Fic for destntoast: A Freak Adventure (2/2)

[holmesticemods]

Sherlock eyeballs the Panda unhappily but folds himself into the passenger seat without comment; another novelty for Sally to reflect upon. Later, after Susy is safely back home again.

The second they’ve adjusted their seatbelts he holds out his hand to her, palm upwards. “Your mobile. I want to speak to the friend myself.”

“Here.” Sally uses her teeth to tear off her glove and fishes her mobile out of her pocket. “It’s locked. The code…”

Out of the corner of her eye she spots he’s already unlocked the device. “How…?” she gasps.

“He’s always done that,” John declares affably from the back seat. “Got even better at it during his time away, insufferable sod.”

Sherlock pretends to be too busy to pay the remark attention but the corner of his mouth is tugged upwards in a secret smile and something wrenches inside Sally’s chest and she suddenly understands why Lestrade is always telling her the best means of handling the man is treating him like a child.

Another piece to the puzzle, Sally concludes as she starts the engine, throws the flashlight switch and puts the pedal to the metal.

“You’ve two missed calls from your brother and one text,” Sherlock announces. Immediately, Sally’s heart leaps into her throat. “ ‘WTF answer yr phone’ Overbearing prat, obviously.”

“I don’t-” Sally moans, flabbergasted.

“Being a proper policewoman and knowing your phone is non-compatible with this car kit, yet another staggering example of the Met’s general inefficiency, you switched it to silent mode, trusting you would feel the vibrations if anyone tried to contact you. Your coat is new, these quilted coats are all the fashion this winter and this coat lacks the Starbucks Frappuccino stain you’ve been sporting on every coat you’ve worn since we first met, and you haven’t yet discovered the thick wadding absorbs…”

During this lecture Sherlock’s been hitting predial and Dave’s voice clangs through the car’s tiny cage, effectively shutting Sherlock up.

“Sal, why aren’t you answering your phone, goddammit?”

“Mr Donovan, your sister was busy soliciting my help. Why didn’t you listen to her and go home?” Sherlock counters the question, which, predictably, only makes matters worse.

“What, who is this? Sally!”

“Dave, it’s all right,” she yells as loud as she can.

“Sal, what...?”

“We’re on our way,” Sherlock barges in. “I advise you to do as your sister told you and give up and stop trampling all over the park. With your bootless skulking you’ve probably already erased half the clues that will lead me to your daughter.” Ahead of them the traffic is slowing down for the Piccadilly junction. Sally hesitates for just one second before throwing the switch for the siren.

“Jesus, Sal what…” Dave explodes. The rest of the sentence doesn’t reach them as Sherlock cuts Dave’s spluttering with one deft swipe of the screen.

“Supercilious twit,” he mutters under his breath.

“Sherlock is not a fan of elder siblings,” John explains in the background, adding reprovingly, “You could have been kinder. The man’s daughter has gone missing.”

“Screaming blue murder and trampling all over the park won’t produce her any faster,” Sherlock replies, still fiddling with Sally’s phone. “Best head for the park. Let’s hope your moronic brother has listened and cleared off. He can hold his wife’s hand and you’ll be of better use helping in the search than making them tea.”

Buried somewhere deep beneath the pile of abuse a compliment lies hidden. Sort of. Or so Sally surmises.

“This her?” Sherlock flashes a snapshot Sally took during their Eltham Palace outing of Susy gallivanting in the rock garden and laughing happily into the camera. If he’s noticed her jacket is an exact copy of the one he’s currently wearing he doesn’t comment on it. Oh, who’s she fooling? Of sodding obviously course, he’s noticed.

“Yes.” Sally swallows with some difficulty. Sherlock still keeps suspiciously silent and produces his own mobile. Keeping her attention fixed on the traffic she throws the occasional glance at what he’s doing. Apparently he has complete dexterity in both hands as his left thumb dances as nimbly over the screen of her phone as his right thumb dashes over his own mobile.

“An alert to my homeless network,” he explains. “Unlikely many of them are out and about, but there’s always the off-chance someone has spotted something unusual.”

“You think…?”

“Theorising before the facts is unproductive, Sally. This Laura, your niece’s best friend?”

“Oh yes,” Sally says. “Always have been thick as thieves. Why?”

“Most reliable source,” Sherlock explains, punching at her phone screen. She wants to scream, exhorting him to be gentle with a fifteen-year-old girl but before she can open her mouth the device is plucked from Sherlock’s hand. Apparently, John Watson sports an extendable left arm.

“I’ll handle the introductions, shall I?” he says, affably. “Cut that noise, would you?”

“Culverton speaking.” In the silence after the din of the siren the man’s voice booms in the small car with the loud insistency of an amplifier announcing World War III.

“Hello Mr Culverton, John Watson here, I’m with the police. I realise it’s late and long past Laura’s bedtime but we would like a word with her if you don’t mind.”

