Sherlock - "Vendetta" part 6
Finally! Latest installment of the Sherlock fic.
Start from the beginning here.
**************************
“Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!”
Lestrade danced aside in an effort to save his cup of coffee. Sherlock simply turned toward the boy running down the pavement. “Ah, Wiggins. What have you got?”
The boy skidded to a halt, panting slightly. “We got something, Mr. Holmes! Missie passed the word and Clive over to Shadwell come back. Says Red Kavanagh was acting all flush in the Peacock for weeks, standing enough rounds that people were actually looking for him. Then yesterday Clive sees him talking on a mobile, saying he needs more time.”
Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. “Red Kavanagh?”
“You probably know him as Gabriel Carmody. Red hair, squints, known for all sorts of creative little disruptions in the East End?”
“Carmody? The little ginger rat?”
“Yes, George, him. He’s considered one of the more reliable domestic assassins of the last few years.”
Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a full ten seconds before erupting into a profanity-drenched tirade as he pulled out his mobile.
*****
Molly paced the room. Sixteen steps across the sitting room from door to window. Sixteen back. Twenty-three steps from door to dining table. Twenty-three back. Repeat.
Heaven knows she had tried. She had read everything Sherlock had brought from Waterstone’s that interested her and scavenged his shelves for more. She couldn’t go down to visit Mrs. Hudson, who was out to the shops. Sherlock had no telly, his computer was password-protected, and her own mobile was dead thanks to John not grabbing the charger and there not being a like one in the flat.
Her head was almost a hundred percent normal and her shoulder only sent out twinges if she raised it too suddenly. She had already soaked in the lovely deep tub, though she missed her favourite jasmine bath oil. She had even thought to try and clean a bit by way of thanks, but one look at the rainbow of growths in the sink had put her off.
So she paced, about to go spare with boredom.
Just as she whirled to cross the sitting room again, the door opened. Molly gave a shriek before registering that it was Sherlock. He looked her over and nodded as if confirming something, then held out a shopping bag.
“Your charger, the toiletries John forgot, and a few books from your stack of things to read. John will bring dinner. I hope Indian will do?”
Molly glared at him and took the bag. She glanced inside and saw everything he had listed.
“Your neighbour says that Toby is fine, eating well. We have a lead on who might have sent the bomb. Please don’t leave the building.” With that he spun on his heel and left.
Molly let out a growl that grew into a scream of frustration and hurled the first thing that came to her hand. The charger cord smacked against the door and fell to the floor.
*****
Sergeant Donovan’s information from the bank had arrived, opening plenty of routes of inquiry. After cooling his heels for several hours, Lestrade obtained the necessary warrants to question Reginald Bancroft. Sherlock showed up in the car park just as he was about to set out for Cheltenham.
“Sherlock, you don’t have to come with me. It’s going to be at least two hours there, and that’s if traffic is good. Traffic is never good.”
“I think it’s for the best. The sooner we get this wrapped up the sooner Molly can go home.”
“Fine! You can take notes or something. Just remember you’re not official. We’re dealing with someone who can make our lives miserable if we aren’t strictly by the book.”
Sherlock glanced at his watch and his mouth twisted slightly. “Best be on our way, then?”
*****
Mike Stamford dropped a set of records at the nurses’ station and looked around for the next lot. Bart’s was slowly returning to normal after the bomb, with the electricity restored and every patient in a room or transferred elsewhere. They even had Lucie Winston off life support and breathing on her own. Mike paused to drop Molly an email and let her know.
“Doctor, there’s a gent waiting outside your office. He says he’s family to Molly Hooper.”
Mike raised an eyebrow at the nurse’s statement. Molly rarely spoke about her family other than mentioning growing up with a pair of sisters. His impression was that they had been the good girls, staying close to home and marrying young, while Molly went to uni and got herself a career. But perhaps Sherlock had let them know of the accident; he certainly had been surprised at learning he was Molly’s emergency contact.
He turned down the hall to his office and paused. There was a man sitting on a bench, twisting a cap in his hands. He had a shock of red hair and as he glanced up the hall Mike noticed him peer his way with narrowed eyes, as if he were short-sighted. He stood as Mike approached.
“You Doctor Stamford? Molly’s boss?”
“I am. And you are?”
“Monty, Monty Hooper. Molly’s my sister, we just heard about the bomb and we ain’t heard from Molly in days.”
The fact that Molly had never mentioned a brother at all made Mike’s split-second decision for him. Perhaps Sherlock was rubbing off on him a wee bit?
