A Case of Identity - Chapter thirteen (13/23)
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 part one Chapter 15 part two Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23
Their second day in Aldershot had started uneventful, except for the repeating moments of tension between Sherlock and John and the repeating moments of embarrassment between John and Howard. They had started the day with the continuation of their massage workshop, where it had been John's turn to bring some of the techniques into practice. Halfway during the lesson Sherlock had started a heated argument with Frank, who had made some snide remarks about his wife again. At some point Sherlock had been so annoyed - and probably bored too - that he deduced Frank's private life to him, his wife and the audience.
By the end of the workshop Sherlock's behaviour had made John furious. John had shouted at Sherlock, and Sherlock had shouted at John. They quickly had forgotten the others and had gotten into a fight with each other. The room had been stunned to silence. Infuriated, John had stormed out of the room as soon as they had been dismissed by their docent. An hour later, they had been sitting next to each other in the group therapy quietly, refusing to talk with each other. Only when Dr. Martin asked them a question they had answered as neutral as possible. The whole time John had felt that all eyes were riveted on them.
Since Dr. Martin wasn't only the instructor on cuddle therapy but also their therapist in Aldershot, she had decided by the end of the session that each couple had to write love letters to each other - focusing on the things they valued in each other. They were given two hours in the afternoon to accomplish the task at hand before they were going to have dinner. They would be discussing the letters the day after. John had heaved a long and very audible sigh, Sherlock had simply buried his face in his hands. He had had the faint suspicion that his friend might have said some things otherwise that would have fit into the category "a bit not good" again, because he had been muttering under his breath the whole time. It hadn't been until they had been in their bedroom again that Sherlock had apologized - and John had forgiven him. As usual.
For now, John was glad to have some Sherlock-free time. He needed time to think without being distracted by his mere presence. Therefore he had left the sulking detective in their room twenty minutes earlier and went to the winter garden. He had found a cozy spot on one of the broad windowsills, where a sitting area had been established. He drew up his knees under his chin and looked out of the window into the garden, which was covered under a thick layer of snow. Apparently, it had started snowing again while they had been in therapy. The blanket of snow had something comforting. The trees were decorated with fairy lights which were glowing ghostly under the dust of snow on the limbs. It was a peaceful setting for an ugly business as this.
A beep from his phone jolted John out of his thoughts. He didn't need to look to know who had sent it. Slowly he took his phone out of his pocket. Right.
John. S
John didn't answer. He had other things on his mind right now. Time was pressing. If he didn't come up with something quickly, time would be up. But what to write to Sherlock? John did see the irony in writing lines of love to the World's only Consulting Detective who happened to have divorced himself from feelings. Well, not really divorced, but he tried to ignore them most of the time. He was avoiding them like the plague.
Another beep.
John. S
John sighed heavily and took several deep breathes. Okay, John. Relax! You've written these before. It is not that bad. Of course, he secretly knew that it really was that bad. He was tempting fate.
Another beep.
JOHN.S
John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was not going to stop bothering him. Sherlock was getting impatient. John decided to send a quick message.
What? J
I'm bored. S
You're supposed to write a letter. Have you already finished it? J
No. S
You're not supposed to be bored then. J
I don't know what to write to you. Besides, we need to discuss the case. I need you to distract me from boredom. S
1. I thought I was the love of your life? We can discuss the case later. Think about our cover. We have to write something unless you will be able to solve the whole affair tonight. J
You have a point. Tonight is unlikely, although I should be able to make some progress. Should I use the letter to declare myself? S
That's what love letters are for. Declaring your love. But you're not going to finish the letter if you keep sending me texts. J
He hesitated a moment before sending a second message.
If it's any comfort to you, I don't know what to write either. J
You could send me some of the poetry you used to send to your girlfriends. S
So you can laugh at me? If I recall correctly, you found it funny, Sherlock. I'm not letting you take me on a ride. J
I'm sure you can do better for me. I am much more inspiring. S
Inflated ego.
I am not gracing this with an answer, Sherlock. J
Because you know I am right. S
Yeah, you're great. Now, shut up. I need to think. J
Another twenty minutes passed without making much progress. Of course, he could write him some of his so called 'poetry'. But it felt wrong. This wasn't like that. It didn't fit. This wasn't like…them. Which wasn't helpful at all since John had no idea what they were nowadays.