“Watson? That blog bloke?” Laura’s father says in a disbelieving tone. Sherlock groans and casts his gaze at the Panda’s ceiling as if imploring the thin sheets of plastic and steel to grant him the mental strength to deal with the idiocy of the world in general and everyone remotely acquainted with Sally in particular.

“Yes, now…”

“Oh, I see. Susy’s aunt. That’s clever. We put Laura to bed and confiscated her phone for the night but I’ll check whether she’s still awake.” In the background there are noises of doors opening and shutting and heavy footsteps falling on uncarpeted stairs. “Not that she has much to tell. Amy, that’s my wife, says Laura’s upset by Susy’s disappearance as much as by what feels like betrayal.” His tone indicates he doesn’t grasp the gist of those feelings, probably attributing them to the overheated workings of a teenage girl’s brain, but he has got the message those emotions can’t be simply disregarded battered into him pretty effectively by his wife.

In the passenger seat Sherlock battles his seatbelt for liberty and twists his far too long body in the far too narrow space of a Panda front passenger seat in order to look daggers at John.

Hurry up! he mouths furiously. John shrugs, eloquently conveying they’re in the hands of the gods.

“Laura, darling?”

“Yes Daddy.” The girl obviously hasn’t slept a wink.

“The police want to speak with you. It’s John Watson…”

“Oh lord,” the girl squeaks. Sally cringes in advance for an outburst of untimely fangirling with Laura swooning from sheer excitement or - worse - screaming her head off. Either she’s too distressed over Susy’s disappearance or Susy’s fad for the consulting detective is one of the few whims they don’t share but to Sally’s relief the girl’s continues relatively coherently, “Hello, Mr Watson.”

John grimaces but stoically accepts to a teenager he must be more ancient than Dippy the dinosaur itself. Everyone over twenty is, except for Sherlock, apparently.

“Hello Laura. I’m sorry to hear what’s happened and to disturb you at this time of night. Mr Holmes would like to ask you some questions. In private.”

“Of course.” Over the connection they can almost feel the girl nodding furiously. “Daddy, can you wait outside?” After ten seconds of furious arguing Laura speaks directly into the phone again. “It’s all right. My father is out in the hallway.”

John’s opening his mouth when the girl asks in a small voice, “Is Mr Holmes going to be rude to me?”

Sherlock graces the ceiling with another eyeroll.

“Probably,” John assents. “But it seems you’re better prepared than most. Here he is, brace yourself.”

With that encouragement he hands the phone to Sherlock who immediately barks into it, “What other mischief have you two been up to?”

Predictably the girl, already overwrought, bursts into tears. “Nothing,” she cries. “We’re not like that. Our dads would break our legs first. Everyone’s always assuming the worst because Susy is so popular but that’s because she’s fit and kind and not because… we’re not!”

“Come on,” Sherlock scoffs. “That crafty story the two of you concocted? What favour were you getting out of it in turn?”

“Nothing! I really was pissed off with her. She’s been acting weirdly for weeks now, even said no to going to H&M’s Tuesday to check out their new arrivals. Ever since…” Laura scrunches to a halt. Sally imagines she can see the girl clap a hand over her mouth.

“Ever since what,” Sherlock urges.

“Nothing,” Laura replies, sullenly but determined. “I can’t tell you.” Sally finds herself incredibly beholden to the cheap plastic steering wheel for existing and allowing her to clutch it so hard she fears for its continuing. In the mirror she catches sight of John shaking his head in sympathy with Laura’s plight and pursing his mouth in admiration of the girl’s steadfast celebration of a friendship she’s fearing may already be in tatters. He should be the one talking to Laura for what does Sherlock understand of the heartache induced by the loss of a friend.

“Laura.” To Sally’s amazement Sherlock’s voice has dropped to a velvety purr. It’s deep, and reassuring and unbelievably… sexy is the only term that covers whatever the sound is doing to Sally’s ears and the spongy stuff that’s lodged in between them and it presses her into pouring out her darkest secrets in the certain knowledge they’ll be safe with him.

Laura struggles audibly but if the aural seduction almost reduces Sally - who’s sitting right next to the prat and knows he’s a coldly calculating deducing machine - to a gibbering mess what chance does an innocent teenage girl stand?

“Please don’t,” Laura is crying. “Please.”

Normally this is the moment Sherlock moves in for the kill, Sally has seen him at it dozens of times, but he surprises her again by relenting.

“Just tell me,” he says, “what’s Susy’s favourite spot in the park? And her shoe size. Those aren’t secrets, are they?”

“Oh no.” Laura’s relief at the sudden change of tack is palpable. “The Peace Pagoda. Because of the views and it’s so funny, sitting there in the middle of London. And her shoe size is six and a half, same as mine.”

“I see. Thank you Laura. You’ve been very helpful. Tell your father we may want to contact you again later.”

