S3E4 - Four Elizabeths - Part One: Firefly
Episode number: s03e04 of Series 3: Unfinished Business
Title: Four Elizabeths
Subtitle: Firefly
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word count: 2,525
Rating: R
Warnings: murder, family annihilation, arson, graphic descriptions of violence, doping, kidnapping, references to past drug use
Sherlock Holmes struggled against his confines and the drugs circulating his system. A haze pervaded his conscious mind, but he gradually became more aware, more alert. This confirmed a GHB cocktail, which kept the subject unconscious but metabolized quickly. Someone had drugged him and abandoned him, unbound but jammed inside a wall.
He moved his hands along the interior and found a breech, but it had a low clearance, a child-size opening, if anything. The space between walls was too narrow for him to bend forward, so he slid through feet-first. A soft thump sounded.
Sherlock dusted himself off. His coat was absent, which seemed off. He tried to remember the events that brought him here, but all his memories were dark and arid.
So he focused on the noises, the conversations.
He had asked someone about their past. The Engineer? Yes, she had been with him. What did she say?
When I was a child, I would wander out at dusk, out to the field near where I roomed. When it was dark enough, I'd lie down in the middle of that field and stare up.
The words returned too slowly, and frustration infected him. He needed to focus on something else, so he examined his surroundings.
He stood in a small room on a piece of plywood. Clearly, it had plugged the opening and fallen when he passed through. He replaced it and found that it concealed the hole completely. A professional cut this sheet, probably for a dumbwaiter or a large laundry shoot. Later, someone else added a tiny handle to the interior side and simply placed it back over the unused opening. Sherlock turned to the rest of the room, which had a used, lived-in feeling to it. It was a child's room.
Conclusion: The construction of the room called for a laundry shoot that was never finished. To save money, the original plywood was simply place over the hole and restyled slightly. The small child whose room this was, upon discovering a secret hideaway, added the handle to ensure that he (or she) could hide inside without anyone being the wiser.
Sherlock left the room for the hallway. He was on the second floor, which had four bedrooms and two bathrooms. The walls had been repainted and scrubbed, but there were still odd crayon and pencil marks.
There was a distinct smell, and it drew him to the stairwell, forgoing an examination of the upstairs rooms. As he walked down the stairs, it occurred to him that the occupants of this house were likely dead.
And I'd stare up, watching as the fireflies lit up the sky, with the bats above them, snatching one or two here and there. The bats were so dark that it was like watching someone pinch out the flame of a candle.
Finally, his thoughts came together and he recognized the smell: the beginning of smoke, the early whiffs of fire.
Sherlock moved quickly, determined to obtain as much data as possible without dying of smoke inhalation. He ducked into the living room and stopped in his tracks, surprised.
Sherlock Holmes hated being surprised.
Indeed, the house contained some peripheral oddities that his mind absorbed for later, like the empty frames on the walls and missing decor elements. In fact, the home was devoid of anything that people chronically imbued with sentiment. It looked much like his flat previous to 221 B.
But the reason he stopped short was the bodies.
Sherlock didn't have time to analyze the details or parse the images, not with the smoke thickening. But, this crime scene might be the only way to capture The Engineer, so he stared and let the visual structure imprint inside his mind palace for later exploration.
Once complete, he considered his options for egress. Any man spotted fleeing a burning building with bodies inside would be an immediate suspect, even to the most idiotic investigative unit, so he couldn't go out the front. He found another door that lead into the back yard through the kitchen.
Which was rapidly filling with smoke.
The flames weren't leaping or dangerous yet, but he had very little in the way of fire retardant and doubted his ability to contain it. So he took exactly half a second to absorb the kitchen: its size, shape, and the location of every object in the room.
Then he ran outside.
Tall bushes obscured the view of the backyard to outsiders, but the only reachable location with cover was a shed. He crouched down and scurried into the small hut, where he discovered his coat thrown over a rucksack. He opened it to find several bottles of water, two towels, and a few other spare items, including his mobile. He switched it back on only to discover its GPS has been disabled, among other key functions.
