Don't Explain 6/8
Title: Don't Explain, 6/8
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Mary, John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 7,000 this chapter, 30,300 so far
Warnings: Spoilers for season two, explicit sex
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: Three years later, John had a girlfriend, a new job, and a new life, and just because his ex wasn’t dead didn’t mean they were going to go right back to the way things used to be.
A/N: So sorry for another long wait. And here is another long chapter to make up for it. It's looking like the final chapter count for the fic will definitely be eight, by the way. Thanks so much to thisprettywren and breathedout for their help. All the case stuff in this chapter is VERY loosely stolen from The Sign Of Four.
Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine
Don't Explain
Chapter Six
This was a terrible idea. John felt it the moment he sat down in the cafe.
Mary had agreed to let Sherlock take a look at her case. She had done it reluctantly, and only after making it quite plain that she wasn’t acting for Sherlock’s benefit-or for John’s. Her sole motivation was to find out what happened to her father. John was just grateful the decision was reached without an argument, and he only felt a tiny bit guilty for hiding the fact that Sherlock already knew about the case. That John had all but promised it to him without a word of permission from Mary.
So now here they were. The three of them sat around a small table in a trendy new coffee shop, chosen specifically for its neutrality. Mary was broadcasting her unhappiness with a stony gaze. Despite her agreement, she clearly did not want to be there. And Sherlock, the one who had been so desperate for something to solve, looked just as bitter about the situation. They had both dropped the relatively friendly pretense of last week’s dinner, and as John sat there, frayed and tense, he wondered if the air between them would ignite from the resentment alone.
God, what had he been thinking, bringing them together like this? He could have sworn his decision made sense at the time. John took another sip of his too-sweet coffee and figured they better get it over with.
“Go ahead,” he said, nodding to Mary.
“I'm not sure where to start,” she replied.
Sherlock all but rolled his eyes at the cliché, but one look from John, and John could see the sarcastic remark die on his tongue. At least Sherlock seemed to understand that this was a favor. If he stepped out of line, John and Mary could very easily stand up and walk out, taking the case with them. “I would imagine you’d start with your father,” said Sherlock with only a hint of derision. “When did you last see him?”
John found Mary's hand on the tabletop and gave it a light squeeze. He'd heard this story before, and he knew Mary didn't like to discuss it. Yet she sounded eerily calm when she answered. “When I was thirteen, but that wasn’t when he disappeared.” She paused long enough to take a slow breath. “My mum died when I was little. My dad, he…well, he was hardly fit to be a parent. It wasn’t long before he ran off and left me with my aunt-my mother’s sister, that is. So I only ever saw him once a year at most. And the last time was when I was thirteen. I remember he took me to a carnival.”
Mary smiled tightly at the memory, but the rest of her account was spoken in a detached monotone. In the early days of their relationship, when she’d first talked about her family with John, it hadn’t been like this at all. She had been warm and open, embarrassed by her sadness, and they had spent a long evening sharing secrets and personal histories. He missed nights like those. Being with Mary had been so much easier than being with anyone else, but he didn’t feel that closeness now. Mary was keeping her expression shuttered and her back stiff, and John didn’t know how to cross the distance he could feel stretching between them.
“I was supposed to see him again on my fifteenth birthday,” she continued, tapping her fingers lightly against the side of her cup. “He and my aunt hated each other, so he never came to the house. I always had to go meet him somewhere. So, this time, I had a letter from him with the name of the hotel where he was staying, and what time I should arrive for lunch. I made it there five minutes early, and the front desk told me he had checked in, but…” Mary’s eyes, which had been steadily fixed on Sherlock, drifted off to the side. “He never showed. I waited for hours.”
“Do you still have the letter?” Sherlock asked.
“Of course not,” Mary snapped, returning her focus with heat in her gaze. “I was furious at him. The first thing I did when I got home was to take the letter and burn it.” She closed her eyes briefly. John couldn’t tell if she wanted to prove to Sherlock she could be objective, or whether she was just trying to hide any weakness. Either way, she clearly wasn’t comfortable sharing this. John rubbed her hand and felt another stab of guilt for putting her in this position. When Mary spoke again, her voice was slow and restrained, eventually reverting to its even tone. “Of course, I regretted it later. I didn’t realize it was the last time I’d ever hear from him.”
Sherlock responded with a disappointed pout. “You weren’t suspicious at the time?”
“It wasn’t the first time he’d stood me up, so no. I didn’t think much of it at all, not until later that year when the child support to my aunt never arrived. My dad may have been an irresponsible bastard, but…it was the first time he ever forgot to send a check.”
Sherlock held out his hand. “I assume that was when the police investigation was launched.” Mary stared at the hand and blinked, until Sherlock sighed and added, “You have the report in your purse.”
Mary glanced at John, and John caught the flash of surprise in her expression before she reached into her overlarge bag to remove a manila envelope. John watched it with curiosity as it passed hands. He knew Mary had a copy of the investigation, but he’d never actually seen it in person. He hadn’t much cared to until now. After Sherlock left, he’d assumed his days of crime solving were at an end, and for a while he even avoided reading about local crimes in the paper. Looking into the details of Mary’s case would have left him feeling bereft and useless. But now that Sherlock had returned, John felt something he hadn’t experienced in years, something he hadn’t expected to feel again: the lure of an unsolved mystery.
His interest grew as Sherlock skimmed the report, faster than anyone could possibly process words.
“Well?” asked John when a silent minute had passed. “Any thoughts?”
Sherlock looked up at John and grinned. It was conspiratorial, as though he knew exactly how much John had missed this, the first stage of a case when it was nothing more than a jumble of facts that Sherlock would soon weave into a neat pattern. John quickly smoothed out any interest that might have shown on his face. “Several. But I hate to draw conclusions until I have all the information.”
“That is all the information,” said Mary. “It’s not much, but that’s all the police were able to dig up.”
“I’m not the police,” Sherlock snapped. He narrowed his eyes and gave Mary an appraising stare. “And you’ve yet to tell me how this relates to your new favorite piece of jewelry.”
John turned to Mary in time to see the way her posture froze, her tension and reluctance confirming Sherlock’s accuracy. So the bracelet was related somehow, though John couldn’t imagine how. The only thing he knew was that Mary still wouldn’t talk to him about it. Her silence on the matter had been a continuing sore spot, and now he felt a nagging desire to discover, finally, what Mary had been keeping from him. But at the same time, he recognized that this wasn’t the place. Not in front of Sherlock, at least.
John wavered for a moment, caught between defending her secrecy and wanting her to divulge. Then he found himself thinking it would be a shame to bring the case to an end before it even started. God, was he really that selfish? Willing to sacrifice Mary’s privacy for a thrill? No, he was better than that. John leaned towards her and whispered, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”
Mary was still staring at Sherlock, meeting his challenge. “No, it’s fine,” she said, and to John’s complete shock, she unfastened the bracelet from her wrist.
Sherlock took it from her. Ever prepared, he removed a magnifying lens from a pocket, inspecting each pearl from every angle.
“I don’t actually know if it’s relevant,” said Mary cautiously. “My aunt received it by post two days before I came to visit her, but the package was addressed to me. And when she saw what it-” There was a pause. “Well, she waited for me to open it, and she thinks…” Mary frowned and looked off to a corner of the cafe. She blinked a few times before continuing, the control over her voice starting to waver. “She could be wrong. I don’t know. But she thinks it’s possible that it…used to belong to my mum.”
John let the words sink in, slowly registering the implications, hurt that Mary would feel the need to hide that from him. He scooted closer and placed a hand on her back, ducking his lips to her ear. He wished Sherlock wasn’t here, sitting across from them and surely listening in.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, voice low.
Mary sighed and turned toward him, lifting a hand to brush his cheek. “I couldn’t, John. I don’t know. I didn’t want to think about it, to be honest. It’s just…I can’t stop wondering who sent it. Think. Who would have been holding onto something that belonged to her all this time? I mean, if it’s true, if my aunt is right and it really is my mum’s, then-then what if…” She didn’t finish the sentence, but John was finally starting to understand.
“You think your dad could have sent it to you?”