“That’s… you will find her, won’t you?”

“I will,” Sherlock replies in that strangely warm tone and disconnects.

“Well, that wasn’t very helpful at all,” John opines. Not very helpfully in Sally’s opinion but a wise head keeps a still tongue so she doggedly keeps her eyes fixed on the taillights of the car in front of them.

“On the contrary, John,” Sherlock contradicts with his usual maddening confidence.

“Peace Pagoda,” he instructs Sally. “Best stop at about a hundred yards away from it. I want to look at the tyre tracks running up and away from the structure.” He turns in his seat and addresses them both.

“Susy met someone there. The very person with whom she’s been texting so assiduously the past few weeks. So much so her best friend was heartily sick of it. There’s something else, though, something that’s wrong with this picture.”

His voice trails off and he swivels his head to stare out of the window at the faintly phosphorescent orange glow of the streetlights bobbing past them.

“She specifically didn’t want to talk to me,” he muses.

“Word spreads around,” John points out, but Sherlock doesn’t take the bait. Instead he tinkers with Sally’s mobile again and stares at Susy’s picture with such eye-popping intensity Sally expects the device to dissolve from the heat any second. After what seems like an interminable time (though in actuality it’s less than five seconds) his face acquires a blank look, as if it’s a canvas scrubbed clean by an invisible hand.

“Good taste in clothes,” he says and closes his eyes, leaving Sally to grapple with the hot wave of shame and despair washing over her and leaving her face covered in a cold sweat. She shouldn’t have brought him in, he’s seen right through her, seen right through Susy. Even if he saves Susy’s life her poor niece will never recover from the mortification he’ll inflict.

***

Carriage Drive is deserted and the walkways leading to and from it are equally devoid of life. Even the occasional dog walker has decided to call it a day apparently. The moment Sally stops the car at approximately three hundred yards from the Pagoda, Sherlock throws open the passenger door and darts from the vehicle’s narrow confines as eagerly as a foxhound on the season’s first hunting day.

“Stay back,” he barks and he’s off.

What follows is a classical demonstration of ‘the Freak’ at work. It’s a post-modern ballet of the man doubling over to study an unremarkable heap of dirty snow through his magnifier and whisking out a zip bag to collect something undefinable from the half-frozen sludge covering the tarmac. The next instant he bursts into a run at Olympian speed only to draw to a halt ten metres on to drop to his knees and sniff - literally sniff - a clump of sodding grass while measuring it with the aid of a measuring tape. As ever Sally’s amazed at the amount of gear stashed inside the coat, that yet billows as gracefully around his legs as a sorcerer’s cape in a fairy tale.

John seems content to watch and admire the necromancer going through his jiggery-pokery routine. Sally uses the time for a quick call to inform Dave they’ve gone straight to the park.

“There’s nothing there,” Dave is grumbling when a triumphant yell reverberates across the grounds and from the shadows of a clump of trees emerges an arm that stabs the air with something slim and rectangular.

“What the…?”

“Sorry,” Sally breathes. “I think he’s found Susy’s phone. Later.”

Indeed the object proves to be Susy’s phone Sally learns when both she and John Watson arrive at Sherlock’s side. Somehow he’s already unlocked it. Sally notes Sherlock’s managed to put on a pair of nitrile gloves while dashing about. He wasn’t wearing them in the car. The sight startles her into understanding. He’s donned them because he’s collecting evidence.

“Track and trace not merely switched off but disabled. Quite permanently,” Sherlock announces. His forefinger brings up Susy’s contact list. “Now let’s see who’s been monopolising-”

Shocked, the three of them stare at the picture that has sprung up of Sherlock in that silly hat with his name beside it.

“What?” John growls, spinning towards Sally. All the anger he pushed down at Sherlock’s instigation less than an hour ago is back with a vengeance. “What sick joke are you playing at?”

“She’s not, John,” Sherlock pacifies his friend, simultaneously scrolling through the history of ‘his’ and Susy’s texting romance. Of bloody sodding course he’s far too fast for Sally but to catch a few words but even those are enough for Sally to feel tears of frustration well up for the umpteenth time that evening. Her own niece falling for such glib tricks despite all the warnings her parents have tried to hammer into her. Oh, the poor child, how is it possible for her to have been so thoroughly bloody stupid.

“You’re witnessing Sally’s worst nightmare,” Sherlock coolly admonishes John. “Susy’s been wearing her heart on her sleeve and someone’s picked up the signals. A rather cIever someone. See, I could have texted that.” He points out a barb about Lestrade. “Oh yes, clever, but young… and nervous.”

“How do you know?”