Blue-black. The only sounds were the ones you'd grown too used to to bother to name. I didn't feel happy or safe or content. It felt like I wasn't there. Like I had just dissipated into the shadows and the grass and dirt. I wasn't there, just a symphony of rising lights vanishing into the moonlight.
The Engineer put him here. She took him, by car, to this house, and wedged him in a wall. Did she murder five people just to trap him in a house and burn it down? It seemed so senseless. Certainly there were easier ways to kill him, especially when unconscious. And if she wanted him to die, why bother to leave his coat and supplies for him?
On the other hand, she hadn't just driven around until she found a murdered family. That couldn't be it. Mycroft said she occasionally revealed criminal activity, and dropping a detective in the middle of a homicide would certainly qualify. He tried to remember more of what she said to him, but he couldn't focus.
The fire roared as it started in earnest.
He texted his brother for help. It was regrettable, but soon fire control and investigators would arrive. No doubt they'd check the shed for any suspected murder-arsonist that wanted a view of the fire.
Sherlock then turned to his real work. He propped himself up and retreated into his mind palace.
He began inspecting the kitchen: a large, empty dish soap container on the counter; various bottles of alcohol, half-empty and plugged like Molotov cocktails placed in precarious locations; and an oil rag, quite saturated, near the stovetop. Conclusion: The arsonist utilized materials from the kitchen - such as using the dish soap to thicken the alcohol - to start and expand the fire, which meant that he (statistically more likely) hadn't planned to set the fire or at the very least hadn't properly prepared for it.
Smoke billowed from the sink, but Sherlock couldn't make out whatever was burning. That must've been the origin of the fire; it remained contained and smoking for some time before burning in earnest and spreading. Conclusion: The arsonist had set a slow-burning wick that alerted Sherlock to the fire and provided him the time he needed to escape, all of which meant that he wanted the consulting detective to survive.
Additional conclusion: The Engineer was the arsonist, statistics be damned.
He refocused on the living room, where the bodies were.
Two pre-teens, one male and one female, sat in the living room's armchairs. Each one had a single gunshot wound to the forehead from a small caliber weapon. The wife sat on the couch with her husband's head in her lap. From the blood splatter, someone shot her once in the back of the head and repositioned her. Assuming the killer was the husband, he then lay beside her, put his head in her lap, and shot himself in the temple.
Sherlock turned to the last body in the room. Everything about it was wrong. To being with, it was charred, so he had to approximate an age from the general size.
Sherlock stepped out of his mind palace. Had he imprinted the images wrong? No. But the smoke from the kitchen could have covered the charred scent from the body, so that could be why the mental impression seemed so off. He took a deep breath and returned to his examinations.
The child was three at the oldest. She or he - it was impossible to tell - had been killed with a single gunshot wound to the head while curled up in fetal position, probably while sleeping. The body had been subsequently burned and placed under the coffee table.
The events of the crime aligned with a typical family annihilator scenario: murder of the family, followed by suicide of the perpetrator, probably the father.
Except for the man shoved into the wall, this last body was the only thing that didn't fit, though it could be the reason someone wanted to burn down the house.
One day, I'll find my way back to that space, those moments. Maybe I'll be painting a fence, or churning out code, or writing editorials. It's like you said: I could be anybody. And someday, I just might be.
His phone jolted him out of his mind palace. In addition to a dozen missed texts from his brother, Mycroft was calling.
"Mycroft, what is it?" Sherlock answered.
"Sherlock, when you text me with a message like, 'escaped burning house in unknown location require discreet transport' it's best to answer your mobile as soon as it rings."
"Don't act like you're actually concerned."
"The car is waiting for you, but the driver insists you crawl to avoid being seen."
His brother hung up.
Sherlock made it to the car without incident, though. Mycroft was clearly having fun at his expense. There was no way anyone would spot him over the incredible fire that consumed the adjacent house.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said.
"Mycroft. Wasn't expecting you to pick me up personally."
"I was in the area."
"Oh?"
"Oxford."
"I'm in Oxford?"
"Didn't you know?" Mycroft asked.
"No."
"No? Then how on earth did you get here?"
"How much do you know about The Engineer?"
"Not this again."
Sherlock replied, "Yes, this again. That woman just stuffed me inside a wall, and I need to know why."
"Is that a metaphor?"
