Fill: Bound in Gold 19
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: I'm told it's NC-17, but I actually consider it more a hard R.
Spoilers: All of ASiP
Warnings: If you object to arranged marriage, you probably won't like this
WTF is This?: Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme. Condensed summary: Arranged marriage AU. The first time John and Sherlock meet is on their wedding day.
19.
No. No no no no no! Not tonight. Any night but tonight! That look on Ma--on Mrs Hudson’s face was too much, far too much and far too painful to exist on a night when John had just kissed him like that. He’d hoped never to see that look again. He’d worked damn hard never to see that bloody look again!
“What are you doing?” He demanded the second he’d opened the door to reveal Lestrade sitting in the leather armchair like a bloody king on his bloody throne, lounging about like he owned the place.
“Well I knew you’d find the case, I’m not stupid.” Lestrade drawled, and Sherlock bit back a retort.
“You can’t just break into our flat!” He snapped.
“And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.”
“Well what do you call this then?” Sherlock demanded, and regretted it instantly. He knew. He bloody well knew exactly which stunt Lestrade was pulling. He knew, too, exactly what all the gloved Yarders were looking for as they tore the place apart. Oh please, oh please don’t say it.
“It’s a drugs bust!” Lestrade announced cheerfully, and Sherlock’s world began to crack and splinter because John...John was right there and he heard that.
“A what?” John’s voice was equal parts incredulous and dismayed. “You can’t be serious. Sherlock, a junkie? Have you met him?”
“John.” Sherlock said warningly, but John didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn’t find anything you could call ‘recreational’.”
“John I am begging you to stop talking.” Sherlock hissed under his breath so only John could hear.
“Yeah but come on...” John said with an indulgent smile, finally turning to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Whatever he saw there made his expression drop like a stone, and he just stared until Sherlock began to feel uncomfortable.
“What?” Sherlock demanded, and part of him hoped that John could just accept this and move on. John was exceptional, he’d proven that more than once, so he should shine here as well. He should understand.
“You?” And his voice was dripping with incredulity, astonishment and disappointment. It made Sherlock livid, becuase it was so bloody predictable.
“Shut up!” He snapped. John’s eyes dimmed, and his face contorted as though he were about to be sick.
“No.” He whispered. “No, not you.” And it was damn near pleading. Sherlock wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. Of course. Of course John would take this badly. First Harry and now Sherlock. Shame settled over him like a smothering cloak, and he felt he might buckle under the weight of it.
Instead, he channeled it into anger and rounded on Lestrade. “I’m not your sniffer dog!” He snarled.
“No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog.”
“Wha-- An--” The kitchen door slid aside and Anderson glared out at him, one hand raised in a sardonic greeting. “Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?!”
“Oh I volunteered.”
“They all did.” Lestrade added. “They’re not, strictly speaking, on the drugs squad but they’re very keen.”
Sally Donovan appeared beside Anderson, brandishing a jar. “Are these human eyes?” She demanded.
“Put those back!” Sherlock snapped.
“They were in the microwave.”
“It’s an experiment.” One he’d had to start from scratch thanks to Mrs Hudson’s tidying blitz.
Back by the door, John scoffed. Sherlock wondered if this was what it was like to be stabbed by an icicle...oh, that was worth testing out. Where could he get a dead pig this time of night? No! No, focus Sherlock. Very upset, John’s just found out about the drugs, Lestrade is a git, Anderson is inside the bloody flat!
That gave him the fury he needed, and he started pacing while Lestrade instructed his minions, quite redundantly, to keep looking for illicit substances. Sherlock hoped desperately that Mycroft’s puppets had gotten rid of the payote he’d been subjecting to various infusions of spider venom. That would be hard to explain.
“This is childish!” He hissed as he paced, more and more frustrated and nervous because he had some damn good hiding places and Mycroft might not have--
“Well I’m dealing with a child.” Lestrade shot back, and it was infurating how the man could reduce Sherlock to a pathetic charicature of himself. “Sherlock, this is our case. I’m letting you in but you do not go off on your own! Clear?”
Sherlock rounded on him, the fires of rage singing his internal organs. “Oh, what so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”
“Stops being pretend if they find anything.”
“Oh God.” John moaned and slumped against the wall.