“They met here all right,” Sherlock says. “He had a car. See the tyre tracks, Dunlop winter sport 5. Not too sure about the type of car but could be a Volvo, which tallies with the tyres. So, sensible type. Not really, he was smoking with the window open - ash here and here - and threw out the dog ends. Three Silk Cuts, not a true nicotine lover’s brand, there’s simply no taste to them at all. Why smoke tasteless cigarettes with the window open in this temperature? Because the car’s actual owner doesn’t smoke and he wants to paint a picture for the person he’s waiting for. Not too clear a picture, that’s why he parked here, exactly between those streetlights. There’s enough light for Susy to catch the shape of the hat and the coat collar he’s flipped up to create a distinctive silhouette but not enough for her to realise he’s a fake until he jumped out of the car and overpowered her. Here’s the trail of her footprints, the most unpractical shoes anyone could wear in this weather and the right size, six and a half. A scuffle followed, she gave him as good as she got - drew some blood, see - but judging by the size of his shoes and the width of his gait he’s six feet one at least so she never stood a chance. He came prepared - cable ties - and dropped one in his haste binding her and bundling her in the car. He almost slipped driving off in the direction of Parkgate Road.”

John is staring open-mouthed at his friend and Sally realises her mouth must have fallen open at some time during the exposé as well for frigid air is tickling the back of her throat. A whole crime scene conjured up out of trivia anyone would have barged past obliviously. Like Dave probably did. Twice.

“But why didn’t he dump her phone in the Thames?” she manages. Which is what she would have done if she were abducting someone.

Sherlock shrugs. “How should I know? Because he’s a techie who hates to destroy the latest iPhone? You can ask him, when you’re interrogating him.” He stashes the mobile into another zip bag which he hands her while whipping out his own phone. “Hmm. Still nothing from the network. Damn.”

“Perhaps,” Sally suggests. “I can try to get access to the CCTV-footage. It’s a bit of a hassle-”

“We don’t have time to deal with the Met’s medieval procedures and regulations,” Sherlock grunts. Forging his features into a terrifyingly pretend smile he lifts the mobile to his ear and croons into it, “Hello brother dear, today happens to be your lucky day. You still owe me for saving that atrocious pile of bricks near Westminster Bridge from total destruction.”

The smile transforms into a sneer as he thunders, “Yes, Mycroft, I know that’s the Houses of Parliament but that’s not the point.-Oh, dull.-All I want is footage of cars driving along the Thames on the Battersea Park Carriage Driveway in the direction of Parkgate Road between eight and half past nine this evening.”

“But, that’s highly illegal,” Sally stammers, turning towards John for an explanation or perhaps reassurance that she’s not actually hearing what she thinks she’s hearing, but John just shrugs.

“I’m stumped,” he adds, unnecessarily, for his countenance expresses the whole gamut of his emotions as brightly as if he were back to shouting, straight into her face this time. The necessity of finding Susy as quickly as possible is a given for him, as it would be for anyone with the merest shred of humanity in their souls, but he appears seriously at sea about Sherlock’s motives for helping find Sally’s niece, even going so far as to apply for assistance to the despised brother.

The man in question, meanwhile, seems locked in a savage battle of wills that reduces the importance and memory of the Wars of the Roses to that of the longest hoity-toity tea party in the history of Britain.

At last Sherlock cuts the call with a face as disgusted as if he has just chanced upon a mountain of freshly deposited elephant shit. “Supercilious tosser.”

“Yeah,” John agrees. “Got what you wanted?”

“Yes, he’s sending it to your and Sally’s phone as well. Will arrive any minute. Might as well wait in the car.” He tears off the nitrile gloves and rubs his hands. “Nothing else we can do.”

Back inside their cosy government-issued shed on wheels Sally scrapes together all her courage before addressing Sherlock who’s staring at his phone screen as if willing the footage to pop up.

“Look. Susy’s young and… but she’s a good and clever girl, she really is. This is not like her-” She trails to a stop at the raise of his hand.

“My parents said the same first time my brother sent me down to Castle Craig,” he says, gaze still fixed to his phone with invisible wire. Correctly interpreting her silence following this declaration, he clarifies, “Pretentious rehab on the Scottish Border for morons with too much money and too little sense.”

“Sherlock,” John calls out, excited, and then the three of them are all staring at their phones.

“Where’s this exactly?” John asks.

“About two hundred yards from here, shortly before Carriage Drive branches. Look for a Volvo.”

“And a deerstalker behind the steering wheel,” Sally says.

“No, too distinctive. There’s a chance Susy’s allowed to sit straight but maybe he’s forcing her to bend over.”

A chilly hand squeezes Sally’s heart. “Or he put her in the boot.”

“No, she’s in the passenger seat.” The statement is delivered in his customary aggravatingly self-assured manner but for once Sally wants to kiss his face rather than slap it.

“Sherlock?” John Watson’s extendable arm wedges between the seats. “Nine eighteen. Two passengers. Not sure about the tyres but then I’m not a tyre man.”

