The Adventure of the Red Pickle
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, Arthur Conan Doyle and in their BBC version Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Stephen Thompson. The original characters and plot are mine. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: This was done for a request from Tigzzz on DA as part of Sherlock Holmes Week 2012 - if you haven't checked the event on DA, you really should! Hope you guys enjoy, and as always... reviewers are loved ;D ~¤Zoffoli
N.B.: This story has been betaed on FFnet by Chalcedony Rivers and Rianna Lauren in record time. Many thanks!
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The Adventure of the Red Pickle
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"... French ambassador in London was found dead yesterday at a cocktail party. The cause of death appeared to be poisoning but the investigation is ongoing. Family refused to make any comment."
John looked up from the newspaper he had just read out loud, arching an inquisitive eyebrow at Sherlock. The consulting detective had been doing experiments in their kitchen all morning, and the good doctor thought it was high time to find him another occupation, if the smell of burning currently spreading in the living room was anything to go by.
"Do you think Lestrade is going to contact you for this?" John asked somewhat hopefully.
Sherlock ignored him for a minute or two, then walked up to the armchair he was sitting into. Removing his goggles, he leant in and took a quick look at the article.
"Oh, yes. He'll probably be here within an hour."
"Really?"
Sherlock scowled.
"Don't sound so relieved, John."
John shrugged, but his face broke into an amused smile.
"I'm not. I'm just happy we're getting a case."
At this, Sherlock grinned excitedly. "A murder, John, a murder!"
"So it really was murder?"
"Obviously."
"Of course..."
Sherlock's lips curved into a smirk. "You really should stop rolling your eyes at everything I say. Might get stuck that way."
"Yes, yes... and wouldn't that be terrible? I'd be looking at the empty space where my brain is supposed to be all day," John retorted casually, resuming his reading. Sherlock didn't deem the remark worth any answer and was about to put his goggles back on when they heard the front door open downstairs. John looked up from his newspaper, and his eyes locked with his friend's. They exchanged a knowing smile and said in unison: "Lestrade."
It was indeed the D.I. , and he seemed most unsettled by the case at hand.
"It is poisoning," he commented as a form of greeting, "traces of cyanide were found in his glass of wine."
"What kind of wine?"
Lestrade stared, but John remained unblinking - he was surprisingly more used to Sherlock's oddities than the D.I., even though he hadn't known the infuriating man for as long.
"I don't know. Red, I think."
Sherlock sighed.
"Fine. Do you have the report?"
"In the car."
"Well, go and get it."
"You're not coming? We're going to interrogate the wife and the daughter - I can't let you near them, but if you want to co-"
"Good. Let's go, John."
Sherlock grabbed his scarf and coat and was alreadyon the stairs when Lestrade turned to John, half-annoyed, and half-desperate:
"Did he just hear what I said?"
John smiled and shrugged as he got up from his seat, abandoning his newspaper.
"Who knows? It doesn't change anything anyway."
The D.I. grumbled something incomprehensible about brilliant pretentious twits, and followed the doctor out of 221B.
¤ oOo ¤
Françoise Delsaut was waiting for the police in the apartment her husband had been holding ex-officio as an ambassador. Her daughter Aurélie had been crying all morning, locked up in her room, but she had managed to convince her to get prepared for when the investigators would come and she was now in the shower. Françoise could hear the soft sound of the water running and wondered absent-mindedly if it drowned out her daughter's tears.
Finally the doorbell broke the oppressive silence of the living-room, and Françoise went to open the door. She was surprised to be greeted not by one or two officers, but four. Her eyes widened slightly, but she soon regained her composure.
"Hello. Please do come in."
"Hello, Madame Delsaut. Please receive our condolences for your loss. I am Detective Inspector Lestrade, and this is Sergeant Donovan." Then, turning to the two other men: "This is Dr. Watson, from the Crime Victims Liaison Bureau, and Mr. Holmes, our interpreter."
Madame Delsaut blinked twice, especially as the one introduced as 'Dr. Watson' seemed to be just as surprised as she was. But if she found it odd that the police should bring a doctor and an interpreter for an investigation, she did not point it out. Perhaps she just took it as a courtesy for her daughter and herself, who were French and had just suffered a terrible loss and so would be more likely to express themselves in that language. Or perhaps she just thought the British police was rather peculiar. Either way, she smiled perfunctorily and showed them to their seats.