Sherlock darted his gaze from John to Lestrade to the not-quite drugs squad. His head was spinning. “I am clean!” He all but shouted. His gaze finally rested on his husband. “God, John, I swear. I’m clean!”
“Is your flat?” Lestrade prodded. “All of it?”
Sherlock seethed. “I don’t even smoke!” And he unfastened his cuff so he could pull back his sleeve, revealing one of the nicotine patches.
“Neither do I.” Said Lestrade, doing the same. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the blatant commiseration. It was cheap and sentimental, but it was also true. Lestrade knew what it was like, the constant wanting. And, yes, it was tangible proof that Sherlock and he were alike in at least one way.
“So let’s work together.” Lestrade went on. “We found Rachel.”
That focussed Sherlock’s mind beautifully, and he was able to temporarily put John and that wounded look on his face out of mind.
“Who is she?”
“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”
“Her daughter. Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?” Sherlock’s brain began to whirl with connections, potentials, behaviour analyses, and then Anderson had to go and talk and that put a spanner in the works.
“Never mind that!” He sneered. “We found the case! According to someone the murderer has the case. And we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath!” Christ, even when he thought he was scoring a point he sounded sneering. Did he have another tone of voice. Sherlock’s already frayed patience snapped.
“I’m not a psycopath, Anderson, I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!” He regretted it the second it was out of his mouth, mainly because of the horrible noise that came out of John’s mouth once he’d said it. It was almost an hysterical laugh, almost a shattered sob, and it was unbearable.
“Of course.” John muttered. “Of course you bloody are. Why not? ‘S how it works, innit? Oh, Christ...she was right. She was completely right.” His voice was pitched low, and Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure anyone else had heard him properly, but Sherlock had. He’d heard every throat-constricting, lung-crushing word of it.
“John...I...” But what could he say? He had a feeling any words out of his mouth directed to John would only serve to dig him deeper into his already towering hole. He forced himself to wrench his gaze from John and focus instead on Lestrade.
“Bring, um...bring Rachel in. You need to, um, and I need to...we should question her.”
“Well that might be a bit tricky seeing as she’s dead.”
That grabbed hold of Sherlock’s attention. “What? How when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.”
“I doubt it since she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive.” Lestrade said. “‘Rachel’ was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter.”
“No that’s...that’s not right...how... Why would she do that? Why?” His head was starting to hurt. There was too much and none of it made sense and there was John all but collapsed against the wall and Sherlock could feel his misery like a noxious cloud of poisonous gas and it hurt.
“Why would she think about her daughter in her last moments?” Anderson asked sarcastically, thus proving that even when the entire world has gone to shit, it can still get worse. “Yep - sociopath. Seeing it now.”
Sherlock seethed. “She didn’t think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would’ve hurt.” Yes, okay, focus. Focus on Anderson and how big of a twat he is. Focus on the case. Don’t think of John. Don’t think of John. Don’t think of Jo-
“You said he makes them take it.” John’s voice, and it was stronger, and when Sherlock turned he was standing straight again, cane held loosely in his left hand. “Back at the house. You said the killer makes them take the poison themselves. Maybe he talks to them, he could’ve used the death of her daughter somehow.”
Sherlock was too relieved to think through his words before he said them, and they came out unfiltered. “But that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?”
A hush crashed over the entire flat. Nearly a dozen pairs of eyes stared at him, and he wriggled in discomfort.
“Not good?” He asked John, desperate for a hand-hold to keep him anchored to reality. He was slipping and he needed a grip.
John’s face was dark, but not broken. “Bit not good, yeah.” He said. “All of it, Sherlock.” And how did Sherlock know already that this was John’s “we’ll talk about this later” face?
Sherlock tried to get back into the flow. “Yeah but if you were dying, if you’d been murdered in your very last few seconds what would you say?”
With the rocky certainty of someone giving their name, John answered, “‘Please, God, let me live’.”
Oh, predictable. “Use your imagination!” Sherlock implored.
“I don’t have to.” John said calmly, and Sherlock remembered that he’d married a soldier. That was all well and good intellectually, but here was his first tangible proof of it, beyond the nightmares. Here was the iron core he’d worked so hard to reveal. It sent a shiver down his spine, but he couldn’t let himself dwell on it.
“Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever. Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers, she was clever. She’s trying to tell us something!”
“Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway. Her disappointed and hurt expression were gone, and Sherlock could tell she was trying to help him save face. It was too late, of course, John knew already, but it was sweet of her to try. Sweet, but still unforgivably stupid.
“I didn’t order a taxi, go away!” He snapped. He shouldn’t have, but Mrs Hudson was the only person in the room he could vent to without risking personal or professional destruction, so he took advantage. It was what he was good at. He paced around the room and seethed.
“Oh, dear, they’re making such a mess. And after we worked so hard to get it nice for you, doctor. What are they looking for?” Oh, she was going the dotty and confused route. Nice.
“It’s a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson.” John explained, which Mrs Hudson obviously knew already. She’d probably try to shift the focus away from him.
“But they’re just for my hip!” Yep, here she went. “They’re herbal soothers.” Oh, leave off! It’s pointless, you stupid woman. And those tablets were nothing but natural analgesics purchased from a co-op down the way. Sherlock’s patches packed more of a punch.
The sheer, inane absurdity of it broke him. “Everybody just shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe! I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way, you’re putting me off!”
“What? My face is?” Anderson demanded.
“Everybody, quiet and still.” Lestrade ordered. “Anderson, turn your back.”
Anderson protested, but Lestrade cut him off, adding an infuriated and insincere “please” at the end. Anderson complied.
“Come on, think. Quick!” Sherlock said to himself. The pieces were coming together but it was sluggish and they kept on catching on useless data and everyone kept hurling still more useless data at him and it was all getting to cluttered and messy and the pieces weren’t fitting because other pieces kept getting in the way and his head was splitting and the facts were whispering louder and louder and Jennifer Wilson had a daughter case pink case no phone call murder wrong cab run jumping not the murderer wrong not wrong right wrong John police drugs spinning words talking searching too much too loud John cab chasing nearly there too much not enough closer closer closer
“What about your taxi?” Demanded an intrusive, high, feminine voice, and everything stuttered and shrieked and hurt.
“MRS HUDSON!” He screamed, and he didn’t even watch her scamper away because suddenly it fit. And the understanding washed over him and it all went quiet and dear God it was good.
“Oh!” He said, because he had to say something. Had to let it out, how good it felt to finally be free of that chaotic mess. “Oh, she was clever, clever yes! She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead!” He was giddy, drunk on the relief and the joy and the surge of knowing he alone had worked it out. Got it right. And it worked. It was so obvious, surely they could see it! “Do you see? Do you get it?! She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it! She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer!” There. That should do it. It was all but spelled out in neon now.
“Yeah but how?” Lestrade asked absently, and Sherlock’s mental train ground to a halt.
“What--what d’you mean ‘how’?”
Lestrade just shrugged, as if it were perfectly normal for Detective Inspectors to lack two brain cells to rub together.
“Rachel!” Sherlock all but shouted. Surely it was obvious? Surely they could see it, dancing around in the middle of the room, practically screaming to be noticed. “Don’t you see? Rachel!”
Nothing. Blank faces. Even John, but John’s blankness was more melancholic than vapid. The overwhelming idiocy made Sherlock lightheaded, and he almost giggled. “Look at you lot, you’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name!” Honestly, how much more did they bloody need?!
“Then what is it?” John snapped, and his voice was sharp and impatient. It felt a bit like a slap, and Sherlock had to work hard to ignore it.
“John, on the luggage there’s a label. E-mail address.” He instructed, then moved over to his netbook.
John read out, “Jennie dot pink at mephone dot co dot uk.”
Sherlock’s voice rattled on without him, voicing his thoughts without his permission, but he didn’t care enough to stop. “It’d be too slow, she didn’t have a laptop which means she did her business on her phone. So it’s a smartphone, it’s e-mail enabled. So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address and, all together now, the pasword is:”
But only John spoke up to supply the correct answer. “Rachel.” Oh, good John. Slow on the uptake, but at least he was there when it counted.
“So we can read her e-mails, so what?” Ugh. Anderson again.
“Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS. Which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.”
“Unless he got rid of it.” Lestrade pointed out.
“We know he didn’t.” John replied, and the venom and anger were nearly gone from his voice. A wave of relief merged with the wave of adrenaline and made Sherlock feel almost giddy.
Mrs Hudson reappeared. “Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver...”
