The Irresisitibility of Orbits, Part Two: The Forgetting of Things Past. Chapter Eight
Title: The Irresisitibility of Orbits, Part Two: The Forgetting of Things Past. Chapter Eight. The Alibi.
author: ghislainem70
Word count: 3,500
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John returns from Afghanistan.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Moffat, Gatiss, BBC et al.
Warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence, reference to mental illnes, reference to non-con, massive dose of angst and hurt/comfort.
Chapter Eight. The Alibi.
Forgive me my weakness, but I don't know why,
Without you it's hard to survive.
'Cause everytime we touch -- I get this feeling,
And everytime we kiss --- I swear I could fly --
Your arms are my castle, your heart is my sky,
They wipe away tears that I cry.
The good and the bad times,
we've been through them all --
You make me rise when I fall.
Lyrics to "Every Time We Touch," all rights reserved Cascada.
Lady Holmes pointedly did not open the champagne
Lestrade was first to break the painful silence.
"Then it looks like there’s a first time for everything, Detective Superintendent Weller. Because if this is where your investigation is taking you, you’re wasting time grasping at straws. If this is the best you’ve got - and since it’s you, and not your DI here asking, I’m guessing it is - then you need somebody’s help. Unless you have six different kinds of videotape taken by the Queen herself showing John Watson killing your victim in broad daylight and smiling nice for the camera, you’re so far off base you couldn’t find your own arse with both hands and a GPS." Lestrade folded his arms pugnaciously and stared down the battered DS.
"Then you must never have been involved in a murder investigation, son," Weller said heavily, ignoring Lestrade’s insult. "If you were, you’d know and know it well, everything in a murder investigation’s a waste of time and grasping at straws. Every bloody thing. Until the one thing tha’ isn’t. I never try to guess inside of 72 hours what’s a time waster and what’s not. And you’re wrong, my DI is here." Weller’s eyes revealed a weariness that seemed to reflect both the countless grinding hours of prior cases and dread of the toil to come in this one. Then he straightened and cracked the door open. "Prentiss!" He shouted into the corridor.
A head of shining, very fair blonde hair tied in an efficient ponytail rounded the door. "Sir?"
"Don’t dawdle, Prentiss, there’s folk here need statements taken. While we’re waiting for Captain Watson."
Detective Inspector Prentiss entered the library. She was tall, possibly even taller than Sherlock; with long legs and a figure covered in by a deliberately bland navy trouser suit which could not conceal abundant curves in all the right places and none of the wrong ones. Her face was somehow Nordic, high cheekbones, full lips and piercing, brilliant blue eyes. She surveyed the room full of men, and one older woman, confident of the field; clearly this was a woman accustomed to male attention, and a lot of it, and was possibly preparing to either shield herself from it, or assert herself, in the ways she was usually obliged to do.
However, upon observing that the group of (she admitted) unusually attractive males were variously outraged (the tall dark one and the silver-haired one), or bored (the one seated next to the elegant older woman), and undeniably utterly uninterested in her presence, she simply dug in her handbag for her notebook and waited for Weller to deploy her.
"I have a statement," Sherlock announced. His eyes burned with a fury that he didn’t even try to conceal.
"Sherlock, don’t - " Lestrade said suddenly.
Weller rubbed his chin. "My higher up, that’s my Chief to you, told me that his higher up, that means some suit in the Home Office, told him that he was sending up some miracle worker from Scotland Yard to hold my hand or wipe my arse or some such," he started, with relatively moderate volume that inexorably increased, "Mebbe they do solve murders different in London. New methods and all. Because this is the first I heard tell that the DETECTIVE tells the WITNESS not to make A BLOODY STATEMENT!"
Lestrade looked mutinous. "Look, there’s been an emergency, Captain Watson’s been - ill, and everyone’s had a difficult day. They can come down to your station tomorrow if you like. Nobody’s going anywhere. I will personally vouch for everyone here. Particularly Captain Watson," he said.
Weller rolled his eyes. "Well ain’t I chuffed. No, they won’t bloody come down to the station. First off, you don’t want to be parading Lady Holmes and her sons down to the station. You’re not a local man, you’re not to understand. The gossip mill would be burning up in a flash. Not good for them, not good for my investigation. Second, I can’t wait to take statements, I need them to get everything clear and straight. Now, not later. You know better, Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"I’ll make a statement now," Sherlock said again, impatiently. Prentiss tucked a stray hair behind her ear and prepared to take notes.