“Dunlop,” Sherlock confirms, scrutinising the magnified pixels that look like an abstract painting with the eloquent title ‘No title’ to Sally. “Perhaps we’re in luck.”

At a speed not humanly possible he scrolls through the footage. “You too, Sally,” he rumbles and she guiltily resumes her onerous examination.

“Octavia Street,” Sherlock exclaims the next second. “Went in, never came out.”

“What? Dave lives in Ursula Street, that’s the next street from…”

“So there’s a chance Susy knows her assailant. You get us there, Sally, no flashlight, we want to sneak up on them. I’ll tell you if we’re chasing chimeras instead of your niece.”

She may be denied the use of the siren and the flashlight but as the roads are deserted anyway there’s no keeping her from assembling the largest amount of speeding penalty points in the shortest possible time. At one point she feels John’s fingers brush her neck as he grapples the back of her seat for support but Sherlock remains unperturbed, his long body swaying seamlessly along with the bloodcurdling swerves around corners and the occasional vehicle bold enough to assume it has right of passage where they’re headed.

“Best slow down now,” he says as they veer into Octavia Street.

“Jesus,” John comments in a kitten’s weak mewling tones. “That was worse than a rollercoaster.” Apparently he’s so shaken he’s even dropped his wide range of soldierly vernacular.

“Nonsense. Park over there, Sally. That’s our Volvo, in front of number twenty-five.”

The grey Volvo is sitting menacingly in front of an inconspicuous semi-detached. The house’s woodwork twinkles as spotlessly bright in the ambient orangey glow of the streetlights as that of its neighbours and an immaculately shorn box hedge separates the front gardens from the pavement. The windows in both houses are dark, their inhabitants either asleep or away. In fact, the whole street appears to have hooked it for Bedfordshire.

“Are you sure?” Sally whispers.

“They’re unlikely to hear us, Sally,” Sherlock responds, already unfolding his frame from the confines of the Panda. “And of course I’m sure. Wait here. I’ll get the lie of the land.”

He’s off like a hare hound, dashing around the Volvo. For a moment he appears confused but then he clearly picks up the trail and darts away at a speed that makes Sally wonder whether he’s trying to collect penalty points on foot.

“Oh no you don’t,” John breathes and then they’re both out of the car and chasing Sherlock and catching him with his lock picks thrust deep inside the lock of a meticulously painted front door.

“Ssh,” he shushes them and flicks his eyes up to the upstairs window over the living room and the thin line of light at the top of the glass.

The lock’s tumblers fall into place and John shoves Sherlock aside and is the first into the house, Sherlock tiptoeing after him as stealthily quiet as a fox sneaking into a chicken coop. As Sally creeps after them her heart is hammering so loudly in her chest she fears the noise will give them away. Imagine Sherlock is wrong and she’s adding breaking and entering into some perfectly upright British citizen’s home to her tally of offences against the law.

But he’s never wrong, remember? she chides herself and then her hearts jumps straight into her throat for a sound resonates through the dark gloom that reigns in the hallway. It’s a snivelling wail of fear and despair, and Sally’s up the stairs and racing towards the noise but John astonishes her again by speeding past her and blocking her way at the top.

‘No,’ he mouths, ‘you don’t know what’s in there.’

Talking about overbearing gits. Sally pushes at him but he’s like a rock and she has to watch helplessly as Sherlock slithers past them with the ease of an eel in a bucket of mucus and halts at the door from behind which the whimpering continues. For an instant he seems irresolute but then he kicks the door in and leaps into the room with a mighty shout of “Police, you’re under arrest!”

Still wrestling John whose hands are gripping her upper arms like a pair of vices Sally gasps as she catches sight of the horrifying scene Sherlock has revealed. Sherlock - the saint Sally thinks wildly as a fresh flood of tears threatens the dam of her professionalism again - has already taken off his coat and is draping it over Susy’s shoulders, whether in order to preserve her modesty or to provide her with a source of warmth Sally is unable to determine. Perhaps both.

She doesn’t know if John releases her voluntarily or if she manages to wriggle free of his grasp at last. What she does know is that she’s in the room with Susy the next second, nearly stumbling over the long legs prone on the floor in her haste to gather the girl in her arms.

“Sally,” Susy cries out and buries her face in Sally’s shoulder, sobbing and pushing her blood-soaked curls into Sally’s face. There’s blood everywhere. The whole room is covered with the fine spray that burst forth from the left carotid artery of the man - no, Sally decides as she looks at the motionless face, he can’t be older than twenty if it’s a day, so he’s really nothing more than a boy - contemplating the ceiling with broken eyes.

Sherlock is crouching beside the body, lifting the weapon - a pair of what even Sally can discern are obviously expensive and ridiculously sharp scissors - with fingers that are once again covered in nitrile and depositing it into another zip bag.