Oh, for the love of, “Mrs Hudson, isnt’ it time for your evening soother?” He demanded, and her face fell into disappointment as she realised her little act had been for nothing. She sent him a silent apology, but he waved her off and went to discuss the next step with Lestrade, who was being annoyingly pragmatic, and John said his name in an insistant tone.
“Where is it? Quickly, where?”
“It’s here.” John said, dazed. “It’s at 221 Baker Street.”
That didn’t make sense. That didn’t even begin to make sense. And Lestrade’s theories were laughable to say the least but Sherlock had to at lease consider them because what else did he have? And there was Mrs Hudson still standing around and soon she’d start prattling on about that damned...
Sherlock’s own words came back to him. Words he’d spoken when leading John to Angelo’s. Who do we trust, even if we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?
Sherlock’s mobile beeped. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and read the text.
COME WITH ME.
The flat grew dim and unimportant as Sherlock watched the retreating form of an old man in a knitted sweater slowly disappear down the stairs. John was talking to him, but he barely heard the words. He wasn’t entirely sure what he said in response, but it seemed to work because John went back to the computer, calling out to see if Sherlock was okay.
“I’m fine!” He called without looking back. Something nagged at him, pulled him back toward the flat, but he ignored it. This was much more interesting, the pull so much stronger. He needed to follow. He needed to know. He had the presence of mind to grab his coat before he stepped out onto the front steps, and came face to face with a small, elderly man leaning casually against a gleaming black London cab.
“Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.” He said in a restrained cockney accent.
Sherlock smirked. “I didn’t order a taxi.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.”
Oh, he was good. Completely calm. Unconcerned. It was brilliant. Sherlock’s blood was singing.
“You’re the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you. Not your passenger.” Facts. Cool and clean and solid, all laid out before him like a buffet line.
“See no one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ‘ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.”
Oh, yes! Confirmation. Affirmation. Validation. It tasted so sweet and sharp! Like candy floss and gunmetal. “Is this a confession?” Sherlock asked, testing the parameters.
“Oh yeah. And I’ll tell you what else. If you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.”
“Why?”
“Cos you’re not gonna do that.” The cabbie smiled.
“Am I not?” Oh, this was shaping up to be fun!
The cabbie adopted a wounded expression. “I didn’t kill those four people Mr Holmes. I spoke to ‘em, and they killed themselves. And if you get the coppers now, I can promise you one thing.” He leaned closer, playing it up. “I will never tell you what I said.”
And that. And that was it. He knew. He bloody knew Sherlock’s weakness. How did he know? Had he sussed it out? Was he that clever? Was Sherlock that obvious? That helpless? He had to try and cast doubt.
“No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.” He said, making his voice as arrogant as he could.
The cabbie was unimpressed, walking around to the driver’s seat. “You won’t ever understand how those people died.” He pointed out. “What kind of result do you care about?”
The cabbie got in the car and sat patiently behind the wheel. Sherlock delayed as long as he could, but eventually the pull became too strong to bear and he leaned down by the passenger side window.
“If I wanted to understand...what would I do?”
“Let me take you for a ride.” The cabbie said placidly, his face open and sincere and utterly fake.
“So you can kill me too?” Sherlock had a feeling this was where the confrontation was going. A battle of wills, a test of cunning. The killer could no more resist than Sherlock could.
“I don’t want to kill you, Mr Holmes.” The cabbie said, mock offended. “I’m gonna talk to you, and then you’re gonna kill yourself.” He was so certain, as though there were no other possibility. An ending already written and etched in stone.
The debate raged in his brain for several seconds, longer than he expected, and he kept seeing John’s face in his mind’s eye. Would this be it? Would the end of this night see John a free man? A widower two days after his wedding? Would he grieve? Would he mourn?
Sherlock didn’t know. He hated the idea that, if this night went badly, he might never learn. But...there was no choice. The pull of the puzzle was so much stronger than the pull of John. John’s arms, John’s eyes, John’s voice and hair and lips and...oh God, not yet! Not yet, please, not yet! There was so much left!
But...how could he not know? How could he not follow this to the end? The very end? He was clever, he was so clever. He’d win. He always won, and so he was still alive. He would win and come back and John would see he was clever and brilliant and amazing and he would like him again and in time...in time...
There might not be time. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to die.
He had to go. He had to prove himself. He was cleverer, he was faster, he was going to win. Whatever the game, he would win.
He got in the cab.