"I was with Captain Watson all night on the night before I discovered the body. In fact, I have been in his presence continuously since we arrived in Yorkshire until yesterday morning, at which point I left Riddleston Hall with the hunt, during which, as you are already aware, I discovered the body. That should eliminate Captain Watson entirely from your consideration and you may now move on to more - productive lines of inquiry," Sherlock declared arrogantly.
Weller nodded as if he had expected Sherlock to say this.
"All night, you say?"
"All night."
"Do you mean that there was no time that Captain Watson was out of your sight, all night long?"
"You have excellent hearing if nothing else, Detective Superintendent. That is just what I have been saying."
"You don’t . . . sleep, then?"
"Not generally."
"And you were in the same room as Captain Watson . . . .all night long?"
"I believe I have said so more than once now."
"And did he sleep?"
"He did. Very soundly, and all night once he got into bed."
"And you claim you did not?"
"I don’t claim it. I did not sleep."
"And you are prepared to swear that there was never any point that you closed your eyes, or left the room, for any reason?"
"Not precisely. I may have briefly closed my eyes."
Weller’s face betrayed a small degree of satisfaction. The arrogant snot wasn’t as indomitable as he tried to make out, Weller thought. Now we’re getting somewhere.
"May have briefly closed your eyes. . . .I see. Well, that’s understandable, lad. Most folk do, sometime during the night. About how long? How long did you close your eyes?"
"No more than . . . thirty seconds. Unfortunately. I certainly wished it were longer. At the time."
"Not long enough, then, for Captain Watson to have left the room without your knowing?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes with exasperation and began pacing in a sort of whirl around the room, like a lost bee. "Have I not made myself perfectly plain? No, that is impossible."
"Impossible, you say? How can you be sure, if your eyes were closed?"
"Because when my eyes were closed, Captain Watson’s tongue was pretty far down my throat."
There was an eloquent silence. Lestrade abruptly turned away and looked like he was searching for something not a priceless antique to break. Finding nothing suitable, he jammed his hands under his armpits and glowered at Sherlock. Prentiss studiously scribbled her notes and tried to suppress an unwelcome feeling of disappointment. She reminded herself to give herself another one of her stern talks, later, about not falling for the London types. It was a mistake every time. Weller smiled a reptilian smile.
"If yer trying to shock us, lad, we’ve all the modern - conveniences - in the country, too, never fear. Pray continue," he smiled encouragingly. Sherlock decided not to address the malapropism.
"There’s nothing more to tell. He fell asleep. He was quite inebriated. We had been at dinner and at billiards earlier that evening, and at all times were in the company of several witnesses including my mother and her estate manager. I was not inebriated. I stayed up all night. I watched him sleep. I did not leave the room for any reason until about seven o’clock the next morning, when I left to go prepare for the hunt. He was still asleep at that time. I believe our housekeeper, McLeod, brought breakfast on a tray to Captain Watson within a few minutes after I left, and returned a short time thereafter to bring Captain Watson with some hunting attire. He came down; the whole hunt saw him come down. The hunt departed at approximately eight ‘o clock in the morning."
Weller considered. Not a very likely alibi. But not bad as alibis went, either.
"You seem a clever sort, Mister Holmes. Science of Dee-duct-ion and all that." He flapped his huge hand presumably to express the scope of his understanding of the vastness of Sherlock’s expertise. "So I imagine you can tell what my next question is."
"You ought not to have any at all. But you are correct, I can tell what your next question is, since you lack the wit to follow this case in the direction of the evidence. Your question is, why did I watch Captain Watson all throughout the night."
Weller nodded sagely. "Got it in one."
Sherlock stopped pacing and whirling. "Because he’s mine." Unspoken, but abundantly clear, was the silent, "Obviously."
More silence.
"Did you get that, Prentiss?"
"Yes, sir."
"Forgive me, Mister Holmes, if that answer does not ---- satisfy."
"Nevertheless, it is the only one that applies. Whether you are satisfied is of no interest to me. You have my statement."
The door opened and John entered, looking both relaxed and animated. "Doctor Foster gives me a clean bill of health - " he burst out happily, until he noticed Weller and Prentiss standing there, looking very official. He remembered Weller from yesterday. From the body in the wood. The cloud of happiness that had enveloped him evaporated. "What’s this about, then? Is it about that poor woman?"
He wondered why everyone looked sorry for him.
* * *
Weller smiled gently. "Glad to hear it, son. A clean bill of health. Then you won’t be wanting to beg off from answering a few questions."
"Beg off?" John asked, bewildered. "Why should I? But I don’t know anything, I just got here two days ago. Never been here before in my life."
