From Which Love Grows 19: An Incident
Title: From Which Loves Grows 19: An Incident
Author: red_chapel
Word Count: 1435
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade
‘Greg. Come on in.’ John held the door wide and gestured Lestrade in, smiling a sincere welcome. John liked Greg; he was pleasant and warm and friendly, when not too harried by his work or riled by Sherlock’s jibes. The DI stepped through the door and headed up the staircase. As he always did now, since the night of the serial killer cabbie, Lestrade gave John a wide berth. John felt some guilt about this. He knew Sherlock’s ‘revelation’ of him being a POW (which wasn’t in his official record, making John nervous about the discrepancy) played on sympathies he didn’t deserve. It had also caused Lestrade to several times stop abruptly and look worriedly at John when speaking of some gruesome case. Still, the lie protected him, and he left his friend deceived.
Lestrade took up station before the sofa, considering the two dozen or so notes and photos Sherlock had tacked there. His eyes flicked tiredly over the images as he tried to make sense of them. The expression on his face made it clear he was failing in the attempt. Finally, he looked questioningly to John, standing silently several paces away.
‘No idea’, John admitted. ‘He got as far as saying that the building hadn’t been a random target, yelled “Danika”, and ran out. Said you should wait for him, though’, he assured.
Lestrade looked again to the wall-he recognized most of the faces and locations from the case, but there were some unknowns-shrugged, and turned to slump onto the sofa.
‘Nothing to do but wait then, I guess.’
‘Can I get you some tea? Coffee?’
Lestrade perked up. ‘Tea, if you don’t mind. Make a good change from the sorry excuse for coffee I’ve been drinking the last two days.’
John smiled and headed into the kitchen.
‘Maybe a sandwich, too? If you couldn’t get away long enough for a decent cup of coffee, I can’t imagine you found time for an actual meal.’
‘Don’t go to any trouble, please.’
‘No trouble’, John said, reappearing immediately with a sandwich. ‘I tried to get Sherlock to eat a couple hours ago, but…’
Lestrade chuckled. ‘I don’t know how he survives living the way he does. Thin as a rail, no reserves to call on, but he can go longer without food than anyone I know. Thanks’, he added emphatically, accepting the plate.
As John returned to the kitchen, Lestrade continued. ‘He’s looking better lately than he had been, though. Since you moved in, that is. An extra couple of pounds on him. He seems to be doing better all around. Nice flat-I wondered a bit when he moved in. Not that-’
Lestrade was silenced by a crash from the kitchen.
‘John?’ Lestrade was on his feet and moving as quick as the word.
John looked at the shards of glass covering the floor, steaming water already starting to drift toward the low spot in front of the stove, then at the hand that had suddenly given out.
‘What happened?’ Lestrade asked from the doorway.
What indeed? John wondered. Between the sink and the countertop, his hand had just stopped holding, strength and grip disappearing. It looked fine, he could move the fingers now, but for a moment…
‘Nothing. It’s nothing. Just… slipped out of my hand’, he said as Lestrade took a cautious step toward the mess.
‘Need any help?’ he offered. ‘You didn’t burn yourself or get cut or anything?’
‘Um. No. I’m OK. It’s fine. I’ll clean it up.’ John smiled up at him. ‘You go ahead and eat. Sherlock should be back soon, and you’ll want to have that sandwich in you if he’s going to run you across London chasing mad arsonists yet tonight.’
Lestrade lingered a moment before backing away and returning silently to the sofa and the sandwich. In no time, John had set the kitchen to rights and joined Greg in quiet conversation.
Sherlock appeared like a storm cloud, thundering up the stairs and gusting into the sitting room. He threw a small picture onto the coffee table, growling, ‘The second victim, Inspector. Her name was Danika. She was seven’, as he crossed to the fireplace.
Lestrade took up the pencilled drawing and looked sadly on the face of a frail-looking little girl. He had known that the remains found in the burned-out factory were a child’s and had hoped that her identity could be discovered. Having a face to put to the remains was a relief, but a painful one. He sighed deeply and said, ‘I’ll check the missing persons reports, find her parents-’
‘She won’t have been reported missing; the homeless seldom are. As to her parents, she never knew her mother and her father’-he spit out the word as he yanked a knife from the mantelpiece-‘is your arsonist.’ On the word, the knife flew over John and Lestrade’s heads to sink into a mug shot pinned to the wall above them. ‘I’ve already informed her grandmother’, Sherlock added quietly, throwing himself into his chair.
Lestrade was still a moment, waiting to see if another lightning bolt would come from the far side of the room. When it seemed none would, he rose and looked at the photo the knife had pierced. ‘Joe Egan. I’ve wanted this one for a while. I’ll need everything you’ve got’, he said, turning to Sherlock. ‘He’s managed to avoid prison twice already; I don’t want to see him slip through a third time.’