“She’s perfectly fine, but staying with a friend. Nerves rattled a bit, you know? You should try her mobile-only way I know of to get her right now. Now if you’ll excuse me, must get back to my rounds!” He moved past the man into his office, made a show of adding some files to the ones in his hand, and left, locking his door behind him. He made a mental note to text Sherlock as soon as he was out of sight.
*****
Two hours had been optimistic. Between the delays and Sherlock’s odd obsessive checking of the time, Lestrade had developed a raging headache and knots in his shoulders. Even more maddening, Sherlock had left off looking at his watch as they passed Burford. But they were finally here at Reginald Bancroft’s home, a Regency house flanked by stabling for the racehorses he trained.
As they got out, Sherlock glanced over the property and took off for the nearest stable.
“Sherlock, where are you going?”
“Flat racing has not begun yet, it’s well in advance of evening stables and I believe we will find Mr Bancroft somewhere on his property, in a storage barn perhaps. He won’t be near the horses.” He continued walking, long strides eating up the ground, and Lestrade had to break into a trot to catch him.
As they approached, a man came out of one of the stables and moved to intercept them. Sherlock paused a few yards away, looking him up and down. “Head groom? Yard manager?”
“Cullins, yard manager. What you doing 'ere?”
“My name’s Holmes. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. We have a warrant-” Lestrade adroitly whipped out the papers as Sherlock waved at him, “-and need to speak to Mr Bancroft. He’s in the stables somewhere, isn’t he?”
At the mention of a warrant, Cullins glanced to his left. “I think I saw ’im go in the feed shed.”
“Show us.”
They followed Cullins to a large shed in between two long rows of stables. Cullins shouted, “Mr Bancroft sir, a couple of men need to see you!”
There was no answer. Sherlock stepped forward to the door, hanging ajar on its hinges, and carefully pushed it open with one elbow. He looked inside and nodded. “Here we are then. I don’t suppose we’ll be fortunate enough to claim Bart’s as jurisdiction? I much prefer my pathologist.”
Lestrade looked inside and clapped a hand to his eyes before running it down his face. The rafter creaked as the body swung in its noose, feet dangling next to an overturned ladder.
******************************************
Part 7
Any comments, constructive criticism and Brit-picking are welcome!
Start from the beginning here.
**************************
“Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!”
Lestrade danced aside in an effort to save his cup of coffee. Sherlock simply turned toward the boy running down the pavement. “Ah, Wiggins. What have you got?”
The boy skidded to a halt, panting slightly. “We got something, Mr. Holmes! Missie passed the word and Clive over to Shadwell come back. Says Red Kavanagh was acting all flush in the Peacock for weeks, standing enough rounds that people were actually looking for him. Then yesterday Clive sees him talking on a mobile, saying he needs more time.”
Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. “Red Kavanagh?”
“You probably know him as Gabriel Carmody. Red hair, squints, known for all sorts of creative little disruptions in the East End?”
“Carmody? The little ginger rat?”
“Yes, George, him. He’s considered one of the more reliable domestic assassins of the last few years.”
Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a full ten seconds before erupting into a profanity-drenched tirade as he pulled out his mobile.
*****
Molly paced the room. Sixteen steps across the sitting room from door to window. Sixteen back. Twenty-three steps from door to dining table. Twenty-three back. Repeat.
Heaven knows she had tried. She had read everything Sherlock had brought from Waterstone’s that interested her and scavenged his shelves for more. She couldn’t go down to visit Mrs. Hudson, who was out to the shops. Sherlock had no telly, his computer was password-protected, and her own mobile was dead thanks to John not grabbing the charger and there not being a like one in the flat.
Her head was almost a hundred percent normal and her shoulder only sent out twinges if she raised it too suddenly. She had already soaked in the lovely deep tub, though she missed her favourite jasmine bath oil. She had even thought to try and clean a bit by way of thanks, but one look at the rainbow of growths in the sink had put her off.
So she paced, about to go spare with boredom.
Just as she whirled to cross the sitting room again, the door opened. Molly gave a shriek before registering that it was Sherlock. He looked her over and nodded as if confirming something, then held out a shopping bag.
“Your charger, the toiletries John forgot, and a few books from your stack of things to read. John will bring dinner. I hope Indian will do?”
Molly glared at him and took the bag. She glanced inside and saw everything he had listed.
“Your neighbour says that Toby is fine, eating well. We have a lead on who might have sent the bomb. Please don’t leave the building.” With that he spun on his heel and left.