Weller nodded to Prentiss. "I am Detective Inspector Elenor Prentiss. I am assisting Detective Superintendent Weller in the investigation of the murder of Henrietta Trimble. Now, Captain Watson, you say you’ve never been here before. That’s not strictly true, is it? You were with the Third Parachute Regiment, correct?"
"That’s correct. Was. I was recently . . .discharged." John did not want to think about Afghanistan, the Army, or Spartan. What did this have to do with the dead woman?
"And where did you receive your training?"
John laughed uneasily. "If you’re from these parts, ma’am, you have to know I was trained in Catterick. But Catterick’s in North Yorkshire. Miles from here."
"Did you leave this house at any time in the 24 hours before you and Lady Holmes drove out to Rexworth Park to view the body in this case?
"No, of course not. Where would I go? I don’t have a car."
"You were seen today on horseback."
"But that was with Sherlock - here, what’s this about, then? I don’t understand why I’m being asked this."
"Just trying to account for everyone’s movements. Sir. You were seen by Scene of Crime Officers looking closely at the body, together with Mr. Holmes here. Can you explain why you wanted to look at the corpse?"
John was flummoxed. He realized how very odd that must look to the police. While Sherlock had special dispensation on occasion from Scotland Yard, he could appreciate that this was a unique arrangement not likely to be respected, or even understood, by other police forces. "Because Sherlock asked me to. I am a doctor. Sherlock is . . .a consulting detective. I assist him in his cases, often. You can ask Detective Inspector Lestrade here if you doubt me. The dead woman . . .was the daughter of Lady Holmes’ former maid, I was told. I expect Sherlock wanted to find out how this ---- this terrible crime happened."
"Why should he particularly wish to do that? Did he tell you he was acquainted with the lady?"
"Well, of course you can ask Sherlock, but, knowing Sherlock as I do, I assumed he was - motivated - to help his mother, to be sure that all that could be done, was being done. It is what he does."
Prentiss scribbled some more on her pad. Certainly this Watson seemed very sincere; a very likeable sort of person. She understood he was even a war hero of some sort. That is why it was slightly uncomfortable for her to contemplate the direction that the case was taking them. But usually, it was. One way or another.
Murderers could very often be the most likeable sorts of all.
Weller indicated that they should leave. They said goodbyes, courteously enough. On the way out, Weller paused.
"Please don’t leave the area. If you wish to do so, contact me or Detective Inspector Prentiss first, will you? And one final thing. Captain Watson, please bring us the clothing you were wearing, the night before the body was discovered."
Sherlock held his hand out. "John, don’t say anything. Detective Superintendent, this is where you must say your goodbyes. Unless you have a warrant, Captain Watson has nothing further to provide you."
Weller exchanged an unreadable look with Prentiss. "A warrant. Formal, like? I see. Well, then, as you like," he said equably, having finally brought the volume of his vocals down within the outer limit of ordinary human discourse. "Good day, all; Lady Holmes. Perhaps another time for the bubbly, eh?"
* * *
Lestrade and Mycroft were all for having a strategic meeting to try and deflect the focus of Weller and Prentiss from John. John was in a state of near shock, realizing that he was the focus of a murder investigation. He felt that he was thrown back into another one of his nightmares, but this time, he couldn’t wake up. But he knew, at least, that he was getting stronger: his headache did not return, and his predominant emotion was not fear, the unrelenting fog of fear that had surrounded him since he had awoken in the hospital.
No, his predominant emotion was anger. Anger at his integrity being questioned in this way. Perhaps he was a killer of sorts; that is what war did, that was what paras did. He had plenty of blood on his hands, and he had to live with that. Try to, anyway. As best he could. Day by day. But no one had ever suggested that he was remotely capable of something like this. A defenseless woman, alone, shot in cold blood.
He put his head in his hands, prompting Sherlock to spring up, declaring that the meeting would be deferred until John was rested, and dragged him off over the protests of Lestrade, Mycroft and even Lady Holmes. "Sherlock, where are you taking him?" she called after them. Sherlock did not reply, but pulled John along through narrow back halls that he imagined were used by the servants.
When they emerged into the scorching late afternoon sunshine, they were in a courtyard behind the house. Sherlock pulled a key from his pocket and started up a battered old Land Rover that was parked here, and they zoomed off. As they left, he pulled out his mobile. "McLeod. Sherlock. Find Captain Watson’s clothes from dinner the other night. The first night, yes. Put them in a plain paper bag and hold them for me. Yes, all of them. Yes, even those. Put them somewhere safe and don’t speak to anyone about it. Do you understand? It’s very important. You do recall the clothes? Good. Ring me when you’ve done it."
"Why do they want my clothes, Sherlock?"