‘You’ll have everything you need for a conviction, I assure you.’ Sherlock related all he had discovered and how he had determined the girl’s identity. Said where the confused forensics team should look to find the source of the fire-in a factory full of flammable chemicals, the point of origin was hard to locate. Told in a voice like flint where Lestrade’s team could find Egan holed up, providing ‘other interested parties had not found him first.’ At that, Lestrade hurried to set the arrest in motion and left with Sherlock’s promise of a full statement on his desk by the time he got to work the next morning.
The door had no more than closed behind the detective than John was setting a bowl filled with lentil stew at Sherlock’s elbow and settling himself in his chair opposite.
‘The grandmother… one of your Homeless Network?’
Sherlock shrugged as if uninterested. ‘Gave me a bit of information from time to time.’
‘And you knew the little girl, too? Danika?’
Sherlock thrust himself up from the chair and paced small, frustrated circles before the fireplace. ‘He knew she was in there, John. I can’t prove that part, but I know it. He had to have known! Every time she got a glimpse of him she tried to follow him, just wanted to know who her father was, wanted to be with him. He would have passed near Stella’s van on his way to the factory. Danika would have seen him, followed him, right into the place. She probably watched him disarm the fire suppression system. And once he’d started the fire, ran out… If she couldn’t keep up, he wouldn’t have stopped to help her. Oh no, not when he knew the security guard was due back around any second.’ He stilled, then finished quietly, ‘He left her there to die, John. I know it.’
John had no idea what to say and so only rose to stand beside Sherlock, hoping that presence was as good as consolation. After some moments, his face once again fixed as a dispassionate shield, Sherlock roused himself enough to finally remove the long coat he still wore and lean over to try a spoonful of the soup. It went down like paste. He pushed it aside and said, ‘Perhaps just some tea.’
‘Sure thing’, John said, turning, then stopping with a frown. ‘Erm, kettle’s broken.’
‘What’s wrong with it? Bring it here; perhaps I can fix it.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ At Sherlock’s raised eyebrows, he added, ‘It shattered pretty thoroughly when it hit the floor. Slipped out of my hand. Sorry.’
‘Something wrong with your hand?’ Sherlock asked, noticing, as John had not, how he flexed his left hand as he spoke.
‘No’, John said quickly. ‘Nothing wrong. Just slipped. I’ll go see if I can borrow something from Mrs Hudson’, he added, hastening from the room. Sherlock remained still, staring at John’s retreating form with that fiercely probing expression he typically wore at crime scenes.
Master Post 18: Stories 20: The End
Author: red_chapel
Word Count: 1435
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade
‘Greg. Come on in.’ John held the door wide and gestured Lestrade in, smiling a sincere welcome. John liked Greg; he was pleasant and warm and friendly, when not too harried by his work or riled by Sherlock’s jibes. The DI stepped through the door and headed up the staircase. As he always did now, since the night of the serial killer cabbie, Lestrade gave John a wide berth. John felt some guilt about this. He knew Sherlock’s ‘revelation’ of him being a POW (which wasn’t in his official record, making John nervous about the discrepancy) played on sympathies he didn’t deserve. It had also caused Lestrade to several times stop abruptly and look worriedly at John when speaking of some gruesome case. Still, the lie protected him, and he left his friend deceived.
Lestrade took up station before the sofa, considering the two dozen or so notes and photos Sherlock had tacked there. His eyes flicked tiredly over the images as he tried to make sense of them. The expression on his face made it clear he was failing in the attempt. Finally, he looked questioningly to John, standing silently several paces away.
‘No idea’, John admitted. ‘He got as far as saying that the building hadn’t been a random target, yelled “Danika”, and ran out. Said you should wait for him, though’, he assured.
Lestrade looked again to the wall-he recognized most of the faces and locations from the case, but there were some unknowns-shrugged, and turned to slump onto the sofa.
‘Nothing to do but wait then, I guess.’
‘Can I get you some tea? Coffee?’
Lestrade perked up. ‘Tea, if you don’t mind. Make a good change from the sorry excuse for coffee I’ve been drinking the last two days.’
John smiled and headed into the kitchen.
‘Maybe a sandwich, too? If you couldn’t get away long enough for a decent cup of coffee, I can’t imagine you found time for an actual meal.’
‘Don’t go to any trouble, please.’
‘No trouble’, John said, reappearing immediately with a sandwich. ‘I tried to get Sherlock to eat a couple hours ago, but…’
Lestrade chuckled. ‘I don’t know how he survives living the way he does. Thin as a rail, no reserves to call on, but he can go longer without food than anyone I know. Thanks’, he added emphatically, accepting the plate.
As John returned to the kitchen, Lestrade continued. ‘He’s looking better lately than he had been, though. Since you moved in, that is. An extra couple of pounds on him. He seems to be doing better all around. Nice flat-I wondered a bit when he moved in. Not that-’
Lestrade was silenced by a crash from the kitchen.