JOHN. S
For heaven's sake.
Sherlock, what is it now? J
I'm still bored. Do you think the Clinic would mind, if I conduct a few experiments in our room? S
That took the biscuit. His flat mate slash best friend slash temporary - or possibly not so temporary, considering the recent events, because who was going to believe him anyway - fiancé was absolutely impossible. One needed to keep one's eyes glued to the man. He must have had a brainstorm to agree to the whole affair. Unfortunately, it was too late now to reconsider the matter. He made a mental note to tell him 'no' more often. Deep inside he knew that was in vain.
I WOULD MIND. KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF. I'M NOT KIDDING. J
John. S
No. J
Please? S
No. J
Please? Please? S
NO! J
Go and finish your letter. J
Once he had decided to forget about the 'love' part of the letter, he was able to collect his thoughts. He concentrated exactly on what Dr. Martin mentioned - what he cherished about their relationship and what his part in it was. He left open the questions that bothered him.
JOHN.S
Here we go again!
SHERLOCK. J
I wrote you a letter. S
He sounded self-confident. It didn't take much fantasy to imagine he looked like the cat that got the cream.
I am worried now. J
He was.
About what? S
How bad is it? J
Still no trust in me? S
I trust you with my life. I just don't think of you as a man that pours out his heart in a letter. J
Or at all.
No, John thought, that wasn't entirely fair. He had opened up and he still did, occasionally.
I am not. But that doesn't mean that I don't understand the concept of a love letter. S
I did some research. S
Everything from his heart took the long turn through his head, to be analyzed, reflected, categorized and verified, before he took the trouble to share his thoughts or to store them away in his mind palace. Therefore John prepared himself for the scientific declaration he was going to hear.
It is not. S
What? J
A scientific essay. You are afraid it might be. Because I said 'research'. S
Are you trying yourself in mind reading now? J
I don't need to see you, to deduce you, John. I know you well. S
John thought "showoff" before the meaning of it sank in. Sherlock Holmes has written a love letter to him. He choked back the hysteria that threatened to explode but a small giggle managed to get out despite his efforts. That was actually pretty hilarious and he dreaded the day that was about to come, because Sherlock would read it out loud to him in front of the others, and John had no idea whatsoever, how to make a serious face, if it turned out to be as bad as he assumed it would be.
John? S
I'm so proud of you. J
Do I read sarcasm in that text of yours? S
I wouldn't dare. J
Now, let me finish mine. J
No experiments, Sherlock. I warn you. J
Try the Turkish bath they have. That will do you good. J
I'd rather go with you. S
Miss me already? J
Always. S
Are we really doing this? John thought. Mobile flirting. Holy Mary!
You'd better watch out for Howard while I'm gone. S
I'll try. J
Somebody had definitely forgotten to give him the script to this play. He was definitely not going to blog about it. A study in love. The Adventure of Counseling - How we saved our relationship and other revelations. Too bad, he could probably find a suitable headline for this mess. John couldn't wipe the sly smile off his face.
"Flirting with your boyfriend?" a familiar voice asked suddenly.
Speaking of the devil… John could even hear the ambiguous smile of its owner before he turned around to see that he was indeed smiling ambiguously.
"Fiancé, Howard. He is my fiancé." And this is none of your business, he thought, but he forced himself to smile politely nevertheless.
"Thought so. I was watching you from over there," Howard told him, pointing vaguely into the direction where he came from. "Mind if I join you?"
"Don't you have a letter to write to your wife." John emphasized the word "wife" in order to draw an invisible line between Howard and himself. Stay, where you are, you are married and I am engaged.
Howard, however, didn't mind. "Nah. I'm here to keep her satisfied. She'll come around. I've written some corny lines. She'll be happy."
Ugh, yuck!
He sat down opposite John.
That was going to be awkward, but John did see this come. This conversation had been inevitable.
"And what have you written to your beloved? He does not look like one who's heart is easily touched."
"The truth." At least the part he was certain about, the safe part.
"The truth is the end of it, believe me."
"The love of truth is a virtue he prizes highly. So do I," John replied annoyed.
"Oh, my dear. Sometimes, you need to bend the truth. There aren't many people who can bear the unblemished truth. The truth can hurt," Howard explained, watching John intensely. His suggestive smile was never fading. "I am curious. Tell me about him. How did he capture your heart?"