“You ring Susy’s parents, John,” he says. “There’s nothing else for you to do here and they’ll be relieved to hear their daughter is safe and well.” He holds out his hand for John’s phone and dials the number. John retreats to the corridor, shutting the door behind him. “Best call 999 as well.”

“Sherlock,” Susy gasps, lifting her head and staring at him as if woken from a trance. “He… oh god… I didn’t do it on purpose, honestly.” She thrusts her face into Sally’s neck again.

“Please, Sally. I… I panicked when he started unbuttoning my blouse and I only wanted to get away so I agreed to kiss him but I said for the kiss to be a real kiss he needed to untie me so I could cup the back of his head like they do in the films and he… he believed me and he used the scissors… You see, in the park he’d bound my hands with cable ties and we fought…”

“Ssh, Susy, it’s all right. You don’t have to explain,” Sherlock says. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, remember? This room has already provided me with all the evidence I need. Just tell me, what did people call him?”

“Geek. Even Laura did, we argued about it because Richard can’t help it he’s cleverer than any of us. I… I felt sorry for him so I always said hello when we met in the street.” Another sob wracks Susy’s thin body. “And now I’ve killed him.”

“It was self-defence,” Sally says hotly. Over the top of Susy’s head Sherlock lifts a finger to his lips as if imploring her to shut up. Can’t he see the girl needs to be reassured she’s done nothing wrong? Sally throws him the most livid glare in her repertoire and clutches Susy even tighter, murmuring soothing sweet words into her hair.

Meanwhile Sherlock is defying general expectation by ignoring the corpse in the room and bending over the victim/attacker’s desk, lifting a tiny disc close to his face and peering over it with the same intensity he employed scrambling for signs near the Peace Pagoda. The hunch of his shoulders indicates he sincerely misses his magnifier, which must be hidden somewhere in the coat’s copious pockets.

“Fascinating,” Sally can hear him mutter. For the first time since entering Sally casts a look around the room - this ‘Richard’s’ room - she supposes and notices its layout is something of a blend of the Met’s forensic labs, Molly Hooper’s lab at Bart’s and Sherlock’s kitchen table.

No wonder he told Susy the room provided him with all the evidence he needed. It must have reminded him of his own lonely youth, spent suffering the company of dimwits whose sole response to his brilliance was foul-mouthing him with every unimaginative derogatory label in their limited verbal range. Freak or geek. Same difference.

“I never meant to kill him,” Susy wails, and Sally presses her closer and hides her face deep in the girl’s curls in shame.

***

Dave and Debbie are the first to arrive, followed shortly after by the ambulance and a sleepy-eyed Dimmock who springs to attention the instant he spots Sherlock. The DI has been among the consulting detective’s staunchest supporters ever since the Chinese smuggling ring case. Sherlock talks Dimmock through the evening and the crime scene, ending his exposé with the expectation the inquest will prove Susy is the inadvertent victim of her own compassion. This, Sally realises, is uttered more for Dave’s and Debbie’s sake than for Dimmock’s instruction.

He also hands Dimmock a post it-note with a phone number, warning the parents are holidaying in the South of Italy and the first available flight to London is tomorrow at nine a.m.
Where and how he’s uncovered the number is a puzzle Sally will tackle later, once she can think clearly again.

These chores dealt with Sherlock addresses Sally. “My mobile. Left hand inner pocket.”

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, of course. I’ll ask for a shock blanket.”

“No need,” he replies. “Your niece has suffered enough shocks for one evening as it is. Those blankets were designed by a colour blind visually impaired moron having an off-day.”

“But it’s freezing… and…”

“You surpass yourself Sally but there’s no need. John has ordered a cab and I have two more at home.”

So he does stock a whole range of the extravagant item. Sally speculates briefly if the same holds true for the infamous PSoS and what price it would fetch on e-bay should she pilfer one during the next pretend drugs bust.

“All right,” she says. “Thank you.”

***

Predictably, the inquest proves to be a mere formality. Sherlock dumfounds Sally yet again by keeping his testimony brief and to the point, but she’s relieved to discover she isn’t the only one gobsmacked. Once John has regained his speech he introduces Sally to his fiancée, Mary Morstan, a small pretty blonde whom Sally immediately takes a liking too.

“I’m very happy for you, John,” she says. “You’ve found yourself a lovely woman. And a lot safer than Sherlock.”

“God yes, I’m the luckiest bastard alive.” John grins. “How’s Susy holding up?”

“Better than Dave and Debbie, I think. She fought with them over visiting the boy’s parents and now insists on going to the boy’s funeral. I agree with her. It can be a kind of… I don’t know… closure for all of them. The boy’s parents are devastated, of course. Susy says they even apologised to her.”

“It’s a sad story,” Mary butts in. “And your niece is a staggeringly gutsy girl.”

“Yes,” Sally agrees. “Yes she is.”