"Probably they have some hair or fiber evidence from body, and they want to compare it to what you were last wearing. That’s the most likely explanation. You were hovering over the body. Naturally any hair or fiber on the body that can be traced to you, or to me for that matter, is easily explained by that simple fact. I believe they are on what one might call a wild goose chase. I don’t intend to let you be the goose," Sherlock said with what was for him an attempt at light humor.
* * *
They arrived at a stone cottage in a small wood. The Hall could no longer be seen.
"What is this place?" John asked.
"Smith’s Cottage. Once was the blacksmith’s. I used to come here, often. It has been a long time, though." He pulled a huge iron key from his pocket and worked the door open. "No one will bother us here."
"But won’t everyone worry? And what about the police?"
"My mother will know where I’ve taken you. Let her entertain Mycroft and Lestrade. I want you to myself," he said almost petulantly. "If we had stayed at 221b, you would have been, you know."
"But I wouldn’t have seen that skeleton. So it’s better this way."
Neither of them mentioned the murder again.
Sherlock pulled him by the hand into the cottage, and firmly shut the door behind them. He carefully turned the key in the lock and hung the key on a peg. The tiny cottage was spotless (in fact, McLeod had prepared it for just this eventuality), furnished with worn old chintz sofas and gently peeling leather chairs huddled close around a stone fireplace. There were no rugs, but the stone floor was swept clean. There was a tiny kitchen with a vast refrigerator. An open doorway revealed a minuscule bedroom almost entirely taken up by a high bed covered in a white quilt. It was very still, almost as though it were under a spell. They might be the only two people in the world.
Suddenly it was Sherlock who seemed overwhelmed by the enormity of the ceaseless accumulation of shocks, going back, John guessed, to the very moment he announced he intended to return to Afghanistan. And Sherlock had insisted on staying by his side. Right to the very end, he had.
John reached for Sherlock and held him tight, and this time it was Sherlock that lost his strength. It was very hot inside, the windows were still closed and despite the cool stone, the cottage was sweltering in the late summer heat. John drew him over to one of the sagging sofas but before he could comfortably arrange himself, Sherlock was pulling at his own clothes, discarding them haphazardly until he was naked. Sherlock’s skin was glistening with perspiration and his skin felt almost feverish to John.
"There’s a pool, you know. Mother had it put in when I was at uni. Let’s swim." John started to remove his own clothing but he stopped. "You do it," he said. Sherlock’s eyes shone and he slowly, carefully removed John’s clothing piece by piece, kissing gently him along the way.
When John did not protest, his kisses became bolder, until he was kneeling before John, licking the scars on John’s abdomen. Sherlock loved this, because the skin here was shiny and tight and new, and tasted differently, felt differently under his tongue than the other skin, under the tang of John’s sweat. He could kiss and lick John just here, for hours.
John realized his mistake and put his hand on Sherlock’s head to stop him, sinking his fingers into his hair. "Sherlock, don’t . . . .you promised we would wait. I want to be strong, strong for you. It won’t. . . be much longer. I’m still . . . ahhh," he groaned in frustration. Sherlock’s lips were grazing the sensitive skin of his belly, where the fresh scars made a crazed patchwork, arousing tingling sensations that were not only pain. He felt himself hardening at the same time a tight, burning catching grabbed the muscles there. It was maddening. It was intoxicating. He wanted more.
Sherlock ignored his protest but climbed up onto the sofa with him, laying every inch of his lanky body against John’s, both of them perspiring freely now in the sweltering heat, their hot skin rubbing slickly together. John didn’t want to stop it any more, couldn’t stop it, and when Sherlock started kissing him, gently, carefully, but probing deep, his cock pressed demandingly against his thigh, there was nothing in the world but this, this love filling him up, this melting together, this magic silence. John found that his hand stroking Sherlock, holding him in his hand, heavy, hot, swollen. Sherlock was whispering against his neck, "John . . .I’ve waited, I waited for you, it’s been so long . . .I don’t know if I can take it . . ." John pulled his mouth back up to his. "No, it’s all right, it’s all right, now . . ." He felt Sherlock’s cock just jump in the palm of his hand, and now Sherlock’s entire body was shivering and slipping against his, a taut length of want, of need. "John, please," he groaned, his deep voice even deeper, rough with desire. "Come then, come all over me, do it," John gasped against his mouth and felt Sherlock’s cock swell that little bit more as he stroked it, once, and he did, coming with a long, shuddering moan, filling John’s hand with it, flowing, and coating them both.
He didn’t move but lay panting against John’s neck. And then he was quiet, and John realized a minor miracle had occurred.