Mary squeezed her eyes shut and leaned closer. “My god, I’m terrified he might have sent it to me. I was so certain he was dead up until a few weeks ago. If I’ve been wrong all this time, if he’s just been-I don’t know, hiding from me instead…”
She trailed off again, her eyes fluttering open in embarrassment as though she suddenly registered her own words. John had to look away as a wave of nausea passed over him. As cruel as it sounded, John hoped that Mary’s father was indeed deceased. For her own sake.
He avoided looking at Sherlock, not wanting to see his reaction, but then maybe the parallel had been lost on him entirely. Because Sherlock chose that moment to interrupt, sounding bored. He placed the pearls on the table in front of him. “Should I assume you thoughtfully burned the package this arrived in?”
Mary was still turned to John, so he could see her rein in her anger before reaching back into her bag. What she pulled out was a white, beat-up, letter-sized envelope-a poor choice for mailing what was probably a valuable piece of jewelry. She set her mouth and handed it over to Sherlock.
He snatched it from her, closely examining the handwriting on the front. When he flipped it around, his eyebrows shot up. “There’s a return address.”
“Oh, very clever,” Mary responded, her voice dripping with unmistakable sarcasm. “I never would have noticed.”
“Then why are you bothering me with this?” Sherlock shouted, loud enough to turn a few heads around them. He threw the envelope back at her. “Obviously the person who sent this to you knows something about your father, and they provided a very simple means of contacting them. The fact that you’ve neglected to do so means that you aren’t actually interested in learning what happened at all. You’re just wasting my time with your sob stories and self pity.”
That was too far. Without thinking, John pushed his seat back and leapt to his feet, but Mary grabbed his wrist before…well, he wasn’t sure what he was planning to do, but it would have caused a scene. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound he was, just waiting for Sherlock to say the wrong thing. And accusing Mary of theatrics was beyond the pale. John breathed sharply through his nose, staring angrily down at Sherlock, but Sherlock met John’s glare with his own threatening look. They were apparently past the stage where Sherlock was willing to sit there and take it. If John threw a punch right now, Sherlock’s expression made it clear that he would punch back.
“Apologize,” said John.
“For what?” Sherlock spat back.
“John, calm down. It’s okay.” Mary tugged him back into his seat and held his hand tightly. “He’s right, actually. I told you, I didn’t want to know, at first, but I-I’ve had some time to think about it.” She turned her attention back to Sherlock. “I am ready to find out what happened now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. I don’t know who sent this to me,” she said, picking up the bracelet from the table and clasping it back around her wrist, “and I don’t know if it’s my dad, or someone who knew my dad, or…or maybe it’s nothing at all. I’m not even sure you can help, really. But I guess, if I’m going to show up at some stranger’s address, I might as well bring someone along who knows what they’re doing.”
Sherlock regarded her for a moment. Even John had to admit it wasn’t much of a case, and it was the sort of thing Sherlock once would have dismissed out of hand. So it probably spoke to Sherlock’s level of desperation when he stood and swept the coat off the back of his chair.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
***
The cab dropped them off in front of a row of posh brick buildings, each of them set back from the road, tastefully hidden behind fences and hedges. Sherlock sniffed the air like a dog as they approached the house marked fifteen, sweeping his gaze up and down the street. John wondered what he was thinking, if that remarkable brain had already picked up on clues and reached conclusions, and it might have felt just like old times if not for the fact that Mary walked ahead of them. John found he had to keep reminding himself that this case was personal, that it was his girlfriend’s father they were investigating. He was here to support her, not to get caught up in the anticipation of the unknown. Besides, there was nothing particularly exciting about the quiet, affluent neighborhood in which they found themselves.
Still, his heart thrummed as they approached the entrance and Mary pressed the buzzer.
There was a tense silence before the door opened. Behind it stood a well-built man in his early thirties, with blond hair that looked slightly less than natural and a nervousness about his eyes. They darted from Mary, to John, to Sherlock, to Mary again.
“So I’m guessing you’re Mary Morstan?” he asked before any of them had a chance to speak.
Mary took a half step back, and John hooked a hand around her elbow, feeling overwhelmingly protective.
“I am,” Mary replied.
The stranger nodded. “Yeah, I was wondering if you’d show up. Who’re these two, then? You’re not cops, are you?”
He squinted at Sherlock as he posed the question, but Sherlock just smiled in a way that would seem convincingly friendly to anyone who didn’t actually know him. “Far from it,” he said, offering his hand. “Sherlock Holmes. Personal friend of Mary’s.”
John bristled at the lie, unconsciously giving Mary’s arm a squeeze. But Sherlock never did anything without a reason and John chose not to contradict him. Of course, if Sherlock wanted to hide the fact that he was a detective, his past brush with fame might make that difficult. John watched the stranger closely for signs of recognition, but no-there was no hint of surprise at shaking the hand of someone who had very publicly killed himself three years ago. John supposed most Londoners had little interest in some tabloid flash in the pan.
There were awkwardly polite greetings all around, the stranger introducing himself as Ted Sholto. The name wasn't familiar to John, and one glance at Mary showed that she hadn't heard of him either.
“So,” said Sholto, still leaning in the doorway as he lowered his voice, “I guess you came to ask about that bracelet.”
“It was from you, then?” Mary asked, the disappointment in her voice well hidden. Her fingers touched the pearls at her wrist, something that had become a nervous gesture.
“Yeah well, you know, I thought you might like to have it. I wasn't sure if you'd want to know the whole story, but I guess if you're here, then…”
“What story?” asked John. There was something about this man that already rubbed him the wrong way, something about his overly-familiar tone, and the way he was conducting this conversation on his front porch.
Sholto craned his neck forward and lowered his voice even further. “I mean, what happened to her dad and everything.”
Next to John, Mary’s breath caught. “You-you know what happened to him?”
“Yeah, but…” Sholto glanced back over his shoulder into the darkened house. “Not here, all right? Do you mind going for a walk or something? I’ve been trapped in this fucking house for a bloody month now. I need some air, you know?”
Without waiting for an answer, he stepped outside and eased the door shut behind him. He looked much happier once this was done, and his voice returned to its full volume. “Come on, then.” He set off down the tree-lined block at a quick pace, and the three of them followed behind. John walked alongside Mary, rubbing her back and trying to offer some small comfort for whatever was to come, but Mary stared resolutely forward at the back of Sholto’s head. Sherlock trailed in the back.
“I hate this fucking neighborhood,” Sholto was saying, casting scornful looks at the buildings they passed. “Smug, rich bastards, the lot. You should know, that isn’t my house back there; it’s my dad’s. I'm only staying with him while he’s sick, or at least claims to be sick. Don’t ask me what he’s got, because I haven’t the faintest. Which is fucking ridiculous, because how the hell am I supposed to be taking care of him, then? But anyway, I’m here until he recovers. Or finally croaks. Whichever. If he is planning to die, I just wish he’d get it over with already. He won’t let me out of his sight for more than two bloody seconds at a time. I’m a grown man, you know? I can only take that babysitting shit for so long. I've got a life, too.”
“What is it you do, Mr. Sholto?” asked Mary in a deadpan that would make it clear to anyone that she was only being polite, and barely that.
“He’s unemployed, and has been for months,” said Sherlock.
“Between jobs,” corrected Sholto with an annoyed glare over his shoulder. “And with the job market all fucked up like it is, I’ll tell you, if the old man does decide to die, it wouldn’t hurt to have my share of that money I know he has stashed away.”
John’s dislike was increasing with each passing second. And he could sense Mary becoming more anxious the longer Sholto jabbered. But Sholto showed no interest in talking about her father, and he didn’t seem to be taking them anywhere in particular. John tried breaking into his monolog several times as they traveled block after block, but Sholto was incapable of keeping his mouth shut for any extended period of time. He was so focused on ranting about his own father, the last job he lost, and a million other complaints, that John wondered if he even remembered why they were all there. He lost his patience entirely when Sholto rounded a corner onto yet another identical residential street, silent except for a few birds, and still without a person in sight. Increasing his pace, John grabbed Sholto by the shoulder and spun him around.
“I think you need to stop and tell us exactly what it is you know,” he said in his best threatening tone.