***

At last Dave and Debbie succumb to reason and assent to attending Richard’s funeral, provided Sally accompanies them.

Halfway through the service the door to the church opens. Sally swivels in her seat. She thinks she spots a swishy black shadow vanishing behind one of the thick pillars supporting the nave. As they file out of the church behind the casket she checks every pew and stone in the building but she must have imagined it for the last ten rows of seats prove entirely devoid of life.

***

Lestrade returns from his sojourn to the Scilly Islands looking satiated and faintly smug and as excited as a teenager in love.

“You’re a moron and a disgrace to the Met’s standards which were already ridiculously low to begin with,” Sherlock informs him archly and legs it out of Lestrade’s office with his nose up in the air and dramatically flaring coattails.

Which reminds Sally its counterpart still resides at her brother’s.

“Thank god you rang,” Debbie says. “I’ve already told Susy a hundred times we should take the horrid thing to the drycleaners and return it. I can’t stand the bloody sight of it any longer.”

“Uh, I’d better ring his landlady and ask her if there’s a specific drycleaners he favours. He’s a bit particular about his clothes.”

“As am I, Sal, our dry-”

Exasperated, Sally hangs up on her.

Maybe Sally is indeed learning Sherlock Holmes’ quirks and tells. Mrs Hudson immediately starts tutting and assuring Sally there’s indeed only one dry-cleaning establishment in the whole of the Greater London area entrusted with the privilege of sanitising Sherlock Holmes’ clothes. If Mrs Hudson is to be believed no other business is fit to dealing with the Herculean task of scrubbing copious quantities of blood, Thames mud and other indescribable muck from textiles designed for languishing on an over-stylised garden bench at some posh charity event rather than durability.

Debbie confesses to being unfamiliar with the firm. Unsurprisingly, Sally muses as she tracks and backtracks the warren of mews and back alleys that feels like she’s entered the TARDIS and been dropped off somewhere in the Regency era, cursing Google maps for malfunctioning when she needs it most. Throughout the monstrously voluminous plastic bag into which they’ve managed to bundle the coat keeps bumping her leg.

At long last she grasps she’s already passed the firm a dozen times, assuming the crumbling establishment with the imposing display of cobwebs in the windows must have been out of business since way before The Beatles released their first hit single.

The antediluvian duffer guarding the counter eyeballs her suspiciously while opening the bag. His look acquires daggers as he reveals the content. “How did you come by this?”

It’s just Sally’s luck to have bumped into yet another Sherlock Holmes lover. One who looks ready to do her in and, frankly, Sally’s certain this man has so many hiding places at his disposal even the great consulting detective would never detect her withered corpse.

“Mrs Hudson,” she squeaks, which luckily works like a charm on the creature and buys her a few precious minutes in which to explain how the sacred coat (‘Belstaff’ the ogre corrects her) came into her possession.

“Oh dear. Blood all over the lining. When will he ever learn?” the man grouses in the indulgent tones of an elderly parent who’s just learned of his beloved child’s latest shenanigans and Sally flees the premises before a fondness for all things Sherlock Holmes will overcome her and rob her of every last shred of common sense.

***

“It’s amazing,” Susy enthuses, fingering the fabric hidden beneath the mileages of plastic swathe covering Sally’s lap. “Feel how soft it is. I’ll tell Mum we’ll have to change drycleaners. And imagine he even has his shirts dry-cleaned.” Enthralled she stares at the PSoS resting in her own lap. When collecting the coat the shop’s proprietor had told them they might as well take those shirts and save Mrs Hudson the bother, which Sally concurred was an entirely reasonable course of action. Anything to get out of the quaint creature’s proximity as quickly as humanly possible.

Inwardly, Sally sighs. Her own assessment of Sherlock Holmes’ assets as a human being have pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees since Susy’s frightful ordeal but she’s secretly hoped the same would have held true for Susy’s adoration of the man. After all, he’d mainly ignored her the evening of her rescue, didn’t even look her way during the inquest and hasn’t enquired once how she’s faring since. If Sally were in her footsteps…

…she’d never have ended up in the trouble to begin with for she would have joined the others in jeering at that unfortunate boy, Sally admits gingerly and isn’t that a sobering thought.

“I once found eyeballs in his microwave,” she now warns. “And my boss says he once nearly stepped upon a collection of venomous spiders in his loo. Nearly pissed himself.”

Susy smiles. “I know what you’re doing, Sally. But you really don’t have to. I can still admire him for being a snappy dresser and for rescuing me, can’t I?”

“You did it all by yourself,” Sally says, grabbing Susy’s hand and pressing it.

“I kept hoping you’d contact Sherlock for he was my best chance of figuring out what had happened,” Susy says. “Until Richard made that move when I tried to stab him and… I lost it...”

“Would you mind not listening in on a private conversation,” Sally snarls at the cabbie’s perked ears before leaning forward and closing the glass partition door with a bang.