Sherlock was asleep.
This time, it was John who watched.
To be continued . . .
back: Seven next: Nine
author: ghislainem70
Word count: 3,500
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John returns from Afghanistan.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Moffat, Gatiss, BBC et al.
Warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence, reference to mental illnes, reference to non-con, massive dose of angst and hurt/comfort.
Chapter Eight. The Alibi.
Forgive me my weakness, but I don't know why,
Without you it's hard to survive.
'Cause everytime we touch -- I get this feeling,
And everytime we kiss --- I swear I could fly --
Your arms are my castle, your heart is my sky,
They wipe away tears that I cry.
The good and the bad times,
we've been through them all --
You make me rise when I fall.
Lyrics to "Every Time We Touch," all rights reserved Cascada.
Lady Holmes pointedly did not open the champagne
Lestrade was first to break the painful silence.
"Then it looks like there’s a first time for everything, Detective Superintendent Weller. Because if this is where your investigation is taking you, you’re wasting time grasping at straws. If this is the best you’ve got - and since it’s you, and not your DI here asking, I’m guessing it is - then you need somebody’s help. Unless you have six different kinds of videotape taken by the Queen herself showing John Watson killing your victim in broad daylight and smiling nice for the camera, you’re so far off base you couldn’t find your own arse with both hands and a GPS." Lestrade folded his arms pugnaciously and stared down the battered DS.
"Then you must never have been involved in a murder investigation, son," Weller said heavily, ignoring Lestrade’s insult. "If you were, you’d know and know it well, everything in a murder investigation’s a waste of time and grasping at straws. Every bloody thing. Until the one thing tha’ isn’t. I never try to guess inside of 72 hours what’s a time waster and what’s not. And you’re wrong, my DI is here." Weller’s eyes revealed a weariness that seemed to reflect both the countless grinding hours of prior cases and dread of the toil to come in this one. Then he straightened and cracked the door open. "Prentiss!" He shouted into the corridor.
A head of shining, very fair blonde hair tied in an efficient ponytail rounded the door. "Sir?"
"Don’t dawdle, Prentiss, there’s folk here need statements taken. While we’re waiting for Captain Watson."
Detective Inspector Prentiss entered the library. She was tall, possibly even taller than Sherlock; with long legs and a figure covered in by a deliberately bland navy trouser suit which could not conceal abundant curves in all the right places and none of the wrong ones. Her face was somehow Nordic, high cheekbones, full lips and piercing, brilliant blue eyes. She surveyed the room full of men, and one older woman, confident of the field; clearly this was a woman accustomed to male attention, and a lot of it, and was possibly preparing to either shield herself from it, or assert herself, in the ways she was usually obliged to do.
However, upon observing that the group of (she admitted) unusually attractive males were variously outraged (the tall dark one and the silver-haired one), or bored (the one seated next to the elegant older woman), and undeniably utterly uninterested in her presence, she simply dug in her handbag for her notebook and waited for Weller to deploy her.
"I have a statement," Sherlock announced. His eyes burned with a fury that he didn’t even try to conceal.
"Sherlock, don’t - " Lestrade said suddenly.
Weller rubbed his chin. "My higher up, that’s my Chief to you, told me that his higher up, that means some suit in the Home Office, told him that he was sending up some miracle worker from Scotland Yard to hold my hand or wipe my arse or some such," he started, with relatively moderate volume that inexorably increased, "Mebbe they do solve murders different in London. New methods and all. Because this is the first I heard tell that the DETECTIVE tells the WITNESS not to make A BLOODY STATEMENT!"
Lestrade looked mutinous. "Look, there’s been an emergency, Captain Watson’s been - ill, and everyone’s had a difficult day. They can come down to your station tomorrow if you like. Nobody’s going anywhere. I will personally vouch for everyone here. Particularly Captain Watson," he said.
Weller rolled his eyes. "Well ain’t I chuffed. No, they won’t bloody come down to the station. First off, you don’t want to be parading Lady Holmes and her sons down to the station. You’re not a local man, you’re not to understand. The gossip mill would be burning up in a flash. Not good for them, not good for my investigation. Second, I can’t wait to take statements, I need them to get everything clear and straight. Now, not later. You know better, Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"I’ll make a statement now," Sherlock said again, impatiently. Prentiss tucked a stray hair behind her ear and prepared to take notes.
"I was with Captain Watson all night on the night before I discovered the body. In fact, I have been in his presence continuously since we arrived in Yorkshire until yesterday morning, at which point I left Riddleston Hall with the hunt, during which, as you are already aware, I discovered the body. That should eliminate Captain Watson entirely from your consideration and you may now move on to more - productive lines of inquiry," Sherlock declared arrogantly.