"No, Mycroft. She drugged me and brought me to this house. There's a family of five inside, all dead. Now either she meant to burn me alive, which is unlikely given the circumstances and the fact that she could've simply lit me on fire in the trunk of the car - "
"If only," Mycroft interjected.
"- or she has other plans. I need to know everything you know about her. All the files you have on her. Everything you thought she had a hand in."
"You do realize that Sebastian Moran has been taken into custody."
"What?" Sherlock asked. "What happened to John and Molly?"
"Still alive, but this was all days ago, Sherlock."
"Days?"
"Two, to be precise."
"She took me and told me about something. But it doesn't make sense."
"What doesn't make sense?"
"Fireflies."
"What about them?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Obviously, Mycroft, there are none in this area, not the way she described them."
"She could be lying, Sherlock. She does that to everyone."
"I asked her... I can't remember! But she told me about bats and fireflies."
"So a woman known for faking crime scenes, stealing identities, and working with the likes of Moriarty abducted you, drugged you, and left you in a burning house," Mycroft summarized. "And yet, for some reason, you're concerned about the fairy story she told you about flying fauna?"
"Unless she spent time in America," Sherlock said.
Mycroft took a breath. "Ah, you're not listening. It's just as well. We'll have to find a place to store you while I conduct my business in Oxford."
London. Sebastian Moran had always been civilized. There was never any reason to be anything else.
Torture played well in the movies, but facts were facts. Professionals never gave up information, and anyone else would cop to anything to make the pain stop. Blackmail and kidnapping worked, sure, but the best way to get someone to spill their guts was to be their ally.
Or at least make them think that.
And that's why Sebastian Moran succeeded where his mentor Moriarty failed. Moran made people feel superior; Moriarty crushed people like the idiots they were. That's what made the two men such excellent partners in crime. Moriarty, the showman, flaunting everything he had with no reprisal from anyone, and Moran, the good soldier, politely holding fast, always ready to strike.
Moran never wanted to take Moriarty's place. He never wanted to inherit his allies, schemes, and pocket-employees. He certainly never wanted to bury the man who gave him everything.
But here he was, handcuffed to a hospital bed, nothing else to do but think on it. Sherlock Holmes was just one person who managed to murder the best man he had ever known. And two more walked free right now. It boiled his blood.
He straightened up. Practicality demanded that he be poised, no matter how he felt.
"Mr. Moran," someone said as she entered the room.
"Colonel Moran," Sebastian corrected. "Royal Marines. Retired, technically, but never really out."
"My apologies, Colonel Moran. I'm Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan," she replied. "Do you remember me?"
"Nah, love. Should I?"
"We spoke, briefly, just after you were out of intensive care."
"Ah, I remember someone trying to get something out of me, but can't really say who. That was you?"
"It was. Do you know why you're here?"
"Think I was shot, wasn't I?"
"By a sniper, and someone restricted your breathing - "
"Put a plastic bag over my head," Moran interrupted. "Sorry, that's hardly a thing you can make better with euphemisms, now is it?"
"The people who did it are still at large. The doctors asked us to give you two days for recovery after our first interview, but I need to ask you some questions about that day. Right now, all we have is a vague description of the woman."
"First things first. I need to call Tillie Tremblay from Farnsworth and Strother."
"The legal firm?" Donavan asked. "You want your lawyer?"
"Is there some kind of problem?"
"No, but victims don't usually call lawyers when being questioned."
"Except for these," Moran said as he pulled on his handcuffs. "If you only saw me as a victim, I wouldn't be chained to the bed, now would I?"
"We have witnesses that have accused you of a number of crimes."
"Yeah, well, those two individuals should learn how to mind. Maybe they shouldn't be so keen to comment on things they don't understand."
"Sorry?"
"Just saying, if I was them, I'd keep my trap shut as long as I wanted to live."
"Are you threatening their lives?"
"I'll be needing that call, love," Moran replied quietly.
Things like that always slipped out when he didn't keep his thoughts pointed to civility, and right now, Sebastian Moran seethed over John Watson and Molly Hooper.