Sholto lifted his hands in the air, and had the audacity to look affronted. “Okay, all right. Calm down. I’m going to tell you everything I can. I just needed to get the fuck away from that house first. I mean, my dad’s going to be furious I was gone for this long, but fuck him, you know?” Sholto leaned back against one of the sparsely leafed trees growing out of the pavement and addressed Mary. “Okay, well, this involves a bit of back story I guess. You’re sure you want to know?”
Sherlock stepped forward so that he stood on John’s right. “Obviously she’s sure.” When John looked over, he could see Sherlock working his jaw in irritation. He wondered why Sherlock had been so silent up until now, patiently letting Sholto rant instead of demanding immediate answers.
Sholto shrugged. “I guess I should ask you then: do you know what your dad used to do? For a living, I mean?”
Mary crossed her arms in front of her. There was a crease etched into her forehead. She was holding herself motionless, and although John still had a hand at her back, it was like touching a mannequin. “Not really, no. I know he used to travel a lot.”
“Then you probably don’t know that your father and mine used to work together,” said Sholto. Mary shook her head slowly. “There were four of them, actually. It was my dad, your dad, and then the two others are in prison now, apparently. So, they ran this operation together, that, uh…well, I think some of what they did was actually legitimate. You know, importing, sales, boring shite. But a lot of their business was…” Sholto waved a hand in the air, as though looking for the right word, while his eyes darted to the houses nearby. Finally, he looked at Mary again and let out in a harsh whisper, “Well, fucking drugs. Smuggling and shite. Other illegal stuff, I’m sure, but mostly the drugs.”
John silently cursed Sholto’s complete lack of tact. He moved closer to Mary, looking to see how she was taking this revelation, but she took a small step away from him in turn, her eyes on Sholto, her forehead creased in concentration.
“You said there were four of them working together,” Sherlock chimed in. “Do you know the names of the other two?”
“Why the hell would I know that?” Sholto asked with a frown. “It was a long fucking time ago. Although…” He paused briefly, looking thoughtful. “I sort of remember my dad talking about someone called…what was it, Little? Or Small, or something.”
“And what about my father?” asked Mary. Her voice was quiet and clear, her arms still crossed and her eyes now fixed on the pavement by her feet.
Sholto cleared his throat and rubbed his arm. “Right. Yeah. Well, ever since my dad decided he’s dying, he’s been confessing all this shite that I really don’t want to hear. He keeps saying he needs to clear his conscience or something-I don’t know. I didn’t even think he had a conscience, to be honest. So who knows? Maybe he’s dying after all.
“Anyway, when I first show up here about a month ago, he calls me into his room one night and starts going on and on, like a crazy person, about-I don’t know, how everyone makes mistakes in their lives, and he’s made some big ones, but he never meant to hurt anyone. That was the big thing he kept repeating, how it wasn’t his fault that things went wrong. I told him I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, and that’s when he confessed about the drug smuggling, like it was really important I should know about it. He told me how two of his partners ended up in jail, and one of them ended up dead, but he kept saying that it wasn’t his fault.”
A sharp intake of breath, almost a sob, came from Mary as she brought a clenched hand to her mouth. Her face had gone white. There it was then, confirmation that her father was dead, revealed in such a crass, unexpected manner. John immediately moved closer and sought out her hand-when had Mary moved so far away?-but Mary shook her head sharply and angled her body away, letting him know she needed space. She lowered her hand and took a slow, steady breath. “What else did he say?”
Sholto shuffled his feet a bit, finally looking embarrassed at being the bearer of devastating news. “He-okay, well, apparently when the other two guys got thrown into prison, it sort of looked like my dad might have set them up or something. He says he didn’t, that it was all a mistake, but he also lies through his teeth, so who the fuck knows. Your dad-er, Mr. Morstan-had just gotten back into the country. He was at his hotel when he found out what happened. So he came straight to my dad’s place to confront him about it. There was this big argument, and then-well, okay, this is what my dad claims, but who knows if the fucker’s telling the truth or not. He says that Morstan suddenly had a heart attack or something in the middle of their fight and-well, just keeled over.”
Mary squeezed her eyes shut.
“No one reported it?” asked John, his entire attention focused on Mary.
“I’m sure he thought he’d get pinned with murder,” said Sholto, “and even if he could prove it was an accident, I guess he was afraid of getting busted for the smuggling like his partners. So he says he dumped the body.” John watched Mary wince.
“So anyway, he claims he’s been feeling guilty about it since, which I think is bullshit. But that’s when he showed me that bracelet.” Sholto pointed to Mary’s wrist, but Mary covered it with her other hand, hiding it from view. “It was the only valuable thing the guy had on him, and my dad knew he had a daughter somewhere, so he says that’s why he held onto it. He’s the one who had your address. He said he’s thought about sending it to you for years, but he could never bring himself to actually do it. So the next day, I snuck into his room and-yeah, I sent it for him.” He ran a hand through his hair, then shoved both hands into his pockets. “I mean, I know what it’s like to have a father who abandons you and fucks up your life. I thought you deserved to have it.” He looked at her expectantly, as though waiting for gratitude or camaraderie, as though he’d had no hand in her current state of distress. And true, it was Sholto’s father who was the real villain in all of this, and his son was merely guilty of being spectacularly bad at sharing painful news. But that didn’t keep John from wanting to break his face in.
Mary continued to stare at the ground, and although she didn’t sound at all grateful, she still said “thank you” in a dead voice.
A contemplative silence followed, a moment of mourning for Mary’s father, long dead after all. John stood with fists clenched at his sides, watching Mary from what felt like a great distance. He knew better than to offer any comfort until it was asked for. So he waited.
Of course, it was Sherlock who eventually broke the silence. “Well then. We should probably be getting back to your house about now.”
John turned to him, prepared to tell him off for being so incredibly rude, but he was stopped short when he caught sight of Sherlock’s hungry expression. There was a light in his eyes, and John realized Sherlock had heard something in Sholto’s story that the rest of them had missed. The case wasn’t solved, then. There was something else happening. John’s stomach fluttered at the thought.
“Yeah, okay,” said Sholto slowly. “Now that you know what my dad said, I guess you want to talk to him yourselves. I mean, he probably won’t answer any questions, but I guess it’s worth a try.”
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “An excellent idea. Come, we’ve wasted too much time as it is.”
Sherlock turned on his heel and led the way back through the residential streets by which they’d come, brimming with an excitement John hadn’t seen since his return. As John trotted behind, he wondered what else they were about to learn. Would Sherlock be able to determine the exact cause of John Morstan’s death, even after so many years had passed and all the evidence gone? It seemed incredible, but John hoped so. Sholto’s vague account of the accident-or possible murder-could hardly feel like closure to Mary.
When they arrived back at number fifteen where they’d started, Sherlock practically bounded up the steps to the front door, then bounced on his toes with impatience as the rest of them caught up. “Mr. Sholto, is there anyone else staying in the house with you?”
“No,” he said frowning. “It’s just me and my dad. Why?”
Sherlock ignored the question as Sholto unlocked the door. He followed at Sholto’s heels into the dark foyer, then began scanning the floor and walls as soon as the light was switched on. “Your father’s room is upstairs?”
“Yeah,” said Sholto, now thoroughly bemused by Sherlock’s erratic behavior. But John, still well acquainted with Sherlock’s methods even after so many years, felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. This wasn’t about Mary’s case. This was something new. It was happening now, whatever it was, and John wondered if he should have brought his revolver.
Sholto made his way up the stairs, motioning behind him to be quiet, oblivious to the tension which John felt increasing by the second. He stopped in front of a door at the end of the upstairs hallway, and turned to the three of them.
“I’ll go first, see if he’s awake and tell him who you are. I’ll warn you now, though, he’s an unpleasant bastard. He won’t want to see you.”
With that, Sholto turned the knob, opening the door a just a crack. Then he froze. And a moment later, he stumbled backward, caught in Sherlock’s arms as his knees gave out, and let out the words, “Oh fuck,” in a shaky whisper.