"By being himself." Duh!
"So this is about true love, then?"
John thought about the discussion he had with Sherlock a few days earlier in their kitchen about faith. Unconditional, unrestricted and absolute.
John looked him squarely in the eyes. "Apparently."
The look in Howard's eyes was a dead giveaway. "Well, he is attractive, I have to confess, but you … are hot."
Bloody hell! Howard wasn't a man who lost time.
"Your boyfriend doesn't seem to be easily pleased. He is demanding, isn't he ?" Howard continued, studying John intently.
"My fiancé, Howard, is in a class of his own."
"I might be persuaded to share some of my secrets with you, for your own benefit, John. They might prove beneficial to satisfy his needs."
O-kay. That was somehow unexpected. He knew that Howard was on the prowl, and he also knew that he preyed upon John. He didn't know that it was for his own benefit - to remain in the position to lay his own fiancé. Not that he had ever been or had ever wanted to be in the position to do so. He had never given it a thought before. At least not consciously. He couldn't vouch for his subconscious. That was leading its own life for a while now.
John tried to keep a cool head. "Err….Howard, look. I'm flattered by your interest, but I really do love Sherlock and our relationship is … exclusive. I assure you I am perfectly able to … satisfy his needs."
Howard suddenly moved closer to John, leaning forward. "The more important question is: can he satisfy yours? I can see it in the way you're looking at him. And I can see it in the way you're looking at me. You're hungering for it." Obviously, Howard wasted no time with beating around the bush. Whether he was underlaid or he had a craving for sex. John could easily have forgiven him both, if it wasn't for the fact that John was the subject of his lust and that Howard was a married man.
"You know that a fling can invigorate one's relationship. The sensation of learning something new, something naughty," Howard continued, giving John a meaningful look.
Enough was enough.
John cleared his throat and pulled rank. "I assure you, we are perfectly fine on that front. Let me give you a word of advice. I wouldn't challenge him if I were you. He usually gets his way."
Howard wasn't impressed. If anything, it had turned him on further. "What if I can't resist the temptation? I usually get mine."
You have no idea, mate.
John shrugged. "The last one shot himself in the head. Knock yourself out!"
Suddenly Howard went rigid and leaned backwards, away from John. John turned around to see Sherlock leaning against the wall. He didn't wear his usual suit, but had changed into a pair of slim dark blue jeans and a black shirt. John had never seen him wearing Jeans before. The sight of him was … new.
"There you are, love. I was looking for you," Sherlock grinned.
John didn't reply. His eyebrows were high on his forehead. He was completely astonished by Sherlock's turnout.
Sherlock looked closely at John. "I've missed you."
"Well, I better go. Grace will be waiting for me." Howard hastily left them, muttering excuses under his breath. Apparently, Howard wasn't that brave after all when it came to Sherlock personally. Maybe the sudden electricity had made him uncomfortable again.
John didn't look after him. He never averted his gaze from his friend. Sherlock pushed off the wall and slumped into Howard's now deserted seat. John started to feel a bit dizzy again in his head. Apparently he had forgotten to breathe. He had to inhale a few times to make the singing of his ears go away.
"Right on time, I dare say," John told him when he had found his voice again. "He was about to eat me alive."
Sherlock smirked. "I told you to watch out."
"I didn't go looking for him," John pretended to be indignant about the matter but failed terribly. He let out a relieved sigh and laughed outright. "God, he is not exactly undersexed."
Sherlock reclined his head against the cold window, still smirking. "Well, I better keep a weather eye on you from now on."
"I would appreciate that," John replied in a light tone. He felt better with his friend around him. On the other hand he was convinced that he would probably suffer a heart attack if Sherlock kept any closer to him than he already did. He has been on an emotional rollercoaster ride for weeks now. His feelings were one massive tangle of contradictions.
John decided to change the subject before he could lose ground again. "What's the news? You wanted to discuss the case." He could inquire after the case now, since Sherlock had mentioned it first.
"Indeed." Sherlock repositioned himself and sat tailor-fashion, leaning against the cushions in his back. "Let's recapitulate what we know. The Smiths were killed in their bedroom, the door wasn't closed."
"They must have known their murderer."