Chapter 20
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: I'm told it's NC-17, but I actually consider it more a hard R.
Spoilers: All of ASiP
Warnings: If you object to arranged marriage, you probably won't like this
WTF is This?: Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme. Condensed summary: Arranged marriage AU. The first time John and Sherlock meet is on their wedding day.
19.
No. No no no no no! Not tonight. Any night but tonight! That look on Ma--on Mrs Hudson’s face was too much, far too much and far too painful to exist on a night when John had just kissed him like that. He’d hoped never to see that look again. He’d worked damn hard never to see that bloody look again!
“What are you doing?” He demanded the second he’d opened the door to reveal Lestrade sitting in the leather armchair like a bloody king on his bloody throne, lounging about like he owned the place.
“Well I knew you’d find the case, I’m not stupid.” Lestrade drawled, and Sherlock bit back a retort.
“You can’t just break into our flat!” He snapped.
“And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.”
“Well what do you call this then?” Sherlock demanded, and regretted it instantly. He knew. He bloody well knew exactly which stunt Lestrade was pulling. He knew, too, exactly what all the gloved Yarders were looking for as they tore the place apart. Oh please, oh please don’t say it.
“It’s a drugs bust!” Lestrade announced cheerfully, and Sherlock’s world began to crack and splinter because John...John was right there and he heard that.
“A what?” John’s voice was equal parts incredulous and dismayed. “You can’t be serious. Sherlock, a junkie? Have you met him?”
“John.” Sherlock said warningly, but John didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn’t find anything you could call ‘recreational’.”
“John I am begging you to stop talking.” Sherlock hissed under his breath so only John could hear.
“Yeah but come on...” John said with an indulgent smile, finally turning to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Whatever he saw there made his expression drop like a stone, and he just stared until Sherlock began to feel uncomfortable.
“What?” Sherlock demanded, and part of him hoped that John could just accept this and move on. John was exceptional, he’d proven that more than once, so he should shine here as well. He should understand.
“You?” And his voice was dripping with incredulity, astonishment and disappointment. It made Sherlock livid, becuase it was so bloody predictable.
“Shut up!” He snapped. John’s eyes dimmed, and his face contorted as though he were about to be sick.
“No.” He whispered. “No, not you.” And it was damn near pleading. Sherlock wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. Of course. Of course John would take this badly. First Harry and now Sherlock. Shame settled over him like a smothering cloak, and he felt he might buckle under the weight of it.
Instead, he channeled it into anger and rounded on Lestrade. “I’m not your sniffer dog!” He snarled.
“No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog.”
“Wha-- An--” The kitchen door slid aside and Anderson glared out at him, one hand raised in a sardonic greeting. “Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?!”
“Oh I volunteered.”
“They all did.” Lestrade added. “They’re not, strictly speaking, on the drugs squad but they’re very keen.”
Sally Donovan appeared beside Anderson, brandishing a jar. “Are these human eyes?” She demanded.
“Put those back!” Sherlock snapped.
“They were in the microwave.”
“It’s an experiment.” One he’d had to start from scratch thanks to Mrs Hudson’s tidying blitz.
Back by the door, John scoffed. Sherlock wondered if this was what it was like to be stabbed by an icicle...oh, that was worth testing out. Where could he get a dead pig this time of night? No! No, focus Sherlock. Very upset, John’s just found out about the drugs, Lestrade is a git, Anderson is inside the bloody flat!
That gave him the fury he needed, and he started pacing while Lestrade instructed his minions, quite redundantly, to keep looking for illicit substances. Sherlock hoped desperately that Mycroft’s puppets had gotten rid of the payote he’d been subjecting to various infusions of spider venom. That would be hard to explain.
“This is childish!” He hissed as he paced, more and more frustrated and nervous because he had some damn good hiding places and Mycroft might not have--
“Well I’m dealing with a child.” Lestrade shot back, and it was infurating how the man could reduce Sherlock to a pathetic charicature of himself. “Sherlock, this is our case. I’m letting you in but you do not go off on your own! Clear?”
Sherlock rounded on him, the fires of rage singing his internal organs. “Oh, what so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”
“Stops being pretend if they find anything.”
“Oh God.” John moaned and slumped against the wall.
