" she asked.
"I want to know why you went to Rachel Fulmer's office the morning after her husband was murdered," John said.
"I heard about the murder the night prior," she said. "On the news. I went to speak with her in person because she thought I had an affair with her husband."
John had expected a lie about getting a call or e-mail. He wasn't sure what she said made any kind of sense, though. "Okay, you realize that's not exactly clear, don't you?"
"I was paid to make her believe that her husband was cheating on her with me," she replied simply.
"You helped kill Thomas Fulmer?" John said loudly into his phone.
"No."
"But you just said - "
"I was asked to bait the wife," she interrupted. "Make her think her husband was unfaithful, provoke a fight between them. So I spritzed him with perfume and added meetings to his schedule and sent suggestive emails. Made a few late night calls. That's it."
"Why would anyone ask you to do that?" John asked in a dangerous whisper.
"I didn't ask," she replied. "Once I saw the news, I did what I could."
"What does that mean?"
"The man's not wrong, you know," she said. "That gun was planted, or more correctly, put back, in his safe. But it wasn't by Sherlock Holmes."
"You - you moved the gun?"
"I take it you already knew that," she said.
"Where's the suppressor?" John asked.
"What suppressor?"
"The suppressor! The one the killer used to muffle the shot!" John replied.
"Burkhart planted the gun in Rachel Fulmer's locker at work. There was no suppressor there with it, or I'd've moved that as well."
John was ready to scream. "How do I know that you didn't do all this? Killed Mr. Fulmer? Framed Clyde Burkhart?"
"You met me, John. So did Sherlock Holmes. Did either of you suspect me of killing anyone?"
"Neither of us suspected you of... baiting Mrs. Fulmer!" John said.
"Actually, he did," she pointed out. "He asked me about the men's deodorant." After a brief pause, she said, "I thought I could prevent all this from happening. That I could stop anyone from dying."
John stiffened. "What does that mean?"
"It means, the person who paid me wasn't Clyde Burkhart, just someone who agreed to help him."
"You let a man die, for money?"
"No," she replied. "I was trying to get close to someone, get him to trust me. To tell me the whole plan. Clearly, he didn't."
"Who were you trying to get close to?" John asked.
"It doesn't matter anymore."
"Of course it matters!" John barked. "Tell me now, or - "
"You know who it is, John," she replied. "James Moriarty."
"No, no, you're making this up - "
"If I was, wouldn't I think that Moriarty was played by an actor like it says on the tele? But I know better, John," she said. "I was trying to get close to Moriarty, to get something on him, so he assigned me this case, this job, as a test. Needless to say, I failed."
"Yeah, well, it took Sherlock Holmes to bring James Moriarty down," John said quietly. "I doubt the likes of you could do anything about it."
Her voice was very quiet when she replied, "I suppose, in that way, Sherlock Holmes died because of me. I hope what I have done is some solace for you, Doctor John Watson. I'm not so much a crime fighter as I am an engineer."
The line disconnected.
John tried to call back over and over again, because that would not be the last thing she said to him. But the number wouldn't go through.
The conversation had stolen his attention so much that he hadn't noticed that it started to pour. He bundled up and ran downstairs for a taxi. Lestrade should be able to find this woman.
Stanley paged through the data from the black box. It was like scanning through the world's most detailed log files, but twenty times more complex. Kendall clearly spent hours pouring over this data to find evidence of tampering. As if summoned by thought, he found the lines of code she'd mentioned. That was good. That meant he could verify her findings by reproducing them himself. Solid evidence through and through.
Damn, he needed a pint.
Kendall returned to the lab, "Sorry I had to step out, we get terrible reception down here."
"Don't I know it?" he said. "Look what I've found."
"Oh, excellent. That means I can finally go home and sleep," she said.
"You don't wanna go out for a drink?" Stanley asked.
She grabbed her stuff and pulled out her big umbrella. "I do, but not after being awake for three days straight. Tomorrow night, I promise."
John's taxi pulled up to the Yard. The rain continued to pour down as he paid his fee. He didn't bring a proper umbrella with him, so he wound up turning his coat up to the wind and hoping it wouldn't be too bad.
"Taxi!" a young woman yelled. She had a sturdy black umbrella tipped with a maroon rim, and she had just come out of the Yard as far as John could tell.
"You can have mine!" John yelled over the winds, waving to her. "Come on, then!"
"Thanks for holding it for me," she said with a smile. "Here, take my umbrella," she continued as she sat in the back seat.
"No, I couldn't," he replied.
She took his hand and placed the umbrella in it. Then she shut the door with an, "I insist, Doctor Watson!"
The taxi took off immediately. John didn't hear where she asked to go because he had been too distracted by the fact this woman knew his name... and he couldn't be completely certain, given the rain, but he swore he smelled Old Spice Swagger coming off her. His brain added up these facts, and he tried to get a proper look at her face now that he had her umbrella, but she was already gone.
"Damn it!" he yelled.
For all he could tell, Elena Wilhelm-Glass just disappeared right from under his nose.
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Part Eight: The Frame Job, A Ship in a Bottle
The Silver Blaze Revival - Series 3, Episode 1 - Primary Post