<<< Previous Episode:
S3E3 - The Uncanny Valley
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Part Two: Elizabeth One
Primary Post: Four Elizabeths - Series 3, Episode 4
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)
Title: Four Elizabeths
Subtitle: Firefly
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word count: 2,525
Rating: R
Warnings: murder, family annihilation, arson, graphic descriptions of violence, doping, kidnapping, references to past drug use
Sherlock Holmes struggled against his confines and the drugs circulating his system. A haze pervaded his conscious mind, but he gradually became more aware, more alert. This confirmed a GHB cocktail, which kept the subject unconscious but metabolized quickly. Someone had drugged him and abandoned him, unbound but jammed inside a wall.
He moved his hands along the interior and found a breech, but it had a low clearance, a child-size opening, if anything. The space between walls was too narrow for him to bend forward, so he slid through feet-first. A soft thump sounded.
Sherlock dusted himself off. His coat was absent, which seemed off. He tried to remember the events that brought him here, but all his memories were dark and arid.
So he focused on the noises, the conversations.
He had asked someone about their past. The Engineer? Yes, she had been with him. What did she say?
When I was a child, I would wander out at dusk, out to the field near where I roomed. When it was dark enough, I'd lie down in the middle of that field and stare up.
The words returned too slowly, and frustration infected him. He needed to focus on something else, so he examined his surroundings.
He stood in a small room on a piece of plywood. Clearly, it had plugged the opening and fallen when he passed through. He replaced it and found that it concealed the hole completely. A professional cut this sheet, probably for a dumbwaiter or a large laundry shoot. Later, someone else added a tiny handle to the interior side and simply placed it back over the unused opening. Sherlock turned to the rest of the room, which had a used, lived-in feeling to it. It was a child's room.
Conclusion: The construction of the room called for a laundry shoot that was never finished. To save money, the original plywood was simply place over the hole and restyled slightly. The small child whose room this was, upon discovering a secret hideaway, added the handle to ensure that he (or she) could hide inside without anyone being the wiser.
Sherlock left the room for the hallway. He was on the second floor, which had four bedrooms and two bathrooms. The walls had been repainted and scrubbed, but there were still odd crayon and pencil marks.
There was a distinct smell, and it drew him to the stairwell, forgoing an examination of the upstairs rooms. As he walked down the stairs, it occurred to him that the occupants of this house were likely dead.
And I'd stare up, watching as the fireflies lit up the sky, with the bats above them, snatching one or two here and there. The bats were so dark that it was like watching someone pinch out the flame of a candle.
Finally, his thoughts came together and he recognized the smell: the beginning of smoke, the early whiffs of fire.
Sherlock moved quickly, determined to obtain as much data as possible without dying of smoke inhalation. He ducked into the living room and stopped in his tracks, surprised.
Sherlock Holmes hated being surprised.
Indeed, the house contained some peripheral oddities that his mind absorbed for later, like the empty frames on the walls and missing decor elements. In fact, the home was devoid of anything that people chronically imbued with sentiment. It looked much like his flat previous to 221 B.
But the reason he stopped short was the bodies.
Sherlock didn't have time to analyze the details or parse the images, not with the smoke thickening. But, this crime scene might be the only way to capture The Engineer, so he stared and let the visual structure imprint inside his mind palace for later exploration.
Once complete, he considered his options for egress. Any man spotted fleeing a burning building with bodies inside would be an immediate suspect, even to the most idiotic investigative unit, so he couldn't go out the front. He found another door that lead into the back yard through the kitchen.
Which was rapidly filling with smoke.
The flames weren't leaping or dangerous yet, but he had very little in the way of fire retardant and doubted his ability to contain it. So he took exactly half a second to absorb the kitchen: its size, shape, and the location of every object in the room.
Then he ran outside.
Tall bushes obscured the view of the backyard to outsiders, but the only reachable location with cover was a shed. He crouched down and scurried into the small hut, where he discovered his coat thrown over a rucksack. He opened it to find several bottles of water, two towels, and a few other spare items, including his mobile. He switched it back on only to discover its GPS has been disabled, among other key functions.
Blue-black. The only sounds were the ones you'd grown too used to to bother to name. I didn't feel happy or safe or content. It felt like I wasn't there. Like I had just dissipated into the shadows and the grass and dirt. I wasn't there, just a symphony of rising lights vanishing into the moonlight.