Weller nodded as if he had expected Sherlock to say this.
"All night, you say?"
"All night."
"Do you mean that there was no time that Captain Watson was out of your sight, all night long?"
"You have excellent hearing if nothing else, Detective Superintendent. That is just what I have been saying."
"You don’t . . . sleep, then?"
"Not generally."
"And you were in the same room as Captain Watson . . . .all night long?"
"I believe I have said so more than once now."
"And did he sleep?"
"He did. Very soundly, and all night once he got into bed."
"And you claim you did not?"
"I don’t claim it. I did not sleep."
"And you are prepared to swear that there was never any point that you closed your eyes, or left the room, for any reason?"
"Not precisely. I may have briefly closed my eyes."
Weller’s face betrayed a small degree of satisfaction. The arrogant snot wasn’t as indomitable as he tried to make out, Weller thought. Now we’re getting somewhere.
"May have briefly closed your eyes. . . .I see. Well, that’s understandable, lad. Most folk do, sometime during the night. About how long? How long did you close your eyes?"
"No more than . . . thirty seconds. Unfortunately. I certainly wished it were longer. At the time."
"Not long enough, then, for Captain Watson to have left the room without your knowing?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes with exasperation and began pacing in a sort of whirl around the room, like a lost bee. "Have I not made myself perfectly plain? No, that is impossible."
"Impossible, you say? How can you be sure, if your eyes were closed?"
"Because when my eyes were closed, Captain Watson’s tongue was pretty far down my throat."
There was an eloquent silence. Lestrade abruptly turned away and looked like he was searching for something not a priceless antique to break. Finding nothing suitable, he jammed his hands under his armpits and glowered at Sherlock. Prentiss studiously scribbled her notes and tried to suppress an unwelcome feeling of disappointment. She reminded herself to give herself another one of her stern talks, later, about not falling for the London types. It was a mistake every time. Weller smiled a reptilian smile.
"If yer trying to shock us, lad, we’ve all the modern - conveniences - in the country, too, never fear. Pray continue," he smiled encouragingly. Sherlock decided not to address the malapropism.
"There’s nothing more to tell. He fell asleep. He was quite inebriated. We had been at dinner and at billiards earlier that evening, and at all times were in the company of several witnesses including my mother and her estate manager. I was not inebriated. I stayed up all night. I watched him sleep. I did not leave the room for any reason until about seven o’clock the next morning, when I left to go prepare for the hunt. He was still asleep at that time. I believe our housekeeper, McLeod, brought breakfast on a tray to Captain Watson within a few minutes after I left, and returned a short time thereafter to bring Captain Watson with some hunting attire. He came down; the whole hunt saw him come down. The hunt departed at approximately eight ‘o clock in the morning."
Weller considered. Not a very likely alibi. But not bad as alibis went, either.
"You seem a clever sort, Mister Holmes. Science of Dee-duct-ion and all that." He flapped his huge hand presumably to express the scope of his understanding of the vastness of Sherlock’s expertise. "So I imagine you can tell what my next question is."
"You ought not to have any at all. But you are correct, I can tell what your next question is, since you lack the wit to follow this case in the direction of the evidence. Your question is, why did I watch Captain Watson all throughout the night."
Weller nodded sagely. "Got it in one."
Sherlock stopped pacing and whirling. "Because he’s mine." Unspoken, but abundantly clear, was the silent, "Obviously."
More silence.
"Did you get that, Prentiss?"
"Yes, sir."
"Forgive me, Mister Holmes, if that answer does not ---- satisfy."
"Nevertheless, it is the only one that applies. Whether you are satisfied is of no interest to me. You have my statement."
The door opened and John entered, looking both relaxed and animated. "Doctor Foster gives me a clean bill of health - " he burst out happily, until he noticed Weller and Prentiss standing there, looking very official. He remembered Weller from yesterday. From the body in the wood. The cloud of happiness that had enveloped him evaporated. "What’s this about, then? Is it about that poor woman?"
He wondered why everyone looked sorry for him.
* * *
Weller smiled gently. "Glad to hear it, son. A clean bill of health. Then you won’t be wanting to beg off from answering a few questions."
"Beg off?" John asked, bewildered. "Why should I? But I don’t know anything, I just got here two days ago. Never been here before in my life."
Weller nodded to Prentiss. "I am Detective Inspector Elenor Prentiss. I am assisting Detective Superintendent Weller in the investigation of the murder of Henrietta Trimble. Now, Captain Watson, you say you’ve never been here before. That’s not strictly true, is it? You were with the Third Parachute Regiment, correct?"