¤ oOo ¤
Aurélie had spent the whole night crying, and she knew her mother hadn't slept at all. As she turned on the water of their shower and poured the hot liquid on her icy body, which was so cold - from shock and grief, assuredly - she decided she could now stop her tears, and get ready to meet the police. She washed away the chill, washed away the shivers, until she felt the warmth and energy fill her up again.
She came out of the shower and heard her mother talking to someone. The police had arrived.
¤ oOo ¤
Sherlock was sitting next to the window, face to face with Madame Delsaut. He had been speaking French to her the entire time, leaving John and the others - the real police officers included - completely out of the conversation.
"Je comprends. Et rien ne vous a semblé sortir de l'ordinaire avant ou au cours du cocktail?" I understand. And you did not notice anything out of the ordinary before or during the cocktail party?
"Rien du tout, hélas! Je n'arrive toujours pas à croire que Jean nous a quittées..." Nothing at all, I'm afraid! I still cannot believe John has left us...
Sherlock winced slightly at the name - she'd been repeating it over and over every two sentences or so, and the fact that she was referring to her husband (a dead man) by John's name in French was starting to get on Sherlock's nerves, for some unfathomable reason.
"Pouvez-vous m'en dire plus sur le vin qu'il a consommé hier soir?" Could you tell me more about the wine he drank last night?
"C'était un Bordeaux - et pas des meilleurs, je peux vous le dire. Un cépage médiocre. Jean n'a jamais su distinguer le bon vin de la piquette. Mais je crois qu'il a aussi bu un Chateauneuf du Pape - Côte du Rhône, c'est déjà une valeur plus sûre!" It was Bordeaux - not a very good one, believe me. Some unconvincing cabernet grape. Jean was never able to tell the difference between proper wine and I think he also had some Chateauneuf du Pape - a Côte du Rhône, now that's a safe choice!
"Madame..." Lestrade began tentatively.
"Oh, donc vous savez faire la différence, n'est-ce pas?" Sherlock cut in shamelessly. Oh, so you can tell the difference, can you? They exchanged the knowing smile of connoisseurs. Lestrade was beginning to get weary of being excluded from his own investigation.
"Mr. Holmes, do you mind doing your job and translating, please?" he interrupted a little heatedly. Sherlock raised an aristocratic eyebrow and reduced the poor D.I. to silence with one princely look, before fixing his gaze back on Madame Delsaut.
"Alors, où en étions-nous?" So, where were we?
John rolled his eyes and Sally seemed to lose patience, for she suddenly stood up and was about to throw out the insolent detective, but fortunately - for the investigation anyway - she was interrupted by Aurélie bursting into the living-room, only dressed in a white bathrobe, holding a towel to dry her hair. She seemed surprised. She blushed and babbled:
"Pardon! Je pensais que vous seriez dans la cuisine pour le café..." Sorry! I thought you'd be in the kitchen having coffee...
Sherlock eyed her intensely. Bags under the eyes - hasn't slept and hasn't bothered to put make-up on. Blood vessels noticeable around the irises - has been crying for hours. Nails are bitten - nervousness.
¤ oOo ¤
John's attention had arisen too when the young woman entered the room, and he'd been making his own deductions. Lavender scent but her skin is dull - so shower gel, doesn't need body milk or cream, naturally smooth skin? Pedicured feet but nails of the hands bitten - too bad. About 6 feet tall, 34-24-35 I'd say...
Sherlock being Sherlock, he noticed both what there was to notice about Aurélie and what there was to notice about his flatmate and colleague.
"Ce n'est rien, voyons. Pardon de vous surprendre de si bon matin." Don't worry about it. Please accept our apologies for coming so early in the morning.
Aurélie blushed slightly.
"Ah! Vous parlez français, monsieur." Ah! You can speak French, sir.
"Oui. Mais mon collègue aussi." Yes. But my colleague can, too.
When John heard the word "collègue", he knew something was wrong. When Sherlock turned to him as a sweet, sweet smile spread across his face, he knew he was doomed.
"John, why don't you go and talk to Mademoiselle Delsaut? Since your French is fluent."
"Sherl..."
"I'll talk to her," Sally cut in sharply, exasperated with the consulting detective's theatrics. She stood and walked up to Aurélie, trying to look friendly. As Sherlock was busy staring at John to compel him to go, Lestrade took his chance and tried to start a conversation with Madame Delsaut.
"So, Madame, please tell me. Did you notice anything strange about your husband or someone around him yesterday evening?"
She frowned almost imperceptibly, her lips curving into an impatient moue.
"But sir, I just answered that question."