Sherlock nodded. "True. They let him in, they didn't know of the danger. He executed them from a short distance, using a silencer. I say "he" because the profile of the murder indicates that it is a man."
"They were murdered in cold blood."
"Yes."
John was confused. "But you've also mentioned love as a motivator. Isn't that conflicting? One would expect a crime of passion to be committed in an outburst of rage."
"Not necessarily. Something happened in his life. His wife left him. Whether out of her own will or she died. Wife? Yes. She "belonged" to him. She was his personal property. So she probably rather left with somebody else than died. No, this murder is not about passion. Another man dispossessed his "property" and she let him. He hunted them down to retrieve what he believed to be his. When she refused to cooperate and come with him she was condemned to death. The execution is the carrying out of the death sentence. He probably killed him first and her second," Sherlock replied darkly.
"You know all this because you went to the Yard?"
"Yes. I've been through the cold cases. There were three other killings that seem to be related to this one. The original murder - the one I described to you - took place five years ago. The victims were found along a road in a secluded area in Kent. It wasn't the original crime scene, of course. He dumped them there. The murderer ensured that the victims couldn't be identified."
John grimaced in disgust. "Do I want to know the details?"
"He cut the fingers off, amongst other things. I think I'll spare you the rest."
John was honestly shocked. "Gruesome!"
"Yes. The second couple was found in a classy hotel in London two years ago, around the "anniversary" of the first murder. You must have read about it in the newspapers when I was … absent. They had been wealthy. It was on the news for weeks. Lestrade did have a hard time back then for not being able to solve the murder. I didn't expect I'd be involved in the case one day." Sherlock let fall a small silence. His sharp eyes flickered to John's.
They usually avoided mentioning the Reichenbach-period as John called it. It was some sort of silent understanding. In the end, he had forgiven his friend heartily but the memory did still hurt sometimes. John nodded. It was okay.
Sherlock looked relieved for a moment before he turned into the astute detective again. "The third couple was killed in a country hotel in Cornwall about a year ago. The modus operandi was always the same."
John rubbed one hand over his forehead, thinking. "Are the locations situated near to each other or in a cluster or something? Any clues where the murderer lives? Anybody whose ex-wife is missing?"
"No. The crime scenes are situated across the southern part of England. He must travel regularly. As for the wife - two of our fellow participants are divorced, one had been a widower. No missing wives are reported. I told you she wasn't identified. She cannot be linked to him." Sherlock paused for a moment, thinking, before he responded, " He might have taken a new identity."
That sounded farfetched. They were living in the UK where they had registration offices, tax offices, fingerprint databases. Surely that couldn't be as easy as changing one's clothes. "A new identity? Could that be possible?"
"If I would want a new identity I could get one in less than twenty-four hours."
"That's because you are the brother of Mycroft Holmes," John answered.
"What Mycroft is to me, Moriarty had been to the world of crime. "Jim, please, I need a new identity. Can you fix this for me"?"
"Moriarty?" John exclaimed shocked.
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and looked away. "I don't know, John. Maybe, maybe not. Our official channels aren't that smart either. Maybe he just had sheer luck."
John tried to block Moriarty out of his mind. That guy - dead or not - still made his hair stand on end. "Okay, so we have a serial killer who probably has a false identity and travels regularly. Travelling regularly? Cameron certainly does. Who else?"
"Jack and Howard are working for two banks in London."
"How on earth did you deduce that? You haven't even spoken to them."
"They're used to wearing suits. They did when we arrived. Fingernails and hair, neat and tidy. They don't have to work with their hands. Well-groomed appearances, well-spoken. They are bound to reflect the nature of the company. Office workers," Sherlock rattled down his deductions.
"Okay. Office workers. Explain the bank! Explain the travel!"
"I've eavesdropped during afternoon tea," Sherlock replied deadpan.
"You're impossible," John chuckled. "Impossible, but brilliant."
Sherlock's smile broadened. "I know."
"So we can rule out the others?"
"I think so. Lestrade has confirmed that Frank and Emily have been married for twelve years now. Anne and Ben were in an Indian monastery when the first murder had been committed. That narrows the list down to three." Sherlock was pleased with the progress so far.
"We might be able to check their diaries? Notebooks? Something like that?" John whispered conspiratorially.
Sherlock grinned mischievously. "Yes, something like that."
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