"That’s correct. Was. I was recently . . .discharged." John did not want to think about Afghanistan, the Army, or Spartan. What did this have to do with the dead woman?
"And where did you receive your training?"
John laughed uneasily. "If you’re from these parts, ma’am, you have to know I was trained in Catterick. But Catterick’s in North Yorkshire. Miles from here."
"Did you leave this house at any time in the 24 hours before you and Lady Holmes drove out to Rexworth Park to view the body in this case?
"No, of course not. Where would I go? I don’t have a car."
"You were seen today on horseback."
"But that was with Sherlock - here, what’s this about, then? I don’t understand why I’m being asked this."
"Just trying to account for everyone’s movements. Sir. You were seen by Scene of Crime Officers looking closely at the body, together with Mr. Holmes here. Can you explain why you wanted to look at the corpse?"
John was flummoxed. He realized how very odd that must look to the police. While Sherlock had special dispensation on occasion from Scotland Yard, he could appreciate that this was a unique arrangement not likely to be respected, or even understood, by other police forces. "Because Sherlock asked me to. I am a doctor. Sherlock is . . .a consulting detective. I assist him in his cases, often. You can ask Detective Inspector Lestrade here if you doubt me. The dead woman . . .was the daughter of Lady Holmes’ former maid, I was told. I expect Sherlock wanted to find out how this ---- this terrible crime happened."
"Why should he particularly wish to do that? Did he tell you he was acquainted with the lady?"
"Well, of course you can ask Sherlock, but, knowing Sherlock as I do, I assumed he was - motivated - to help his mother, to be sure that all that could be done, was being done. It is what he does."
Prentiss scribbled some more on her pad. Certainly this Watson seemed very sincere; a very likeable sort of person. She understood he was even a war hero of some sort. That is why it was slightly uncomfortable for her to contemplate the direction that the case was taking them. But usually, it was. One way or another.
Murderers could very often be the most likeable sorts of all.
Weller indicated that they should leave. They said goodbyes, courteously enough. On the way out, Weller paused.
"Please don’t leave the area. If you wish to do so, contact me or Detective Inspector Prentiss first, will you? And one final thing. Captain Watson, please bring us the clothing you were wearing, the night before the body was discovered."
Sherlock held his hand out. "John, don’t say anything. Detective Superintendent, this is where you must say your goodbyes. Unless you have a warrant, Captain Watson has nothing further to provide you."
Weller exchanged an unreadable look with Prentiss. "A warrant. Formal, like? I see. Well, then, as you like," he said equably, having finally brought the volume of his vocals down within the outer limit of ordinary human discourse. "Good day, all; Lady Holmes. Perhaps another time for the bubbly, eh?"
* * *
Lestrade and Mycroft were all for having a strategic meeting to try and deflect the focus of Weller and Prentiss from John. John was in a state of near shock, realizing that he was the focus of a murder investigation. He felt that he was thrown back into another one of his nightmares, but this time, he couldn’t wake up. But he knew, at least, that he was getting stronger: his headache did not return, and his predominant emotion was not fear, the unrelenting fog of fear that had surrounded him since he had awoken in the hospital.
No, his predominant emotion was anger. Anger at his integrity being questioned in this way. Perhaps he was a killer of sorts; that is what war did, that was what paras did. He had plenty of blood on his hands, and he had to live with that. Try to, anyway. As best he could. Day by day. But no one had ever suggested that he was remotely capable of something like this. A defenseless woman, alone, shot in cold blood.
He put his head in his hands, prompting Sherlock to spring up, declaring that the meeting would be deferred until John was rested, and dragged him off over the protests of Lestrade, Mycroft and even Lady Holmes. "Sherlock, where are you taking him?" she called after them. Sherlock did not reply, but pulled John along through narrow back halls that he imagined were used by the servants.
When they emerged into the scorching late afternoon sunshine, they were in a courtyard behind the house. Sherlock pulled a key from his pocket and started up a battered old Land Rover that was parked here, and they zoomed off. As they left, he pulled out his mobile. "McLeod. Sherlock. Find Captain Watson’s clothes from dinner the other night. The first night, yes. Put them in a plain paper bag and hold them for me. Yes, all of them. Yes, even those. Put them somewhere safe and don’t speak to anyone about it. Do you understand? It’s very important. You do recall the clothes? Good. Ring me when you’ve done it."
"Why do they want my clothes, Sherlock?"