"Certainly... What? Wait, you did?" He glared at Sherlock, who didn't seem to care in the least, and who resumed his discussion with the ambassador's wife. Lestrade gritted his teeth in outrage.
John sighed and got up, preferring to face Sally Donovan rather than to be caught in the crossfire. He soon found, however, that he may have been wrong.
"Alors vous parlez français aussi, monsieur?" Aurélie said with a small smile, completely ignoring Sergeant Donovan. John blushed and mumbled:
"Oui! Enfin... non, non!" Yes! I mean... no, no! God no, he thought.
She sent him a sympathetic look, and he was almost reassured, until she remarked:
"Oh, vous voyez? Bien sûr que vous savez parler français. Vous êtes policier?" Oh, see? Of course you can speak French. Are you a policeman?
John was starting to feel a little dizzy, and very embarrassed under Sally's mocking stare. He glanced at Sherlock to see if the twat could be of any help, but naturally he was too busy "interrogating" MadameDelsaut, who seemed very glad indeed to be able to talk French to someone. Poor Lestrade just sat there, forced to wait until Sherlock deigned translate a few words for him to take down. John turned back to Aurélie, and stuttered.
"Um... docteur? Je suis docteur?" Um... doctor? I'm a doctor?
He smiled awkwardly and added the only other thing he knew how to say in French:
"Je m'appelle Jean." My name is John.
Then he remembered the young woman's father was "Jean", and slapped himself mentally.
"God I'm so sorry I... um... Pardon?"
Feeling incredibly uncomfortable, John swore to kill Sherlock after this was over. And insult him in Dari or something. Damn him.
¤ oOo ¤
Lestrade was becoming increasingly irritated, and swore he wouldn't let Sherlock into any case for at least a month. He was furious with the detective, but didn't dare to make a scene in front of the late ambassador's wife, especially since her husband had just been murdered. He was bitterly regretting having contacted the infuriating man for this case, and hoped that at least he would help unravel the mystery.
"Cela vous dérangerait-il si je voyais la chambre de votre mari?" Would you mind if I take a look around your husband's bedroom?
"Non, je vous en prie. Suivez-vous." No, please do. Follow me.
The three of them walked down the corridor to the dead man's room, leaving John, Sally and Aurélie behind. Lestrade couldn't help but feel bad for the ex-soldier as he noticed the doctor's panicked look when Sherlock left the room. I really have no idea how you can put up with him twenty-four hours a day, he mused, shaking his head.
They got to the room and before they went in Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's arm, startling the detective, who sent him a miffed look, and growled:
"You'd better have something to tell me once this is over."
"She's the killer." Sherlock deadpanned with a low voice. Lestrade froze.
"What? Oh God if you're making this up..."
Sherlock shrugged, evidently annoyed, and followed Madame Delsaut into the room.
¤ oOo ¤
It only took him five seconds to find all the details he was looking for.
"Votre mari dort à gauche?" he asked innocently, his tone more stating than questioning. Your husband sleeps on the left?
At this, Madame Delsaut seemed a little unsettled.
"Oui, en effet. Pourquoi?" Yes, indeed. Why,
"Simple constat. Cela peut n'avoir aucune pertinence." Just an assessment. It may not be relevant at all.
It was, however, and Sherlock was well aware of it. His eyes scanned the room. He didn't sleep here very often, came back late, there is nothing personal of his in this room - wasn't close to his wife, perhaps he had some other attachment?
"Pourrais-je voir le téléphone de votre mari, Madame?" May I see the mobile phone of your husband, Madame?
She frowned slightly at this, but went to get it in the inner pocket of a jacket that lay on a chair. Her hands trembled.
"Pardonnez-moi, c'est juste que... il le tenait encore hier soir..." Forgive me, it's just that... he was still holding it just yesterday...
Her voice broke and Lestrade glowered at Sherlock, who didn't bat an eyelid and kept his gaze fixed on the woman. Fake trembling, she's acting... Interesting.
"Merci, Madame." Thank you, Madame.
He took the phone. She rubbed her eyes.
"Excusez-moi. Cela est très dur pour nous deux..." I'm sorry. It is very hard for the both of us...
"Que fait votre fille?" What does your daughter do?
"Elle étudie la pharmacie à King's Colle pour devenir chimiste," she answered with a sad smile. She's doing a Pharmacist degree at King's College, to become a chemist.
All the while, Sherlock was checking the contact list on Jean Delsaut's phone. Having found nothing of interest there, he took a look at the history. Oh. He did not bother to hide his grin, but then suddenly turned back to Madame Delsaut, his face serious.