‘John?’ Lestrade was on his feet and moving as quick as the word.
John looked at the shards of glass covering the floor, steaming water already starting to drift toward the low spot in front of the stove, then at the hand that had suddenly given out.
‘What happened?’ Lestrade asked from the doorway.
What indeed? John wondered. Between the sink and the countertop, his hand had just stopped holding, strength and grip disappearing. It looked fine, he could move the fingers now, but for a moment…
‘Nothing. It’s nothing. Just… slipped out of my hand’, he said as Lestrade took a cautious step toward the mess.
‘Need any help?’ he offered. ‘You didn’t burn yourself or get cut or anything?’
‘Um. No. I’m OK. It’s fine. I’ll clean it up.’ John smiled up at him. ‘You go ahead and eat. Sherlock should be back soon, and you’ll want to have that sandwich in you if he’s going to run you across London chasing mad arsonists yet tonight.’
Lestrade lingered a moment before backing away and returning silently to the sofa and the sandwich. In no time, John had set the kitchen to rights and joined Greg in quiet conversation.
Sherlock appeared like a storm cloud, thundering up the stairs and gusting into the sitting room. He threw a small picture onto the coffee table, growling, ‘The second victim, Inspector. Her name was Danika. She was seven’, as he crossed to the fireplace.
Lestrade took up the pencilled drawing and looked sadly on the face of a frail-looking little girl. He had known that the remains found in the burned-out factory were a child’s and had hoped that her identity could be discovered. Having a face to put to the remains was a relief, but a painful one. He sighed deeply and said, ‘I’ll check the missing persons reports, find her parents-’
‘She won’t have been reported missing; the homeless seldom are. As to her parents, she never knew her mother and her father’-he spit out the word as he yanked a knife from the mantelpiece-‘is your arsonist.’ On the word, the knife flew over John and Lestrade’s heads to sink into a mug shot pinned to the wall above them. ‘I’ve already informed her grandmother’, Sherlock added quietly, throwing himself into his chair.
Lestrade was still a moment, waiting to see if another lightning bolt would come from the far side of the room. When it seemed none would, he rose and looked at the photo the knife had pierced. ‘Joe Egan. I’ve wanted this one for a while. I’ll need everything you’ve got’, he said, turning to Sherlock. ‘He’s managed to avoid prison twice already; I don’t want to see him slip through a third time.’
‘You’ll have everything you need for a conviction, I assure you.’ Sherlock related all he had discovered and how he had determined the girl’s identity. Said where the confused forensics team should look to find the source of the fire-in a factory full of flammable chemicals, the point of origin was hard to locate. Told in a voice like flint where Lestrade’s team could find Egan holed up, providing ‘other interested parties had not found him first.’ At that, Lestrade hurried to set the arrest in motion and left with Sherlock’s promise of a full statement on his desk by the time he got to work the next morning.
The door had no more than closed behind the detective than John was setting a bowl filled with lentil stew at Sherlock’s elbow and settling himself in his chair opposite.
‘The grandmother… one of your Homeless Network?’
Sherlock shrugged as if uninterested. ‘Gave me a bit of information from time to time.’
‘And you knew the little girl, too? Danika?’
Sherlock thrust himself up from the chair and paced small, frustrated circles before the fireplace. ‘He knew she was in there, John. I can’t prove that part, but I know it. He had to have known! Every time she got a glimpse of him she tried to follow him, just wanted to know who her father was, wanted to be with him. He would have passed near Stella’s van on his way to the factory. Danika would have seen him, followed him, right into the place. She probably watched him disarm the fire suppression system. And once he’d started the fire, ran out… If she couldn’t keep up, he wouldn’t have stopped to help her. Oh no, not when he knew the security guard was due back around any second.’ He stilled, then finished quietly, ‘He left her there to die, John. I know it.’
John had no idea what to say and so only rose to stand beside Sherlock, hoping that presence was as good as consolation. After some moments, his face once again fixed as a dispassionate shield, Sherlock roused himself enough to finally remove the long coat he still wore and lean over to try a spoonful of the soup. It went down like paste. He pushed it aside and said, ‘Perhaps just some tea.’
‘Sure thing’, John said, turning, then stopping with a frown. ‘Erm, kettle’s broken.’
‘What’s wrong with it? Bring it here; perhaps I can fix it.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ At Sherlock’s raised eyebrows, he added, ‘It shattered pretty thoroughly when it hit the floor. Slipped out of my hand. Sorry.’
‘Something wrong with your hand?’ Sherlock asked, noticing, as John had not, how he flexed his left hand as he spoke.
‘No’, John said quickly. ‘Nothing wrong. Just slipped. I’ll go see if I can borrow something from Mrs Hudson’, he added, hastening from the room. Sherlock remained still, staring at John’s retreating form with that fiercely probing expression he typically wore at crime scenes.
Master Post 18: Stories 20: The End