Molly let out a growl that grew into a scream of frustration and hurled the first thing that came to her hand. The charger cord smacked against the door and fell to the floor.
*****
Sergeant Donovan’s information from the bank had arrived, opening plenty of routes of inquiry. After cooling his heels for several hours, Lestrade obtained the necessary warrants to question Reginald Bancroft. Sherlock showed up in the car park just as he was about to set out for Cheltenham.
“Sherlock, you don’t have to come with me. It’s going to be at least two hours there, and that’s if traffic is good. Traffic is never good.”
“I think it’s for the best. The sooner we get this wrapped up the sooner Molly can go home.”
“Fine! You can take notes or something. Just remember you’re not official. We’re dealing with someone who can make our lives miserable if we aren’t strictly by the book.”
Sherlock glanced at his watch and his mouth twisted slightly. “Best be on our way, then?”
*****
Mike Stamford dropped a set of records at the nurses’ station and looked around for the next lot. Bart’s was slowly returning to normal after the bomb, with the electricity restored and every patient in a room or transferred elsewhere. They even had Lucie Winston off life support and breathing on her own. Mike paused to drop Molly an email and let her know.
“Doctor, there’s a gent waiting outside your office. He says he’s family to Molly Hooper.”
Mike raised an eyebrow at the nurse’s statement. Molly rarely spoke about her family other than mentioning growing up with a pair of sisters. His impression was that they had been the good girls, staying close to home and marrying young, while Molly went to uni and got herself a career. But perhaps Sherlock had let them know of the accident; he certainly had been surprised at learning he was Molly’s emergency contact.
He turned down the hall to his office and paused. There was a man sitting on a bench, twisting a cap in his hands. He had a shock of red hair and as he glanced up the hall Mike noticed him peer his way with narrowed eyes, as if he were short-sighted. He stood as Mike approached.
“You Doctor Stamford? Molly’s boss?”
“I am. And you are?”
“Monty, Monty Hooper. Molly’s my sister, we just heard about the bomb and we ain’t heard from Molly in days.”
The fact that Molly had never mentioned a brother at all made Mike’s split-second decision for him. Perhaps Sherlock was rubbing off on him a wee bit?
“She’s perfectly fine, but staying with a friend. Nerves rattled a bit, you know? You should try her mobile-only way I know of to get her right now. Now if you’ll excuse me, must get back to my rounds!” He moved past the man into his office, made a show of adding some files to the ones in his hand, and left, locking his door behind him. He made a mental note to text Sherlock as soon as he was out of sight.
*****
Two hours had been optimistic. Between the delays and Sherlock’s odd obsessive checking of the time, Lestrade had developed a raging headache and knots in his shoulders. Even more maddening, Sherlock had left off looking at his watch as they passed Burford. But they were finally here at Reginald Bancroft’s home, a Regency house flanked by stabling for the racehorses he trained.
As they got out, Sherlock glanced over the property and took off for the nearest stable.
“Sherlock, where are you going?”
“Flat racing has not begun yet, it’s well in advance of evening stables and I believe we will find Mr Bancroft somewhere on his property, in a storage barn perhaps. He won’t be near the horses.” He continued walking, long strides eating up the ground, and Lestrade had to break into a trot to catch him.
As they approached, a man came out of one of the stables and moved to intercept them. Sherlock paused a few yards away, looking him up and down. “Head groom? Yard manager?”
“Cullins, yard manager. What you doing 'ere?”
“My name’s Holmes. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. We have a warrant-” Lestrade adroitly whipped out the papers as Sherlock waved at him, “-and need to speak to Mr Bancroft. He’s in the stables somewhere, isn’t he?”
At the mention of a warrant, Cullins glanced to his left. “I think I saw ’im go in the feed shed.”
“Show us.”
They followed Cullins to a large shed in between two long rows of stables. Cullins shouted, “Mr Bancroft sir, a couple of men need to see you!”
There was no answer. Sherlock stepped forward to the door, hanging ajar on its hinges, and carefully pushed it open with one elbow. He looked inside and nodded. “Here we are then. I don’t suppose we’ll be fortunate enough to claim Bart’s as jurisdiction? I much prefer my pathologist.”
Lestrade looked inside and clapped a hand to his eyes before running it down his face. The rafter creaked as the body swung in its noose, feet dangling next to an overturned ladder.
******************************************
Part 7
Any comments, constructive criticism and Brit-picking are welcome!