"Qui est Anshula?" Who is Anshula?
When she heard the name, Madame Delsaut gave a contorted pout and her face darkened visibly.
"La secrétaire de Jean. Ils travaillaient dans le même bureau - c'est une Anglaise, mais sa mère est française, et son père, indien - d'où le nom." Jean's secretary. They worked in the same office - she is English, but her mother is French, and her father Indian - hence the name.
His secretary? Sherlock smirked discreetly. Why would his secretary be the most dialed number, if they worked in the same office? Oh well. This case was dull after all.
"Merci de m'avoir montrer la chambre," he said simply, handing back the phone and stepping out of the room. Thank you for showing me the room.
¤ oOo ¤
And so they went back to see a very crimson John trying to splutter a few words in French, under the amused gazes of Sally and Aurélie, who seemed to find him too entertaining to interrupt.
"Alors... ton... votre... um... père... aimer... um... um... le manger?" So... your... your, um... father... like... um... um... the eat?
"Ce que mon père aime manger?" What my father likes to eat? Aurélie translated, a sparkle in her eyes. She was finding John very cute, and less scary than the scornful policewoman. "Il aime la nourriture indienne." He likes Indian food.
"Ah... ah, vraiment? Um... quoi?" Ah... ah, really? Um... what? Indian, he thought. I got Indian. Then, realizing what he was saying: and how could this possibly be relevant to the case? He sighed.
"Oh, but it is relevant, John." Sherlock chimed in, coming out from nowhere. John glared.
"You..."
"La nourriture indienne, vous dites? Epicée, donc?" Indian food, you said? So, spicy? Then he smiled meekly and added precipitately, with a sheepish look: "Oh, pardonnez-moi de ne m'être pas présenté. Sherlock Holmes, traducteur et enquêteur." Oh, please forgive my rudeness, I haven't even introduced myself. Sherlock Holmes, interpreter and investigator;
Aurélie smiled charmingly, if a little weakly, and nodded. "Il aimait beaucoup la nourriture épicée, oui." Indeed, he liked spicy food a lot.
"Et en a-t-il consommé hier soir au buffet?" And did he have any yesterday evening, from the buffet?
"Je n'en ai pas la moindre idée, navrée..." I have no idea, sorry...
"Oui, il me semble bien l'avoir vu manger de ces espèces de cornichons rouges étranges et au goût infâme." MadameDelsaut mentioned, joining the conversation. Yes, I recall seeing him eating one of those abhorrent red pickles with a terrible taste, I think.
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but Lestrade's phone rang, startling everyone.
"Sorry..." he mumbled, picking up. "Yes? Ah, Anderson."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let me speak to him."
"What? No, wait!"
But it was too late: Sherlock had already taken the phone from the D.I.'s hands. John's eyes widened and he shrunk under Lestrade's offended glare. His flatmate truly was acting like the worst spoiled brat ever today. Sally just stood there in shock, petrified with rage. In fact, her face was almost worth Sherlock being insufferable. Almost.
¤ oOo ¤
"Bonjour, Anderson! Comment vas-tu aujourd'hui?" Hello, Anderson! How are you doing today?
"Wh... what? Is this the Freak?"
"Oh, voyons, un peu de respect, je te prie." Oh, please show some respect.
"What the hell? I have no time for this! Give the phone back to Lestrade."
"Umm... non."
"How old are you?"
"What were you calling for?" Sherlock finally asked, curious as to why the stupid man hadn't hung up already.
"This is not for you to hea," Anderson seethed.
"Well, I'm the one with the phone, so... And you're interrupting my discussion with Madame the ambassador's wife."
"Just talk to him, Anderson!" Lestrade shouted in the background, and the forensic scientist gave up.
"Fine. We found wine and cyanide in a plant at the cocktail party's location. It seems that Jean Delsaut never drank his glass, unless the murderer poisoned several glasses."
Sherlock froze, and for once in his life, listened to someone he deemed at least a thousand times inferior to him, as far as the intellect was concerned.
"But you said it was cyanide poisoning."
"It is," Anderson confirmed, annoyance in his voice. "That's why I said the murderer must have-"
Since the man was starting to become stupid again, Sherlock just hung up and handed the phone back to Lestrade.
¤ oOo ¤
Sally almost jumped on him, hating him for his contempt (which was, considering how sneering she was herself, rather comical, thought John). He was brought back to the case as Aurélie turned to him and said:
"We can talk in English, if you prefer."