Sherlock darted his gaze from John to Lestrade to the not-quite drugs squad. His head was spinning. “I am clean!” He all but shouted. His gaze finally rested on his husband. “God, John, I swear. I’m clean!”
“Is your flat?” Lestrade prodded. “All of it?”
Sherlock seethed. “I don’t even smoke!” And he unfastened his cuff so he could pull back his sleeve, revealing one of the nicotine patches.
“Neither do I.” Said Lestrade, doing the same. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the blatant commiseration. It was cheap and sentimental, but it was also true. Lestrade knew what it was like, the constant wanting. And, yes, it was tangible proof that Sherlock and he were alike in at least one way.
“So let’s work together.” Lestrade went on. “We found Rachel.”
That focussed Sherlock’s mind beautifully, and he was able to temporarily put John and that wounded look on his face out of mind.
“Who is she?”
“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”
“Her daughter. Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?” Sherlock’s brain began to whirl with connections, potentials, behaviour analyses, and then Anderson had to go and talk and that put a spanner in the works.
“Never mind that!” He sneered. “We found the case! According to someone the murderer has the case. And we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath!” Christ, even when he thought he was scoring a point he sounded sneering. Did he have another tone of voice. Sherlock’s already frayed patience snapped.
“I’m not a psycopath, Anderson, I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!” He regretted it the second it was out of his mouth, mainly because of the horrible noise that came out of John’s mouth once he’d said it. It was almost an hysterical laugh, almost a shattered sob, and it was unbearable.
“Of course.” John muttered. “Of course you bloody are. Why not? ‘S how it works, innit? Oh, Christ...she was right. She was completely right.” His voice was pitched low, and Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure anyone else had heard him properly, but Sherlock had. He’d heard every throat-constricting, lung-crushing word of it.
“John...I...” But what could he say? He had a feeling any words out of his mouth directed to John would only serve to dig him deeper into his already towering hole. He forced himself to wrench his gaze from John and focus instead on Lestrade.
“Bring, um...bring Rachel in. You need to, um, and I need to...we should question her.”
“Well that might be a bit tricky seeing as she’s dead.”
That grabbed hold of Sherlock’s attention. “What? How when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.”
“I doubt it since she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive.” Lestrade said. “‘Rachel’ was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter.”
“No that’s...that’s not right...how... Why would she do that? Why?” His head was starting to hurt. There was too much and none of it made sense and there was John all but collapsed against the wall and Sherlock could feel his misery like a noxious cloud of poisonous gas and it hurt.
“Why would she think about her daughter in her last moments?” Anderson asked sarcastically, thus proving that even when the entire world has gone to shit, it can still get worse. “Yep - sociopath. Seeing it now.”
Sherlock seethed. “She didn’t think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would’ve hurt.” Yes, okay, focus. Focus on Anderson and how big of a twat he is. Focus on the case. Don’t think of John. Don’t think of John. Don’t think of Jo-
“You said he makes them take it.” John’s voice, and it was stronger, and when Sherlock turned he was standing straight again, cane held loosely in his left hand. “Back at the house. You said the killer makes them take the poison themselves. Maybe he talks to them, he could’ve used the death of her daughter somehow.”
Sherlock was too relieved to think through his words before he said them, and they came out unfiltered. “But that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?”
A hush crashed over the entire flat. Nearly a dozen pairs of eyes stared at him, and he wriggled in discomfort.
“Not good?” He asked John, desperate for a hand-hold to keep him anchored to reality. He was slipping and he needed a grip.
John’s face was dark, but not broken. “Bit not good, yeah.” He said. “All of it, Sherlock.” And how did Sherlock know already that this was John’s “we’ll talk about this later” face?
Sherlock tried to get back into the flow. “Yeah but if you were dying, if you’d been murdered in your very last few seconds what would you say?”
With the rocky certainty of someone giving their name, John answered, “‘Please, God, let me live’.”
Oh, predictable. “Use your imagination!” Sherlock implored.
“I don’t have to.” John said calmly, and Sherlock remembered that he’d married a soldier. That was all well and good intellectually, but here was his first tangible proof of it, beyond the nightmares. Here was the iron core he’d worked so hard to reveal. It sent a shiver down his spine, but he couldn’t let himself dwell on it.
“Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever. Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers, she was clever. She’s trying to tell us something!”
“Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway. Her disappointed and hurt expression were gone, and Sherlock could tell she was trying to help him save face. It was too late, of course, John knew already, but it was sweet of her to try. Sweet, but still unforgivably stupid.
“I didn’t order a taxi, go away!” He snapped. He shouldn’t have, but Mrs Hudson was the only person in the room he could vent to without risking personal or professional destruction, so he took advantage. It was what he was good at. He paced around the room and seethed.
“Oh, dear, they’re making such a mess. And after we worked so hard to get it nice for you, doctor. What are they looking for?” Oh, she was going the dotty and confused route. Nice.
“It’s a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson.” John explained, which Mrs Hudson obviously knew already. She’d probably try to shift the focus away from him.
“But they’re just for my hip!” Yep, here she went. “They’re herbal soothers.” Oh, leave off! It’s pointless, you stupid woman. And those tablets were nothing but natural analgesics purchased from a co-op down the way. Sherlock’s patches packed more of a punch.
The sheer, inane absurdity of it broke him. “Everybody just shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe! I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way, you’re putting me off!”
“What? My face is?” Anderson demanded.
“Everybody, quiet and still.” Lestrade ordered. “Anderson, turn your back.”
Anderson protested, but Lestrade cut him off, adding an infuriated and insincere “please” at the end. Anderson complied.
“Come on, think. Quick!” Sherlock said to himself. The pieces were coming together but it was sluggish and they kept on catching on useless data and everyone kept hurling still more useless data at him and it was all getting to cluttered and messy and the pieces weren’t fitting because other pieces kept getting in the way and his head was splitting and the facts were whispering louder and louder and Jennifer Wilson had a daughter case pink case no phone call murder wrong cab run jumping not the murderer wrong not wrong right wrong John police drugs spinning words talking searching too much too loud John cab chasing nearly there too much not enough closer closer closer
“What about your taxi?” Demanded an intrusive, high, feminine voice, and everything stuttered and shrieked and hurt.
“MRS HUDSON!” He screamed, and he didn’t even watch her scamper away because suddenly it fit. And the understanding washed over him and it all went quiet and dear God it was good.
“Oh!” He said, because he had to say something. Had to let it out, how good it felt to finally be free of that chaotic mess. “Oh, she was clever, clever yes! She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead!” He was giddy, drunk on the relief and the joy and the surge of knowing he alone had worked it out. Got it right. And it worked. It was so obvious, surely they could see it! “Do you see? Do you get it?! She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it! She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer!” There. That should do it. It was all but spelled out in neon now.
“Yeah but how?” Lestrade asked absently, and Sherlock’s mental train ground to a halt.
“What--what d’you mean ‘how’?”
Lestrade just shrugged, as if it were perfectly normal for Detective Inspectors to lack two brain cells to rub together.
“Rachel!” Sherlock all but shouted. Surely it was obvious? Surely they could see it, dancing around in the middle of the room, practically screaming to be noticed. “Don’t you see? Rachel!”
Nothing. Blank faces. Even John, but John’s blankness was more melancholic than vapid. The overwhelming idiocy made Sherlock lightheaded, and he almost giggled. “Look at you lot, you’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name!” Honestly, how much more did they bloody need?!
“Then what is it?” John snapped, and his voice was sharp and impatient. It felt a bit like a slap, and Sherlock had to work hard to ignore it.
“John, on the luggage there’s a label. E-mail address.” He instructed, then moved over to his netbook.
John read out, “Jennie dot pink at mephone dot co dot uk.”
Sherlock’s voice rattled on without him, voicing his thoughts without his permission, but he didn’t care enough to stop. “It’d be too slow, she didn’t have a laptop which means she did her business on her phone. So it’s a smartphone, it’s e-mail enabled. So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address and, all together now, the pasword is:”
But only John spoke up to supply the correct answer. “Rachel.” Oh, good John. Slow on the uptake, but at least he was there when it counted.
“So we can read her e-mails, so what?” Ugh. Anderson again.
“Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS. Which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.”
“Unless he got rid of it.” Lestrade pointed out.
“We know he didn’t.” John replied, and the venom and anger were nearly gone from his voice. A wave of relief merged with the wave of adrenaline and made Sherlock feel almost giddy.
Mrs Hudson reappeared. “Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver...”