The Engineer put him here. She took him, by car, to this house, and wedged him in a wall. Did she murder five people just to trap him in a house and burn it down? It seemed so senseless. Certainly there were easier ways to kill him, especially when unconscious. And if she wanted him to die, why bother to leave his coat and supplies for him?
On the other hand, she hadn't just driven around until she found a murdered family. That couldn't be it. Mycroft said she occasionally revealed criminal activity, and dropping a detective in the middle of a homicide would certainly qualify. He tried to remember more of what she said to him, but he couldn't focus.
The fire roared as it started in earnest.
He texted his brother for help. It was regrettable, but soon fire control and investigators would arrive. No doubt they'd check the shed for any suspected murder-arsonist that wanted a view of the fire.
Sherlock then turned to his real work. He propped himself up and retreated into his mind palace.
He began inspecting the kitchen: a large, empty dish soap container on the counter; various bottles of alcohol, half-empty and plugged like Molotov cocktails placed in precarious locations; and an oil rag, quite saturated, near the stovetop. Conclusion: The arsonist utilized materials from the kitchen - such as using the dish soap to thicken the alcohol - to start and expand the fire, which meant that he (statistically more likely) hadn't planned to set the fire or at the very least hadn't properly prepared for it.
Smoke billowed from the sink, but Sherlock couldn't make out whatever was burning. That must've been the origin of the fire; it remained contained and smoking for some time before burning in earnest and spreading. Conclusion: The arsonist had set a slow-burning wick that alerted Sherlock to the fire and provided him the time he needed to escape, all of which meant that he wanted the consulting detective to survive.
Additional conclusion: The Engineer was the arsonist, statistics be damned.
He refocused on the living room, where the bodies were.
Two pre-teens, one male and one female, sat in the living room's armchairs. Each one had a single gunshot wound to the forehead from a small caliber weapon. The wife sat on the couch with her husband's head in her lap. From the blood splatter, someone shot her once in the back of the head and repositioned her. Assuming the killer was the husband, he then lay beside her, put his head in her lap, and shot himself in the temple.
Sherlock turned to the last body in the room. Everything about it was wrong. To being with, it was charred, so he had to approximate an age from the general size.
Sherlock stepped out of his mind palace. Had he imprinted the images wrong? No. But the smoke from the kitchen could have covered the charred scent from the body, so that could be why the mental impression seemed so off. He took a deep breath and returned to his examinations.
The child was three at the oldest. She or he - it was impossible to tell - had been killed with a single gunshot wound to the head while curled up in fetal position, probably while sleeping. The body had been subsequently burned and placed under the coffee table.
The events of the crime aligned with a typical family annihilator scenario: murder of the family, followed by suicide of the perpetrator, probably the father.
Except for the man shoved into the wall, this last body was the only thing that didn't fit, though it could be the reason someone wanted to burn down the house.
One day, I'll find my way back to that space, those moments. Maybe I'll be painting a fence, or churning out code, or writing editorials. It's like you said: I could be anybody. And someday, I just might be.
His phone jolted him out of his mind palace. In addition to a dozen missed texts from his brother, Mycroft was calling.
"Mycroft, what is it?" Sherlock answered.
"Sherlock, when you text me with a message like, 'escaped burning house in unknown location require discreet transport' it's best to answer your mobile as soon as it rings."
"Don't act like you're actually concerned."
"The car is waiting for you, but the driver insists you crawl to avoid being seen."
His brother hung up.
Sherlock made it to the car without incident, though. Mycroft was clearly having fun at his expense. There was no way anyone would spot him over the incredible fire that consumed the adjacent house.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said.
"Mycroft. Wasn't expecting you to pick me up personally."
"I was in the area."
"Oh?"
"Oxford."
"I'm in Oxford?"
"Didn't you know?" Mycroft asked.
"No."
"No? Then how on earth did you get here?"
"How much do you know about The Engineer?"
"Not this again."
Sherlock replied, "Yes, this again. That woman just stuffed me inside a wall, and I need to know why."
"Is that a metaphor?"
