Untitled: 4a/6
anonymous
January 20 2011, 07:02:29 UTC
A/N: Thank you very much for the comments! I'm glad you're enjoying this fic so much.
Lestrade's radio crackled. “Freak's here, better get a surgical mask,” Donovan said.
Lestrade frowned, and depressed the talk button. “That list of the girl's friends, have you gotten anywhere with it?”
“Higgins is bringing the first one in for questioning now, sir.”
“Right,” he acknowledged, and looked up.
Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves, looked around, frowned, and examined the windowsill. He drew one finger across it. “This isn't the crime scene.”
Lestrade stared. “What are you talking about?”
“Look at the bed. We had a warm spell two days ago, but it turned cold last night. Pyjamas in the hamper are thin, blanket's thin too-- thermostat outside is set at fourteen, she never would have stayed warm here. Could have been sleeping in her clothes--” he made an odd choking sound-- “but look at this.” He held up a slip of paper from the desk. “It's her work schedule. The time set on the alarm would never have gotten her to work on time this morning, but it would have gotten her to school yesterday. She didn't reset it before going to sleep, because she didn't sleep here. Therefore--” the choking noise again-- “she didn't disappear from this room. So where did she spend the night?” He turned quickly, hands in his pockets, surveying the scattered papers and books on the floor.
Lestrade frowned. “Sherlock, are you all right?”
“Fine. Why not here?” He looked out the window. “Could have slept on the sofa, but wherever she was, she would have needed a heavy blanket or a duvet. Where would she have gotten it? No extra in the brothers' room, we know the mother was using hers, none in the--” he went into the hall and opened a door-- “linen cupboard. Conclusion, she never went to sleep here at all. The windowsill's been wet recently; she must have opened it to climb out.” He muffled a cough.
“But her wallet's here, and her mobile.”
Sherlock opened the cupboard, and took out his phone. “Left her galoshes, so wasn't intending to get her feet wet. She--”
Lestrade's mobile rang. “Lestrade.”
“We found her,” Bradstreet said.
“Where?”
“Dover. It was her uncle.”
“She all right?”
“Yes.”
“I'll have my team clean up here and be on my way.” He hung up. “Sherlock?”
From the hall came the sound of furious coughing, which stopped instantly. “I heard,” Sherlock said, sounding bored. “Congratulations.”
Lestrade frowned. “Where's your coat?”
“Ruined it in the Thames last night. What about that blackmailer case, is it going to trial or not? I--” he started to cough, and choked it back-- “have a bit of traveling to arrange.”
“At the beginning of February, hang on--” he crossed his arms over his chest. “You fell into the Thames last night, and now you're running round without a coat and with a cough?”
“It's just a cold. Text me if something--” He coughed again, and couldn't seem to stop. Lestrade watched with eyebrows raised, not sure whether to pound Sherlock on the back or just hit him on the head for being so stupid. “Comes up,” he gasped. “What has the uncle said so far?”
“I don't know, and I wouldn't tell you if I did.”
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. “What? Why not?”
“I'm taking you off the case-- we've nearly wrapped it up, anyway. You should be home, or better, you should be in hospital.”
Lestrade's radio crackled. “Freak's here, better get a surgical mask,” Donovan said.
Lestrade frowned, and depressed the talk button. “That list of the girl's friends, have you gotten anywhere with it?”
“Higgins is bringing the first one in for questioning now, sir.”
“Right,” he acknowledged, and looked up.
Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves, looked around, frowned, and examined the windowsill. He drew one finger across it. “This isn't the crime scene.”
Lestrade stared. “What are you talking about?”
“Look at the bed. We had a warm spell two days ago, but it turned cold last night. Pyjamas in the hamper are thin, blanket's thin too-- thermostat outside is set at fourteen, she never would have stayed warm here. Could have been sleeping in her clothes--” he made an odd choking sound-- “but look at this.” He held up a slip of paper from the desk. “It's her work schedule. The time set on the alarm would never have gotten her to work on time this morning, but it would have gotten her to school yesterday. She didn't reset it before going to sleep, because she didn't sleep here. Therefore--” the choking noise again-- “she didn't disappear from this room. So where did she spend the night?” He turned quickly, hands in his pockets, surveying the scattered papers and books on the floor.
Lestrade frowned. “Sherlock, are you all right?”
“Fine. Why not here?” He looked out the window. “Could have slept on the sofa, but wherever she was, she would have needed a heavy blanket or a duvet. Where would she have gotten it? No extra in the brothers' room, we know the mother was using hers, none in the--” he went into the hall and opened a door-- “linen cupboard. Conclusion, she never went to sleep here at all. The windowsill's been wet recently; she must have opened it to climb out.” He muffled a cough.
“But her wallet's here, and her mobile.”
Sherlock opened the cupboard, and took out his phone. “Left her galoshes, so wasn't intending to get her feet wet. She--”
Lestrade's mobile rang. “Lestrade.”
“We found her,” Bradstreet said.
“Where?”
“Dover. It was her uncle.”
“She all right?”
“Yes.”
“I'll have my team clean up here and be on my way.” He hung up. “Sherlock?”
From the hall came the sound of furious coughing, which stopped instantly. “I heard,” Sherlock said, sounding bored. “Congratulations.”
Lestrade frowned. “Where's your coat?”
“Ruined it in the Thames last night. What about that blackmailer case, is it going to trial or not? I--” he started to cough, and choked it back-- “have a bit of traveling to arrange.”
“At the beginning of February, hang on--” he crossed his arms over his chest. “You fell into the Thames last night, and now you're running round without a coat and with a cough?”
“It's just a cold. Text me if something--” He coughed again, and couldn't seem to stop. Lestrade watched with eyebrows raised, not sure whether to pound Sherlock on the back or just hit him on the head for being so stupid. “Comes up,” he gasped. “What has the uncle said so far?”
“I don't know, and I wouldn't tell you if I did.”
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. “What? Why not?”
“I'm taking you off the case-- we've nearly wrapped it up, anyway. You should be home, or better, you should be in hospital.”
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