A sick, familiar feeling, and also a wave of calm focus, came over John as he stepped around Sherlock and Sholto and pressed open the door. It was a large master bedroom, illuminated by the late afternoon sun that streamed in through a side window, but John hardly registered these details as he took in the ghastly wide-eyed expression and blue-tinged lips of the man propped up in the center of his king sized bed. As John rushed forward, he already knew there was nothing to be done. Even before he was close enough to search for a pulse, he knew that this man, gray-haired with skewed reading glasses still perched on his nose, was dead.
Then again, thought John as he took the man’s limp wrist between his fingers, pulses could lie.
He shook away the memory that threatened to surface, and replaced the man’s arm in the position he’d found it. He knew what to do next. There were noises coming from behind him, cries and whispers and movement, but John didn’t pay them much attention as he set to work. He hadn’t been at a crime scene for years, and his work at the surgery rarely put him in the face of death anymore. But even if he was out of practice, this felt like second nature: noting the tint of the skin, inspecting the pupils, searching the body for marks and abrasions. The procedures he had taught himself out of books, back when he’d realized that forensic medicine had somehow become his full time job, returned to him easily. He only wished he had a pair of gloves so he could be more thorough.
It was a few minutes later-he thought; he’d lost track of time-when he reached and verified his conclusion. With a growing sense of alarm, John stood up straight, jumping when he felt a warmth at his back.
“Well, Doctor?” John turned around to find that Sherlock was positively beaming. “What are your thoughts?”
“He was murdered,” John quickly explained. “Happened…I don’t know, minutes ago. Sherlock, what if-”
Sherlock caught John’s darting eyes, and made an impatient gesture. “They’ve already escaped. The house is perfectly safe.”
“You’re sure?”
“Completely.”
John nodded and slowly relaxed his defensive stance. He wondered why it was so easy to believe Sherlock’s assurance, even after John had sworn never to trust him again. But this was Sherlock’s arena, and John trusted on instinct. If Sherlock said they were safe, John couldn’t help feeling safe. Then John realized something else Sherlock had said. “Wait. They?”
“Yes. They.” Sherlock skipped the explanation, and gestured to the body. “Go on. What else did you conclude?”
“It was an overdose,” said John. He indicated the marks around the victim’s neck. “He was being strangled as he died, but that wasn’t the cause of death. And based on the damage around the puncture wound in his left arm, not to mention the bruising everywhere, I don’t think it’s too much to assume that the drugs were forcibly administered.”
“It’s not an assumption at all if you look at the facts.” Sherlock grinned, all of his attention on John, which was remarkable considering there was a dead body within reach. John could feel the affection and pride, maybe even respect, that Sherlock never bestowed on anyone else. It was heady, and it made everything, even murder, seem unimportant. John felt himself smile in response. It was the sort of moment he could never properly explain, not even to his therapist: how being in a room with Sherlock and a dead body-with a mystery-held the promise of something thrilling to come. No, it was more than that. It was the promise of something shared. It was some indefinable spark that passed between them, that made death seem small, that made it feel okay to laugh at a crime scene. God, just like old times. Thank goodness no one else was in the room to witness this.
That’s when John suddenly realized the two of them were alone. He shook himself out of the moment and frowned at the door. “Where’s Mary?”
Sherlock’s grin vanished in an instant. “Downstairs, comforting Mr. Sholto I assume.” He stepped around John and leaned over the body, making his own observations and speaking rapidly. “We have approximately five and a half minutes before the police arrive. Fortunately, I was able to stop everyone from calling the authorities so I could contact Lestrade directly.” He dropped to his hands and knees to inspect the carpet, and John moved out of his way. “With any luck, and a fair bit of cajoling, Lestrade will let me stay on the case. But he’s already threatened to force me out of the crime scene once he arrives, so I’ll need to use this limited time effectively.”
John knew he should probably wait with Mary downstairs until Lestrade arrived, make sure she was okay, but as he moved toward the door, he found himself caught up in Sherlock’s work, mesmerized by the purposeful grace with which he moved around the room. He wasn’t sure why he found the sight comforting. He supposed that after all the strain between him and Sherlock, all the reminders, small and large, of how much had changed, it was nice to be in the middle of something so familiar, even if that something was a murder.
“How did you know he would be dead?” John asked as Sherlock inspected the windowsill. Sherlock had somehow anticipated murder even before they returned to the house, John was sure of it.
He wouldn’t have been surprised to receive no answer, but apparently Sherlock was in a talkative mood. “Sholto senior was afraid for his life,” he explained, most of his focus on a spot on the wall. “That much was obvious from his son’s tedious rants. What else would explain the deathbed confession, and the need for constant supervision? Ted Sholto may not have been aware of it, but he was here to provide protection, not medical care.” Sherlock followed a seemingly invisible trail on the ground to the far corner of the room, where under a lamp and a piece of fabric there was a small, opened safe. Sherlock swabbed the interior with his finger and brought it to his tongue. “Sholto’s old partners had been waiting for exactly the opportunity we provided when we coaxed his son out of the house.”
“Sholto’s old partners?”
Sherlock levered himself to his feet, now looking somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling. “Obviously. Both recently released from prison. They killed him with the drugs they found in this very room, then made off with the remaining stash.” His bright eyes turned to John and flashed with joy. “Even Lestrade should be able to figure out what happened here, and discovering the identity of the two men won’t take long. The real challenge will be tracking them down.” Sherlock’s words burned with possibility, and John could feel the pull in his blood.
Before he could respond, the sound of sirens filled the street below.
John broke his eye contact with Sherlock, and barely had time to turn around before Greg came running up the stairs and burst into the bedroom. “Sherlock, what the hell?” he yelled.
“Evening, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock greeted him with a generous smile.
“Out!”
John gave Greg a sheepish nod as he followed a petulant Sherlock back down the stairs. When they reached the living room area, it was already swarming with the faces of unfamiliar cops. John didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved that there was no one he recognized.
Finally he spotted Mary, sitting at the far end of the room and rubbing the back of Ted Sholto, who was seated next to her with his head in his hands. She stood as soon as she saw him.
“John,” she said, her voice quiet and cold. “I’d like to go home now.”
John could read her anger in the set of her jaw, and the trepidation he’d felt at the start of the day now bloomed into a guilty ache. Fuck. In the face of the murder upstairs, he had completely neglected her. He’d left her alone to comfort this grieving wanker, when she hadn’t even had a chance to nurse her own wounds. What was wrong with him? His girlfriend had just discovered that her father was dead, for Christ’s sake.
This was what Sherlock did to people, John thought. He messed with their priorities. Made them insensitive. Then again, maybe John didn’t have anyone to blame but himself. He should have broken the habit of dragging his girlfriends to crime scenes long ago, but look at him. He hadn’t learned a damn thing.
He gave a quick glance toward Sherlock, who was now arguing loudly with Lestrade at the foot of the stairs. The truly fucked up part was that he wanted to stay. He wanted to see this through, maybe write it up, if not for his blog than at least for his own private notes. But Mary was his life now, not Sherlock. He couldn’t let himself forget that.
“Of course,” he said, beckoning. “Let’s go.”
They were mostly silent on the cab ride back to Mary’s flat. John wasn’t sure what he could say to make up for the way he’d behaved. He kept expecting Mary to yell at him for putting her through that ordeal. He deserved to be yelled at, and he wanted her to let it out, knowing how upset she must be underneath her composure. But Mary just kept her hands in her lap and stared out of the window. The one time John tried taking her hand in his, she slipped it back out, and crossed her arms.
“Mary, I-”
“Not now, John,” she cut him off before he could apologize. “I just-I need you to be quiet right now.”
When they arrived at Mary’s doorstep, Mary leaned forward to talk to the cabbie. “You can take him to 221B Baker Street next,” she instructed.
John blinked in surprise. “Can’t I come up?”
Finally, Mary turned to him, and John was surprised to find that her eyes were red. Had she been crying, and he hadn’t even noticed? He felt like an even greater piece of shit.
“Come over-maybe tomorrow, if you want,” she said, leaning forward to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I just want to be by myself tonight. I’m sorry.”
“Mary-” John protested, moving towards her, but the passenger door slammed in his face as he reached out. And the next thing he knew, the cab was speeding away.