"No, Mycroft. She drugged me and brought me to this house. There's a family of five inside, all dead. Now either she meant to burn me alive, which is unlikely given the circumstances and the fact that she could've simply lit me on fire in the trunk of the car - "
"If only," Mycroft interjected.
"- or she has other plans. I need to know everything you know about her. All the files you have on her. Everything you thought she had a hand in."
"You do realize that Sebastian Moran has been taken into custody."
"What?" Sherlock asked. "What happened to John and Molly?"
"Still alive, but this was all days ago, Sherlock."
"Days?"
"Two, to be precise."
"She took me and told me about something. But it doesn't make sense."
"What doesn't make sense?"
"Fireflies."
"What about them?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Obviously, Mycroft, there are none in this area, not the way she described them."
"She could be lying, Sherlock. She does that to everyone."
"I asked her... I can't remember! But she told me about bats and fireflies."
"So a woman known for faking crime scenes, stealing identities, and working with the likes of Moriarty abducted you, drugged you, and left you in a burning house," Mycroft summarized. "And yet, for some reason, you're concerned about the fairy story she told you about flying fauna?"
"Unless she spent time in America," Sherlock said.
Mycroft took a breath. "Ah, you're not listening. It's just as well. We'll have to find a place to store you while I conduct my business in Oxford."
London. Sebastian Moran had always been civilized. There was never any reason to be anything else.
Torture played well in the movies, but facts were facts. Professionals never gave up information, and anyone else would cop to anything to make the pain stop. Blackmail and kidnapping worked, sure, but the best way to get someone to spill their guts was to be their ally.
Or at least make them think that.
And that's why Sebastian Moran succeeded where his mentor Moriarty failed. Moran made people feel superior; Moriarty crushed people like the idiots they were. That's what made the two men such excellent partners in crime. Moriarty, the showman, flaunting everything he had with no reprisal from anyone, and Moran, the good soldier, politely holding fast, always ready to strike.
Moran never wanted to take Moriarty's place. He never wanted to inherit his allies, schemes, and pocket-employees. He certainly never wanted to bury the man who gave him everything.
But here he was, handcuffed to a hospital bed, nothing else to do but think on it. Sherlock Holmes was just one person who managed to murder the best man he had ever known. And two more walked free right now. It boiled his blood.
He straightened up. Practicality demanded that he be poised, no matter how he felt.
"Mr. Moran," someone said as she entered the room.
"Colonel Moran," Sebastian corrected. "Royal Marines. Retired, technically, but never really out."
"My apologies, Colonel Moran. I'm Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan," she replied. "Do you remember me?"
"Nah, love. Should I?"
"We spoke, briefly, just after you were out of intensive care."
"Ah, I remember someone trying to get something out of me, but can't really say who. That was you?"
"It was. Do you know why you're here?"
"Think I was shot, wasn't I?"
"By a sniper, and someone restricted your breathing - "
"Put a plastic bag over my head," Moran interrupted. "Sorry, that's hardly a thing you can make better with euphemisms, now is it?"
"The people who did it are still at large. The doctors asked us to give you two days for recovery after our first interview, but I need to ask you some questions about that day. Right now, all we have is a vague description of the woman."
"First things first. I need to call Tillie Tremblay from Farnsworth and Strother."
"The legal firm?" Donavan asked. "You want your lawyer?"
"Is there some kind of problem?"
"No, but victims don't usually call lawyers when being questioned."
"Except for these," Moran said as he pulled on his handcuffs. "If you only saw me as a victim, I wouldn't be chained to the bed, now would I?"
"We have witnesses that have accused you of a number of crimes."
"Yeah, well, those two individuals should learn how to mind. Maybe they shouldn't be so keen to comment on things they don't understand."
"Sorry?"
"Just saying, if I was them, I'd keep my trap shut as long as I wanted to live."
"Are you threatening their lives?"
"I'll be needing that call, love," Moran replied quietly.
Things like that always slipped out when he didn't keep his thoughts pointed to civility, and right now, Sebastian Moran seethed over John Watson and Molly Hooper.
<<< Previous Episode:
S3E3 - The Uncanny Valley
Next Part: >>>
Part Two: Elizabeth One
Primary Post: Four Elizabeths - Series 3, Episode 4
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)