John blushed and felt stupid. Of course, she lives in London... Obviously, she'd speak English.
"Obviously," Sherlock upheld, and John jolted because he hadn't seen him coming.
"Sherlock, you..."
"So, Madame, you were saying? Des cornichons rouges, n'est-ce pas? Red pickles?"
MadameDelsaut nodded. "Well, I saw him eat one at least."
John eyed Lestrade and saw that the tension was rising: if Sherlock had decided to finally speak English, then he was about to show off differently, probably unraveling the case before their eyes. Sherlock turned to Aurélie and asked with a smile:
"Alors, Mademoiselle, vous êtes-vous bien amusée avec mon Jean?" So, Miss, have you been entertained by my John?
Even if his French was terrible, John - and all the others - heard the possessive form. The doctor scowled. "What in the world are you saying?"
"Seulement que vous êtes adorable!" Aurélie exclaimed, and they both broke into giggles. Seeing Sherlock so overtly mocking him with this young woman John had been forced to talk to for endless minutes just so the detective could act all arrogant was making the doctor see red already. But seeing him giggle so naturally with a complete stranger, and laughing at him, was just too much - he'd had enough French theatrics for a day. Hell, for the whole year.
"That's it. I'm out of it." Resuming his military stance, his eyes sending daggers to the detective, he turned to Madame Delsaut and said coldly, yet politely: "There is no need to show me out. Thank you for your kind reception."
And with these words, he marched out of the room.
¤ oOo ¤
Sherlock was stunned to say the least. He took an unwitting step towards his friend before remembering where he was and what he was doing. The case. The Work. But John...Why was he so angry? I didn't do anything!
Scoffing it off, he turned back to Aurélie and continued, as if nothing had happened:
"I bet you liked this John more than Jean Delsaut, mademoiselle."
"What are you saying?" She retorted, her voice shaking. Another actress. They definitely have it running in the family.
"I am saying that it is very smart to lace red wine - not a sweet one, but a strong, full-bodied one - with cyanide, but it is even more clever to poison a red pickle, so spicy the bitter taste would be hidden... I am saying that you, Madame Delsaut, attempted to poison your husband who was having a liaison with his secretary - but you, Mademoiselle Aurélie, currently studying to become a chemist, you are the one who succeeded, by poisoning the pickle he ate."
"What?" both women exclaimed in outrage and most of all, in shock.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade protested.
"But you're not accomplices, no...You had no idea your mother had it in her to kill him, had you?" he insisted, looming over Aurélie. Lestrade was about to punch Sherlock or at least send him away, when Aurélie suddenly broke down, bursting into tears of rage.
"What do you know? You're just a fucking stranger with a weird face and an attitude and you think you can judge us?"
"I don't." Sherlock replied coldly.
"You have nothing, I can tell. You're just a heartless bastard who likes to show off and humiliate people... He was just like you! He kept humiliating mum and I knew, I knew she wouldn't do anything, and then he was so openly cheating on her with that Indian slut and..."
At this point, Sherlock stopped listening. Humiliating? Who had he been humiliating? Anderson wasn't even there today, and... Oh.
John.
"Sorry, if you don't need me here, I think I'm going to be on my way."
"You...!" Aurélie cried, but soon Sally was on her, handcuffing her hands behind her back, and preventing her from jumping at the consulting detective's throat. Sherlock blinked.
"We never needed you here. Get out."
Sherlock's face remained expressionless, and he stood there in the little chaos he'd created - unraveled, he thought - as both women were arrested. His brain had disconnected from the noisy scene where everyone was shouting, and he just knew he had something better to do. Something concerning another Jean...
¤ oOo ¤
When Sherlock entered 221B, he was met by John's back turned to him as the doctor was typing on his computer, facing the windows of their living-room. Swallowing with some difficulty, feeling a little nervous, he blurted out:
"Je suis désolé."
John thought he missed a heartbeat.
"What?" he asked, his tone laced with disbelief. Had he heard this wrong?
Sherlock pouted.
"You won't get to hear it in English."
"Again in French?"
"No." The detective scowled and turned to go to the kitchen - but John thought he caught a glimpse of a very light blush spreading on his flatmate's cheeks.
He resumed his typing, ignoring the sulking detective (and wasn't he the one supposed to be sulking here?), smiling secretly to the screen. John's French was terrible, but even he could understand such a simple sentence. "I'm sorry."
FIN
¤ The End ¤
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~o~
Murder is easy
by mushroom2020