Chapter Seven
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Mary, John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 7,000 this chapter, 30,300 so far
Warnings: Spoilers for season two, explicit sex
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: Three years later, John had a girlfriend, a new job, and a new life, and just because his ex wasn’t dead didn’t mean they were going to go right back to the way things used to be.
A/N: So sorry for another long wait. And here is another long chapter to make up for it. It's looking like the final chapter count for the fic will definitely be eight, by the way. Thanks so much to thisprettywren and breathedout for their help. All the case stuff in this chapter is VERY loosely stolen from The Sign Of Four.
Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine
Don't Explain
Chapter Six
This was a terrible idea. John felt it the moment he sat down in the cafe.
Mary had agreed to let Sherlock take a look at her case. She had done it reluctantly, and only after making it quite plain that she wasn’t acting for Sherlock’s benefit-or for John’s. Her sole motivation was to find out what happened to her father. John was just grateful the decision was reached without an argument, and he only felt a tiny bit guilty for hiding the fact that Sherlock already knew about the case. That John had all but promised it to him without a word of permission from Mary.
So now here they were. The three of them sat around a small table in a trendy new coffee shop, chosen specifically for its neutrality. Mary was broadcasting her unhappiness with a stony gaze. Despite her agreement, she clearly did not want to be there. And Sherlock, the one who had been so desperate for something to solve, looked just as bitter about the situation. They had both dropped the relatively friendly pretense of last week’s dinner, and as John sat there, frayed and tense, he wondered if the air between them would ignite from the resentment alone.
God, what had he been thinking, bringing them together like this? He could have sworn his decision made sense at the time. John took another sip of his too-sweet coffee and figured they better get it over with.
“Go ahead,” he said, nodding to Mary.
“I'm not sure where to start,” she replied.
Sherlock all but rolled his eyes at the cliché, but one look from John, and John could see the sarcastic remark die on his tongue. At least Sherlock seemed to understand that this was a favor. If he stepped out of line, John and Mary could very easily stand up and walk out, taking the case with them. “I would imagine you’d start with your father,” said Sherlock with only a hint of derision. “When did you last see him?”
John found Mary's hand on the tabletop and gave it a light squeeze. He'd heard this story before, and he knew Mary didn't like to discuss it. Yet she sounded eerily calm when she answered. “When I was thirteen, but that wasn’t when he disappeared.” She paused long enough to take a slow breath. “My mum died when I was little. My dad, he…well, he was hardly fit to be a parent. It wasn’t long before he ran off and left me with my aunt-my mother’s sister, that is. So I only ever saw him once a year at most. And the last time was when I was thirteen. I remember he took me to a carnival.”
Mary smiled tightly at the memory, but the rest of her account was spoken in a detached monotone. In the early days of their relationship, when she’d first talked about her family with John, it hadn’t been like this at all. She had been warm and open, embarrassed by her sadness, and they had spent a long evening sharing secrets and personal histories. He missed nights like those. Being with Mary had been so much easier than being with anyone else, but he didn’t feel that closeness now. Mary was keeping her expression shuttered and her back stiff, and John didn’t know how to cross the distance he could feel stretching between them.
“I was supposed to see him again on my fifteenth birthday,” she continued, tapping her fingers lightly against the side of her cup. “He and my aunt hated each other, so he never came to the house. I always had to go meet him somewhere. So, this time, I had a letter from him with the name of the hotel where he was staying, and what time I should arrive for lunch. I made it there five minutes early, and the front desk told me he had checked in, but…” Mary’s eyes, which had been steadily fixed on Sherlock, drifted off to the side. “He never showed. I waited for hours.”
“Do you still have the letter?” Sherlock asked.
“Of course not,” Mary snapped, returning her focus with heat in her gaze. “I was furious at him. The first thing I did when I got home was to take the letter and burn it.” She closed her eyes briefly. John couldn’t tell if she wanted to prove to Sherlock she could be objective, or whether she was just trying to hide any weakness. Either way, she clearly wasn’t comfortable sharing this. John rubbed her hand and felt another stab of guilt for putting her in this position. When Mary spoke again, her voice was slow and restrained, eventually reverting to its even tone. “Of course, I regretted it later. I didn’t realize it was the last time I’d ever hear from him.”
Sherlock responded with a disappointed pout. “You weren’t suspicious at the time?”
“It wasn’t the first time he’d stood me up, so no. I didn’t think much of it at all, not until later that year when the child support to my aunt never arrived. My dad may have been an irresponsible bastard, but…it was the first time he ever forgot to send a check.”
Sherlock held out his hand. “I assume that was when the police investigation was launched.” Mary stared at the hand and blinked, until Sherlock sighed and added, “You have the report in your purse.”
Mary glanced at John, and John caught the flash of surprise in her expression before she reached into her overlarge bag to remove a manila envelope. John watched it with curiosity as it passed hands. He knew Mary had a copy of the investigation, but he’d never actually seen it in person. He hadn’t much cared to until now. After Sherlock left, he’d assumed his days of crime solving were at an end, and for a while he even avoided reading about local crimes in the paper. Looking into the details of Mary’s case would have left him feeling bereft and useless. But now that Sherlock had returned, John felt something he hadn’t experienced in years, something he hadn’t expected to feel again: the lure of an unsolved mystery.
His interest grew as Sherlock skimmed the report, faster than anyone could possibly process words.
“Well?” asked John when a silent minute had passed. “Any thoughts?”
Sherlock looked up at John and grinned. It was conspiratorial, as though he knew exactly how much John had missed this, the first stage of a case when it was nothing more than a jumble of facts that Sherlock would soon weave into a neat pattern. John quickly smoothed out any interest that might have shown on his face. “Several. But I hate to draw conclusions until I have all the information.”
“That is all the information,” said Mary. “It’s not much, but that’s all the police were able to dig up.”
“I’m not the police,” Sherlock snapped. He narrowed his eyes and gave Mary an appraising stare. “And you’ve yet to tell me how this relates to your new favorite piece of jewelry.”
John turned to Mary in time to see the way her posture froze, her tension and reluctance confirming Sherlock’s accuracy. So the bracelet was related somehow, though John couldn’t imagine how. The only thing he knew was that Mary still wouldn’t talk to him about it. Her silence on the matter had been a continuing sore spot, and now he felt a nagging desire to discover, finally, what Mary had been keeping from him. But at the same time, he recognized that this wasn’t the place. Not in front of Sherlock, at least.
John wavered for a moment, caught between defending her secrecy and wanting her to divulge. Then he found himself thinking it would be a shame to bring the case to an end before it even started. God, was he really that selfish? Willing to sacrifice Mary’s privacy for a thrill? No, he was better than that. John leaned towards her and whispered, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”
Mary was still staring at Sherlock, meeting his challenge. “No, it’s fine,” she said, and to John’s complete shock, she unfastened the bracelet from her wrist.
Sherlock took it from her. Ever prepared, he removed a magnifying lens from a pocket, inspecting each pearl from every angle.
“I don’t actually know if it’s relevant,” said Mary cautiously. “My aunt received it by post two days before I came to visit her, but the package was addressed to me. And when she saw what it-” There was a pause. “Well, she waited for me to open it, and she thinks…” Mary frowned and looked off to a corner of the cafe. She blinked a few times before continuing, the control over her voice starting to waver. “She could be wrong. I don’t know. But she thinks it’s possible that it…used to belong to my mum.”
John let the words sink in, slowly registering the implications, hurt that Mary would feel the need to hide that from him. He scooted closer and placed a hand on her back, ducking his lips to her ear. He wished Sherlock wasn’t here, sitting across from them and surely listening in.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, voice low.
Mary sighed and turned toward him, lifting a hand to brush his cheek. “I couldn’t, John. I don’t know. I didn’t want to think about it, to be honest. It’s just…I can’t stop wondering who sent it. Think. Who would have been holding onto something that belonged to her all this time? I mean, if it’s true, if my aunt is right and it really is my mum’s, then-then what if…” She didn’t finish the sentence, but John was finally starting to understand.
“You think your dad could have sent it to you?”