"Probably they have some hair or fiber evidence from body, and they want to compare it to what you were last wearing. That’s the most likely explanation. You were hovering over the body. Naturally any hair or fiber on the body that can be traced to you, or to me for that matter, is easily explained by that simple fact. I believe they are on what one might call a wild goose chase. I don’t intend to let you be the goose," Sherlock said with what was for him an attempt at light humor.
* * *
They arrived at a stone cottage in a small wood. The Hall could no longer be seen.
"What is this place?" John asked.
"Smith’s Cottage. Once was the blacksmith’s. I used to come here, often. It has been a long time, though." He pulled a huge iron key from his pocket and worked the door open. "No one will bother us here."
"But won’t everyone worry? And what about the police?"
"My mother will know where I’ve taken you. Let her entertain Mycroft and Lestrade. I want you to myself," he said almost petulantly. "If we had stayed at 221b, you would have been, you know."
"But I wouldn’t have seen that skeleton. So it’s better this way."
Neither of them mentioned the murder again.
Sherlock pulled him by the hand into the cottage, and firmly shut the door behind them. He carefully turned the key in the lock and hung the key on a peg. The tiny cottage was spotless (in fact, McLeod had prepared it for just this eventuality), furnished with worn old chintz sofas and gently peeling leather chairs huddled close around a stone fireplace. There were no rugs, but the stone floor was swept clean. There was a tiny kitchen with a vast refrigerator. An open doorway revealed a minuscule bedroom almost entirely taken up by a high bed covered in a white quilt. It was very still, almost as though it were under a spell. They might be the only two people in the world.
Suddenly it was Sherlock who seemed overwhelmed by the enormity of the ceaseless accumulation of shocks, going back, John guessed, to the very moment he announced he intended to return to Afghanistan. And Sherlock had insisted on staying by his side. Right to the very end, he had.
John reached for Sherlock and held him tight, and this time it was Sherlock that lost his strength. It was very hot inside, the windows were still closed and despite the cool stone, the cottage was sweltering in the late summer heat. John drew him over to one of the sagging sofas but before he could comfortably arrange himself, Sherlock was pulling at his own clothes, discarding them haphazardly until he was naked. Sherlock’s skin was glistening with perspiration and his skin felt almost feverish to John.
"There’s a pool, you know. Mother had it put in when I was at uni. Let’s swim." John started to remove his own clothing but he stopped. "You do it," he said. Sherlock’s eyes shone and he slowly, carefully removed John’s clothing piece by piece, kissing gently him along the way.
When John did not protest, his kisses became bolder, until he was kneeling before John, licking the scars on John’s abdomen. Sherlock loved this, because the skin here was shiny and tight and new, and tasted differently, felt differently under his tongue than the other skin, under the tang of John’s sweat. He could kiss and lick John just here, for hours.
John realized his mistake and put his hand on Sherlock’s head to stop him, sinking his fingers into his hair. "Sherlock, don’t . . . .you promised we would wait. I want to be strong, strong for you. It won’t. . . be much longer. I’m still . . . ahhh," he groaned in frustration. Sherlock’s lips were grazing the sensitive skin of his belly, where the fresh scars made a crazed patchwork, arousing tingling sensations that were not only pain. He felt himself hardening at the same time a tight, burning catching grabbed the muscles there. It was maddening. It was intoxicating. He wanted more.
Sherlock ignored his protest but climbed up onto the sofa with him, laying every inch of his lanky body against John’s, both of them perspiring freely now in the sweltering heat, their hot skin rubbing slickly together. John didn’t want to stop it any more, couldn’t stop it, and when Sherlock started kissing him, gently, carefully, but probing deep, his cock pressed demandingly against his thigh, there was nothing in the world but this, this love filling him up, this melting together, this magic silence. John found that his hand stroking Sherlock, holding him in his hand, heavy, hot, swollen. Sherlock was whispering against his neck, "John . . .I’ve waited, I waited for you, it’s been so long . . .I don’t know if I can take it . . ." John pulled his mouth back up to his. "No, it’s all right, it’s all right, now . . ." He felt Sherlock’s cock just jump in the palm of his hand, and now Sherlock’s entire body was shivering and slipping against his, a taut length of want, of need. "John, please," he groaned, his deep voice even deeper, rough with desire. "Come then, come all over me, do it," John gasped against his mouth and felt Sherlock’s cock swell that little bit more as he stroked it, once, and he did, coming with a long, shuddering moan, filling John’s hand with it, flowing, and coating them both.
He didn’t move but lay panting against John’s neck. And then he was quiet, and John realized a minor miracle had occurred.
Sherlock was asleep.
This time, it was John who watched.
To be continued . . .
back: Seven next: Nine