Mrs Hudson welcomes them as if Susy is the Duchess of Cambridge herself arriving at her doorstep.

“Oh, John told me all about you, you brave, brave girl,” she trills. “But come in, come in. Mrs Turner will be glad for the distraction. She has been complaining all day about his playing. I don’t hear it any longer, you know, just turn up the telly but she insists a hedge between keeps friendship green. I wouldn’t know about that, I’ve never been much of a gardener myself.”

In the hallway Susy heads straight for the staircase.

“Oh, and thank you for getting the dry-cleaning,” Mrs Hudson continues, undeterred. “Especially that coat. It’s so heavy, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Sally says, remembering to ask, “How’s the hip, Mrs Hudson?”

“Oh, much better dear, thanks to your advice. I went to the shops the next day and it hasn’t been bothering me at all since. It looks a fright and if Frank had caught me wearing those he would’ve murdered me but well, thanks to Sherlock he can’t.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Sally says and hurries up the stairs after Susy and towards the racket of a dozen cats in heat being strangled.

Thankfully it stops the moment Sally raps on the door to the living room.

“Come in,” Sherlock’s deep voice booms through the wood.

“Ah Sally,” he greets them, looking down from the lofty heights of his uppity nose and over the violin stuck under his chin. “And Susy. On a call of delivery. Good. You can put it there, on the sofa and leave. Bartok’s sonata for solo violin has no patience for trivia.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Sally retorts. “But too bad all the same. Your neighbours will thank me for cutting that godawful noise at least.”

Sherlock lowers the bow and the violin to fix her with his haughtiest stare but she ignores him and marches into the kitchen. “I’ll make us tea, shall I, seeing as Your Lordship can’t be bothered to lower himself to the basic principles of hospitality.”

“I didn’t invite you, did I?” he shouts after her. “And unless you’re here for a case...”

“We’re here to thank you for taking on my case, Sherlock,” Susy’s voice cuts in and Sally smiles to herself as she fills the kettle, insanely proud of the girl’s guts. “And to thank you for finding me and rescuing me and not commenting on my stupidity even though you had every reason to do so.”

She’s looking steadily up at him while proffering her hand. Lower lip pushed forward he contemplates the limb for a long time before slowly placing the violin and bow into their case.

“You’re welcome,” he says, folding his long fingers around Susy’s small hand in a firm grip. “It was barely a three but you were a better victim than most.”

“Not dead,” Susy states and that draws a faint smirk.

“Still a fangirl though,” he notes, his gaze sweeping Suzy’s black suit and burgundy shirt. “Your aunt’s bound to be disappointed.”

“That’s because there’s no one else in Britain who’s got your sartorial style,” Susy replies and for some unfathomable reason that answer appears to put a feather in Sherlock’s cap.

“Well.” He gestures towards John’s chair. “Not everyone would agree but in this you’re the expert, I suppose.”

“Please.” Susy holds out a neatly-wrapped package to him. “I’m really grateful and I wanted to give you a present.”

“Why, thank you.” His face drops at the tediousness of complying with the dull manoeuvres of ordinary people but it lifts again as he lifts the scarf from the paper. Even Sally has enough awareness to appreciate its exquisite quality. Woven in a faint tartan pattern it looks incredibly soft and warm and the amongst the various blue hues one colour stands out that matches the blue shards in his eyes to perfection.

“I made it myself,” Susy says. “I hope you like it.”

***

A few weeks later Sally runs into Sherlock at the Yard’s sole functioning coffee machine. Slung around the consulting detective’s neck is Susy’s scarf. He catches her surveying it and shrugs.

“It’s warm,” he says.

“ ‘Course,” Sally smiles. “You fancy the double espresso or the latte macchiato? I’m still trying to detect the difference.”

“There isn’t any,” Sherlock answers decisively. “Shoddy coffee for a shoddy organisation. I held some hope after Anderson’s dismissal but you’ve managed to replace him with an even bigger idiot.”

“And a happy New Year to you too,” Sally cheers him, raising her - shoddy - plastic cup to him. “By the way, I still meant to ask. If it was barely a three, why did you come with me that night?”

“Why?” For a moment he looks trounced by so much sheer stupidity and then he smirks. “You know the answer, Sally, you’ve been shouting it at the top of your lungs since we first met. I’m a psychopath, remember, and psychopaths get bored. John was just about to suggest we watch telly.”

He shudders.

“Oh.” Whatever answer she expected it certainly isn’t this ruthlessly honest admission Susy’s calamity served as a temporary cure for perpetual boredom. On the other hand, this same ruthlessness was what carried them through the evening and is now helping Susy deal with the aftermath.

No more the Freak, only Sherlock, that’s what she’s promised him. Promised herself.

“Right,” she says. “Well, I know saying thanks is wasted on you but thank you all the same. For everything.”