Mary squeezed her eyes shut and leaned closer. “My god, I’m terrified he might have sent it to me. I was so certain he was dead up until a few weeks ago. If I’ve been wrong all this time, if he’s just been-I don’t know, hiding from me instead…”
She trailed off again, her eyes fluttering open in embarrassment as though she suddenly registered her own words. John had to look away as a wave of nausea passed over him. As cruel as it sounded, John hoped that Mary’s father was indeed deceased. For her own sake.
He avoided looking at Sherlock, not wanting to see his reaction, but then maybe the parallel had been lost on him entirely. Because Sherlock chose that moment to interrupt, sounding bored. He placed the pearls on the table in front of him. “Should I assume you thoughtfully burned the package this arrived in?”
Mary was still turned to John, so he could see her rein in her anger before reaching back into her bag. What she pulled out was a white, beat-up, letter-sized envelope-a poor choice for mailing what was probably a valuable piece of jewelry. She set her mouth and handed it over to Sherlock.
He snatched it from her, closely examining the handwriting on the front. When he flipped it around, his eyebrows shot up. “There’s a return address.”
“Oh, very clever,” Mary responded, her voice dripping with unmistakable sarcasm. “I never would have noticed.”
“Then why are you bothering me with this?” Sherlock shouted, loud enough to turn a few heads around them. He threw the envelope back at her. “Obviously the person who sent this to you knows something about your father, and they provided a very simple means of contacting them. The fact that you’ve neglected to do so means that you aren’t actually interested in learning what happened at all. You’re just wasting my time with your sob stories and self pity.”
That was too far. Without thinking, John pushed his seat back and leapt to his feet, but Mary grabbed his wrist before…well, he wasn’t sure what he was planning to do, but it would have caused a scene. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound he was, just waiting for Sherlock to say the wrong thing. And accusing Mary of theatrics was beyond the pale. John breathed sharply through his nose, staring angrily down at Sherlock, but Sherlock met John’s glare with his own threatening look. They were apparently past the stage where Sherlock was willing to sit there and take it. If John threw a punch right now, Sherlock’s expression made it clear that he would punch back.
“Apologize,” said John.
“For what?” Sherlock spat back.
“John, calm down. It’s okay.” Mary tugged him back into his seat and held his hand tightly. “He’s right, actually. I told you, I didn’t want to know, at first, but I-I’ve had some time to think about it.” She turned her attention back to Sherlock. “I am ready to find out what happened now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. I don’t know who sent this to me,” she said, picking up the bracelet from the table and clasping it back around her wrist, “and I don’t know if it’s my dad, or someone who knew my dad, or…or maybe it’s nothing at all. I’m not even sure you can help, really. But I guess, if I’m going to show up at some stranger’s address, I might as well bring someone along who knows what they’re doing.”
Sherlock regarded her for a moment. Even John had to admit it wasn’t much of a case, and it was the sort of thing Sherlock once would have dismissed out of hand. So it probably spoke to Sherlock’s level of desperation when he stood and swept the coat off the back of his chair.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
***
The cab dropped them off in front of a row of posh brick buildings, each of them set back from the road, tastefully hidden behind fences and hedges. Sherlock sniffed the air like a dog as they approached the house marked fifteen, sweeping his gaze up and down the street. John wondered what he was thinking, if that remarkable brain had already picked up on clues and reached conclusions, and it might have felt just like old times if not for the fact that Mary walked ahead of them. John found he had to keep reminding himself that this case was personal, that it was his girlfriend’s father they were investigating. He was here to support her, not to get caught up in the anticipation of the unknown. Besides, there was nothing particularly exciting about the quiet, affluent neighborhood in which they found themselves.
Still, his heart thrummed as they approached the entrance and Mary pressed the buzzer.
There was a tense silence before the door opened. Behind it stood a well-built man in his early thirties, with blond hair that looked slightly less than natural and a nervousness about his eyes. They darted from Mary, to John, to Sherlock, to Mary again.
“So I’m guessing you’re Mary Morstan?” he asked before any of them had a chance to speak.
Mary took a half step back, and John hooked a hand around her elbow, feeling overwhelmingly protective.
“I am,” Mary replied.
The stranger nodded. “Yeah, I was wondering if you’d show up. Who’re these two, then? You’re not cops, are you?”
He squinted at Sherlock as he posed the question, but Sherlock just smiled in a way that would seem convincingly friendly to anyone who didn’t actually know him. “Far from it,” he said, offering his hand. “Sherlock Holmes. Personal friend of Mary’s.”
John bristled at the lie, unconsciously giving Mary’s arm a squeeze. But Sherlock never did anything without a reason and John chose not to contradict him. Of course, if Sherlock wanted to hide the fact that he was a detective, his past brush with fame might make that difficult. John watched the stranger closely for signs of recognition, but no-there was no hint of surprise at shaking the hand of someone who had very publicly killed himself three years ago. John supposed most Londoners had little interest in some tabloid flash in the pan.
There were awkwardly polite greetings all around, the stranger introducing himself as Ted Sholto. The name wasn't familiar to John, and one glance at Mary showed that she hadn't heard of him either.
“So,” said Sholto, still leaning in the doorway as he lowered his voice, “I guess you came to ask about that bracelet.”
“It was from you, then?” Mary asked, the disappointment in her voice well hidden. Her fingers touched the pearls at her wrist, something that had become a nervous gesture.
“Yeah well, you know, I thought you might like to have it. I wasn't sure if you'd want to know the whole story, but I guess if you're here, then…”
“What story?” asked John. There was something about this man that already rubbed him the wrong way, something about his overly-familiar tone, and the way he was conducting this conversation on his front porch.
Sholto craned his neck forward and lowered his voice even further. “I mean, what happened to her dad and everything.”
Next to John, Mary’s breath caught. “You-you know what happened to him?”
“Yeah, but…” Sholto glanced back over his shoulder into the darkened house. “Not here, all right? Do you mind going for a walk or something? I’ve been trapped in this fucking house for a bloody month now. I need some air, you know?”
Without waiting for an answer, he stepped outside and eased the door shut behind him. He looked much happier once this was done, and his voice returned to its full volume. “Come on, then.” He set off down the tree-lined block at a quick pace, and the three of them followed behind. John walked alongside Mary, rubbing her back and trying to offer some small comfort for whatever was to come, but Mary stared resolutely forward at the back of Sholto’s head. Sherlock trailed in the back.
“I hate this fucking neighborhood,” Sholto was saying, casting scornful looks at the buildings they passed. “Smug, rich bastards, the lot. You should know, that isn’t my house back there; it’s my dad’s. I'm only staying with him while he’s sick, or at least claims to be sick. Don’t ask me what he’s got, because I haven’t the faintest. Which is fucking ridiculous, because how the hell am I supposed to be taking care of him, then? But anyway, I’m here until he recovers. Or finally croaks. Whichever. If he is planning to die, I just wish he’d get it over with already. He won’t let me out of his sight for more than two bloody seconds at a time. I’m a grown man, you know? I can only take that babysitting shit for so long. I've got a life, too.”
“What is it you do, Mr. Sholto?” asked Mary in a deadpan that would make it clear to anyone that she was only being polite, and barely that.
“He’s unemployed, and has been for months,” said Sherlock.
“Between jobs,” corrected Sholto with an annoyed glare over his shoulder. “And with the job market all fucked up like it is, I’ll tell you, if the old man does decide to die, it wouldn’t hurt to have my share of that money I know he has stashed away.”
John’s dislike was increasing with each passing second. And he could sense Mary becoming more anxious the longer Sholto jabbered. But Sholto showed no interest in talking about her father, and he didn’t seem to be taking them anywhere in particular. John tried breaking into his monolog several times as they traveled block after block, but Sholto was incapable of keeping his mouth shut for any extended period of time. He was so focused on ranting about his own father, the last job he lost, and a million other complaints, that John wondered if he even remembered why they were all there. He lost his patience entirely when Sholto rounded a corner onto yet another identical residential street, silent except for a few birds, and still without a person in sight. Increasing his pace, John grabbed Sholto by the shoulder and spun him around.
“I think you need to stop and tell us exactly what it is you know,” he said in his best threatening tone.