Oh, for the love of, “Mrs Hudson, isnt’ it time for your evening soother?” He demanded, and her face fell into disappointment as she realised her little act had been for nothing. She sent him a silent apology, but he waved her off and went to discuss the next step with Lestrade, who was being annoyingly pragmatic, and John said his name in an insistant tone.
“Where is it? Quickly, where?”
“It’s here.” John said, dazed. “It’s at 221 Baker Street.”
That didn’t make sense. That didn’t even begin to make sense. And Lestrade’s theories were laughable to say the least but Sherlock had to at lease consider them because what else did he have? And there was Mrs Hudson still standing around and soon she’d start prattling on about that damned...
Sherlock’s own words came back to him. Words he’d spoken when leading John to Angelo’s. Who do we trust, even if we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?
Sherlock’s mobile beeped. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and read the text.
COME WITH ME.
The flat grew dim and unimportant as Sherlock watched the retreating form of an old man in a knitted sweater slowly disappear down the stairs. John was talking to him, but he barely heard the words. He wasn’t entirely sure what he said in response, but it seemed to work because John went back to the computer, calling out to see if Sherlock was okay.
“I’m fine!” He called without looking back. Something nagged at him, pulled him back toward the flat, but he ignored it. This was much more interesting, the pull so much stronger. He needed to follow. He needed to know. He had the presence of mind to grab his coat before he stepped out onto the front steps, and came face to face with a small, elderly man leaning casually against a gleaming black London cab.
“Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.” He said in a restrained cockney accent.
Sherlock smirked. “I didn’t order a taxi.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.”
Oh, he was good. Completely calm. Unconcerned. It was brilliant. Sherlock’s blood was singing.
“You’re the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you. Not your passenger.” Facts. Cool and clean and solid, all laid out before him like a buffet line.
“See no one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ‘ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.”
Oh, yes! Confirmation. Affirmation. Validation. It tasted so sweet and sharp! Like candy floss and gunmetal. “Is this a confession?” Sherlock asked, testing the parameters.
“Oh yeah. And I’ll tell you what else. If you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.”
“Why?”
“Cos you’re not gonna do that.” The cabbie smiled.
“Am I not?” Oh, this was shaping up to be fun!
The cabbie adopted a wounded expression. “I didn’t kill those four people Mr Holmes. I spoke to ‘em, and they killed themselves. And if you get the coppers now, I can promise you one thing.” He leaned closer, playing it up. “I will never tell you what I said.”
And that. And that was it. He knew. He bloody knew Sherlock’s weakness. How did he know? Had he sussed it out? Was he that clever? Was Sherlock that obvious? That helpless? He had to try and cast doubt.
“No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.” He said, making his voice as arrogant as he could.
The cabbie was unimpressed, walking around to the driver’s seat. “You won’t ever understand how those people died.” He pointed out. “What kind of result do you care about?”
The cabbie got in the car and sat patiently behind the wheel. Sherlock delayed as long as he could, but eventually the pull became too strong to bear and he leaned down by the passenger side window.
“If I wanted to understand...what would I do?”
“Let me take you for a ride.” The cabbie said placidly, his face open and sincere and utterly fake.
“So you can kill me too?” Sherlock had a feeling this was where the confrontation was going. A battle of wills, a test of cunning. The killer could no more resist than Sherlock could.
“I don’t want to kill you, Mr Holmes.” The cabbie said, mock offended. “I’m gonna talk to you, and then you’re gonna kill yourself.” He was so certain, as though there were no other possibility. An ending already written and etched in stone.
The debate raged in his brain for several seconds, longer than he expected, and he kept seeing John’s face in his mind’s eye. Would this be it? Would the end of this night see John a free man? A widower two days after his wedding? Would he grieve? Would he mourn?
Sherlock didn’t know. He hated the idea that, if this night went badly, he might never learn. But...there was no choice. The pull of the puzzle was so much stronger than the pull of John. John’s arms, John’s eyes, John’s voice and hair and lips and...oh God, not yet! Not yet, please, not yet! There was so much left!
But...how could he not know? How could he not follow this to the end? The very end? He was clever, he was so clever. He’d win. He always won, and so he was still alive. He would win and come back and John would see he was clever and brilliant and amazing and he would like him again and in time...in time...
There might not be time. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to die.
He had to go. He had to prove himself. He was cleverer, he was faster, he was going to win. Whatever the game, he would win.
He got in the cab.
Chapter 20