Sholto lifted his hands in the air, and had the audacity to look affronted. “Okay, all right. Calm down. I’m going to tell you everything I can. I just needed to get the fuck away from that house first. I mean, my dad’s going to be furious I was gone for this long, but fuck him, you know?” Sholto leaned back against one of the sparsely leafed trees growing out of the pavement and addressed Mary. “Okay, well, this involves a bit of back story I guess. You’re sure you want to know?”
Sherlock stepped forward so that he stood on John’s right. “Obviously she’s sure.” When John looked over, he could see Sherlock working his jaw in irritation. He wondered why Sherlock had been so silent up until now, patiently letting Sholto rant instead of demanding immediate answers.
Sholto shrugged. “I guess I should ask you then: do you know what your dad used to do? For a living, I mean?”
Mary crossed her arms in front of her. There was a crease etched into her forehead. She was holding herself motionless, and although John still had a hand at her back, it was like touching a mannequin. “Not really, no. I know he used to travel a lot.”
“Then you probably don’t know that your father and mine used to work together,” said Sholto. Mary shook her head slowly. “There were four of them, actually. It was my dad, your dad, and then the two others are in prison now, apparently. So, they ran this operation together, that, uh…well, I think some of what they did was actually legitimate. You know, importing, sales, boring shite. But a lot of their business was…” Sholto waved a hand in the air, as though looking for the right word, while his eyes darted to the houses nearby. Finally, he looked at Mary again and let out in a harsh whisper, “Well, fucking drugs. Smuggling and shite. Other illegal stuff, I’m sure, but mostly the drugs.”
John silently cursed Sholto’s complete lack of tact. He moved closer to Mary, looking to see how she was taking this revelation, but she took a small step away from him in turn, her eyes on Sholto, her forehead creased in concentration.
“You said there were four of them working together,” Sherlock chimed in. “Do you know the names of the other two?”
“Why the hell would I know that?” Sholto asked with a frown. “It was a long fucking time ago. Although…” He paused briefly, looking thoughtful. “I sort of remember my dad talking about someone called…what was it, Little? Or Small, or something.”
“And what about my father?” asked Mary. Her voice was quiet and clear, her arms still crossed and her eyes now fixed on the pavement by her feet.
Sholto cleared his throat and rubbed his arm. “Right. Yeah. Well, ever since my dad decided he’s dying, he’s been confessing all this shite that I really don’t want to hear. He keeps saying he needs to clear his conscience or something-I don’t know. I didn’t even think he had a conscience, to be honest. So who knows? Maybe he’s dying after all.
“Anyway, when I first show up here about a month ago, he calls me into his room one night and starts going on and on, like a crazy person, about-I don’t know, how everyone makes mistakes in their lives, and he’s made some big ones, but he never meant to hurt anyone. That was the big thing he kept repeating, how it wasn’t his fault that things went wrong. I told him I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, and that’s when he confessed about the drug smuggling, like it was really important I should know about it. He told me how two of his partners ended up in jail, and one of them ended up dead, but he kept saying that it wasn’t his fault.”
A sharp intake of breath, almost a sob, came from Mary as she brought a clenched hand to her mouth. Her face had gone white. There it was then, confirmation that her father was dead, revealed in such a crass, unexpected manner. John immediately moved closer and sought out her hand-when had Mary moved so far away?-but Mary shook her head sharply and angled her body away, letting him know she needed space. She lowered her hand and took a slow, steady breath. “What else did he say?”
Sholto shuffled his feet a bit, finally looking embarrassed at being the bearer of devastating news. “He-okay, well, apparently when the other two guys got thrown into prison, it sort of looked like my dad might have set them up or something. He says he didn’t, that it was all a mistake, but he also lies through his teeth, so who the fuck knows. Your dad-er, Mr. Morstan-had just gotten back into the country. He was at his hotel when he found out what happened. So he came straight to my dad’s place to confront him about it. There was this big argument, and then-well, okay, this is what my dad claims, but who knows if the fucker’s telling the truth or not. He says that Morstan suddenly had a heart attack or something in the middle of their fight and-well, just keeled over.”
Mary squeezed her eyes shut.
“No one reported it?” asked John, his entire attention focused on Mary.
“I’m sure he thought he’d get pinned with murder,” said Sholto, “and even if he could prove it was an accident, I guess he was afraid of getting busted for the smuggling like his partners. So he says he dumped the body.” John watched Mary wince.
“So anyway, he claims he’s been feeling guilty about it since, which I think is bullshit. But that’s when he showed me that bracelet.” Sholto pointed to Mary’s wrist, but Mary covered it with her other hand, hiding it from view. “It was the only valuable thing the guy had on him, and my dad knew he had a daughter somewhere, so he says that’s why he held onto it. He’s the one who had your address. He said he’s thought about sending it to you for years, but he could never bring himself to actually do it. So the next day, I snuck into his room and-yeah, I sent it for him.” He ran a hand through his hair, then shoved both hands into his pockets. “I mean, I know what it’s like to have a father who abandons you and fucks up your life. I thought you deserved to have it.” He looked at her expectantly, as though waiting for gratitude or camaraderie, as though he’d had no hand in her current state of distress. And true, it was Sholto’s father who was the real villain in all of this, and his son was merely guilty of being spectacularly bad at sharing painful news. But that didn’t keep John from wanting to break his face in.
Mary continued to stare at the ground, and although she didn’t sound at all grateful, she still said “thank you” in a dead voice.
A contemplative silence followed, a moment of mourning for Mary’s father, long dead after all. John stood with fists clenched at his sides, watching Mary from what felt like a great distance. He knew better than to offer any comfort until it was asked for. So he waited.
Of course, it was Sherlock who eventually broke the silence. “Well then. We should probably be getting back to your house about now.”
John turned to him, prepared to tell him off for being so incredibly rude, but he was stopped short when he caught sight of Sherlock’s hungry expression. There was a light in his eyes, and John realized Sherlock had heard something in Sholto’s story that the rest of them had missed. The case wasn’t solved, then. There was something else happening. John’s stomach fluttered at the thought.
“Yeah, okay,” said Sholto slowly. “Now that you know what my dad said, I guess you want to talk to him yourselves. I mean, he probably won’t answer any questions, but I guess it’s worth a try.”
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “An excellent idea. Come, we’ve wasted too much time as it is.”
Sherlock turned on his heel and led the way back through the residential streets by which they’d come, brimming with an excitement John hadn’t seen since his return. As John trotted behind, he wondered what else they were about to learn. Would Sherlock be able to determine the exact cause of John Morstan’s death, even after so many years had passed and all the evidence gone? It seemed incredible, but John hoped so. Sholto’s vague account of the accident-or possible murder-could hardly feel like closure to Mary.
When they arrived back at number fifteen where they’d started, Sherlock practically bounded up the steps to the front door, then bounced on his toes with impatience as the rest of them caught up. “Mr. Sholto, is there anyone else staying in the house with you?”
“No,” he said frowning. “It’s just me and my dad. Why?”
Sherlock ignored the question as Sholto unlocked the door. He followed at Sholto’s heels into the dark foyer, then began scanning the floor and walls as soon as the light was switched on. “Your father’s room is upstairs?”
“Yeah,” said Sholto, now thoroughly bemused by Sherlock’s erratic behavior. But John, still well acquainted with Sherlock’s methods even after so many years, felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. This wasn’t about Mary’s case. This was something new. It was happening now, whatever it was, and John wondered if he should have brought his revolver.
Sholto made his way up the stairs, motioning behind him to be quiet, oblivious to the tension which John felt increasing by the second. He stopped in front of a door at the end of the upstairs hallway, and turned to the three of them.
“I’ll go first, see if he’s awake and tell him who you are. I’ll warn you now, though, he’s an unpleasant bastard. He won’t want to see you.”
With that, Sholto turned the knob, opening the door a just a crack. Then he froze. And a moment later, he stumbled backward, caught in Sherlock’s arms as his knees gave out, and let out the words, “Oh fuck,” in a shaky whisper.
A sick, familiar feeling, and also a wave of calm focus, came over John as he stepped around Sherlock and Sholto and pressed open the door. It was a large master bedroom, illuminated by the late afternoon sun that streamed in through a side window, but John hardly registered these details as he took in the ghastly wide-eyed expression and blue-tinged lips of the man propped up in the center of his king sized bed. As John rushed forward, he already knew there was nothing to be done. Even before he was close enough to search for a pulse, he knew that this man, gray-haired with skewed reading glasses still perched on his nose, was dead.
Then again, thought John as he took the man’s limp wrist between his fingers, pulses could lie.
He shook away the memory that threatened to surface, and replaced the man’s arm in the position he’d found it. He knew what to do next. There were noises coming from behind him, cries and whispers and movement, but John didn’t pay them much attention as he set to work. He hadn’t been at a crime scene for years, and his work at the surgery rarely put him in the face of death anymore. But even if he was out of practice, this felt like second nature: noting the tint of the skin, inspecting the pupils, searching the body for marks and abrasions. The procedures he had taught himself out of books, back when he’d realized that forensic medicine had somehow become his full time job, returned to him easily. He only wished he had a pair of gloves so he could be more thorough.
It was a few minutes later-he thought; he’d lost track of time-when he reached and verified his conclusion. With a growing sense of alarm, John stood up straight, jumping when he felt a warmth at his back.
“Well, Doctor?” John turned around to find that Sherlock was positively beaming. “What are your thoughts?”
“He was murdered,” John quickly explained. “Happened…I don’t know, minutes ago. Sherlock, what if-”
Sherlock caught John’s darting eyes, and made an impatient gesture. “They’ve already escaped. The house is perfectly safe.”
“You’re sure?”
“Completely.”
John nodded and slowly relaxed his defensive stance. He wondered why it was so easy to believe Sherlock’s assurance, even after John had sworn never to trust him again. But this was Sherlock’s arena, and John trusted on instinct. If Sherlock said they were safe, John couldn’t help feeling safe. Then John realized something else Sherlock had said. “Wait. They?”
“Yes. They.” Sherlock skipped the explanation, and gestured to the body. “Go on. What else did you conclude?”
“It was an overdose,” said John. He indicated the marks around the victim’s neck. “He was being strangled as he died, but that wasn’t the cause of death. And based on the damage around the puncture wound in his left arm, not to mention the bruising everywhere, I don’t think it’s too much to assume that the drugs were forcibly administered.”
“It’s not an assumption at all if you look at the facts.” Sherlock grinned, all of his attention on John, which was remarkable considering there was a dead body within reach. John could feel the affection and pride, maybe even respect, that Sherlock never bestowed on anyone else. It was heady, and it made everything, even murder, seem unimportant. John felt himself smile in response. It was the sort of moment he could never properly explain, not even to his therapist: how being in a room with Sherlock and a dead body-with a mystery-held the promise of something thrilling to come. No, it was more than that. It was the promise of something shared. It was some indefinable spark that passed between them, that made death seem small, that made it feel okay to laugh at a crime scene. God, just like old times. Thank goodness no one else was in the room to witness this.
That’s when John suddenly realized the two of them were alone. He shook himself out of the moment and frowned at the door. “Where’s Mary?”
Sherlock’s grin vanished in an instant. “Downstairs, comforting Mr. Sholto I assume.” He stepped around John and leaned over the body, making his own observations and speaking rapidly. “We have approximately five and a half minutes before the police arrive. Fortunately, I was able to stop everyone from calling the authorities so I could contact Lestrade directly.” He dropped to his hands and knees to inspect the carpet, and John moved out of his way. “With any luck, and a fair bit of cajoling, Lestrade will let me stay on the case. But he’s already threatened to force me out of the crime scene once he arrives, so I’ll need to use this limited time effectively.”
John knew he should probably wait with Mary downstairs until Lestrade arrived, make sure she was okay, but as he moved toward the door, he found himself caught up in Sherlock’s work, mesmerized by the purposeful grace with which he moved around the room. He wasn’t sure why he found the sight comforting. He supposed that after all the strain between him and Sherlock, all the reminders, small and large, of how much had changed, it was nice to be in the middle of something so familiar, even if that something was a murder.
“How did you know he would be dead?” John asked as Sherlock inspected the windowsill. Sherlock had somehow anticipated murder even before they returned to the house, John was sure of it.
He wouldn’t have been surprised to receive no answer, but apparently Sherlock was in a talkative mood. “Sholto senior was afraid for his life,” he explained, most of his focus on a spot on the wall. “That much was obvious from his son’s tedious rants. What else would explain the deathbed confession, and the need for constant supervision? Ted Sholto may not have been aware of it, but he was here to provide protection, not medical care.” Sherlock followed a seemingly invisible trail on the ground to the far corner of the room, where under a lamp and a piece of fabric there was a small, opened safe. Sherlock swabbed the interior with his finger and brought it to his tongue. “Sholto’s old partners had been waiting for exactly the opportunity we provided when we coaxed his son out of the house.”
“Sholto’s old partners?”
Sherlock levered himself to his feet, now looking somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling. “Obviously. Both recently released from prison. They killed him with the drugs they found in this very room, then made off with the remaining stash.” His bright eyes turned to John and flashed with joy. “Even Lestrade should be able to figure out what happened here, and discovering the identity of the two men won’t take long. The real challenge will be tracking them down.” Sherlock’s words burned with possibility, and John could feel the pull in his blood.
Before he could respond, the sound of sirens filled the street below.
John broke his eye contact with Sherlock, and barely had time to turn around before Greg came running up the stairs and burst into the bedroom. “Sherlock, what the hell?” he yelled.
“Evening, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock greeted him with a generous smile.
“Out!”
John gave Greg a sheepish nod as he followed a petulant Sherlock back down the stairs. When they reached the living room area, it was already swarming with the faces of unfamiliar cops. John didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved that there was no one he recognized.
Finally he spotted Mary, sitting at the far end of the room and rubbing the back of Ted Sholto, who was seated next to her with his head in his hands. She stood as soon as she saw him.
“John,” she said, her voice quiet and cold. “I’d like to go home now.”
John could read her anger in the set of her jaw, and the trepidation he’d felt at the start of the day now bloomed into a guilty ache. Fuck. In the face of the murder upstairs, he had completely neglected her. He’d left her alone to comfort this grieving wanker, when she hadn’t even had a chance to nurse her own wounds. What was wrong with him? His girlfriend had just discovered that her father was dead, for Christ’s sake.
This was what Sherlock did to people, John thought. He messed with their priorities. Made them insensitive. Then again, maybe John didn’t have anyone to blame but himself. He should have broken the habit of dragging his girlfriends to crime scenes long ago, but look at him. He hadn’t learned a damn thing.
He gave a quick glance toward Sherlock, who was now arguing loudly with Lestrade at the foot of the stairs. The truly fucked up part was that he wanted to stay. He wanted to see this through, maybe write it up, if not for his blog than at least for his own private notes. But Mary was his life now, not Sherlock. He couldn’t let himself forget that.
“Of course,” he said, beckoning. “Let’s go.”
They were mostly silent on the cab ride back to Mary’s flat. John wasn’t sure what he could say to make up for the way he’d behaved. He kept expecting Mary to yell at him for putting her through that ordeal. He deserved to be yelled at, and he wanted her to let it out, knowing how upset she must be underneath her composure. But Mary just kept her hands in her lap and stared out of the window. The one time John tried taking her hand in his, she slipped it back out, and crossed her arms.
“Mary, I-”
“Not now, John,” she cut him off before he could apologize. “I just-I need you to be quiet right now.”
When they arrived at Mary’s doorstep, Mary leaned forward to talk to the cabbie. “You can take him to 221B Baker Street next,” she instructed.
John blinked in surprise. “Can’t I come up?”
Finally, Mary turned to him, and John was surprised to find that her eyes were red. Had she been crying, and he hadn’t even noticed? He felt like an even greater piece of shit.
“Come over-maybe tomorrow, if you want,” she said, leaning forward to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I just want to be by myself tonight. I’m sorry.”
“Mary-” John protested, moving towards her, but the passenger door slammed in his face as he reached out. And the next thing he knew, the cab was speeding away.
Chapter Seven