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BBC SH - The Case of the Dancing Men IV

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In the end, it turned out that the little boy was called Greg Cooper.

It cheered the child marginally to discover that the policeman who came to arrest his abductor shared his first name. Having transferred the man that Sherlock and John had intercepted into the capable hands of Sergeant Donovan and a pair of uniformed officers, big Greg stayed protectively close to the lad, only moving away once Social Services arrived with the boy’s parents. They had been frantic with worry, tiny Greg being taken from them only a few hours before. Snatched from a children’s play area in a restaurant.

The man who had taken him was clearly a pederast, as demonstrated by the peculiar wear patterns on the insteps of his shoes; Sherlock had informed John in a monotonous undertone which still rang with suppressed fury. A victim of violent abuse himself, the man was emotionally stunted, displayed psychopathic tendencies and was prone to outbursts of savagery.

A brief medical exam by a kind, softly-built lady doctor with cartoon animals on her scrubs found tiny Greg to bear no signs of abuse, physical or otherwise. He was immediately released to his parents who were waiting desperately at the Yard. They broke down and cried in relief when they realised how much danger their son had been in and how lightly he had escaped.

John and Sherlock stood at the side, forgotten in the heat of the moment. They had saved him from a situation too terrible to contemplate. But, bless his little heart, Greg Cooper was still the wrong child.

Shaking his head slightly and yawning, both his heart and body protesting at the stresses placed upon them during the past few hours, John cast a weary eye sideways at his friend.

Sherlock was leaning against the wall beside him, his shoulders rounded and his scruffy, curly head dangling loosely on his neck. He looked utterly wrecked, picking vaguely at his bandaged knuckles.

“Sherlock?” John asked, gently.

The detective barely moved.

John sighed and reached into his coat pocket, delving for a thin item tucked neatly against the seam. He had been carrying it in his pocket for seven months now and he’d hoped he’d never need to use it. But, if ever there were special circumstances, it was now.

He withdrew the solitary cigarette from his pocket and tucked it into the detective’s loosely crooked fingers.

After a moment, Sherlock blinked, rousing himself as if from a deep sleep, before peering down at his hand.

“Go on.” John prompted him. “You’ve earned it.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked into a pathetic echo of his normal smirk. “I was wondering how bad it would have to be before you resorted to using this. Now I know.” He said, but his sarcasm lacked its normal strength.

John refused to rise to the faint attempt at goading. He could see that the parents were looking over this way and he had to get Sherlock away from them. The consulting detective never did cope well with being thanked, and particularly not today when he didn’t feel like he’d earned it. “Go on. It’s a full-tar one. I know you have a lighter.”

The man lingered, rolling the slim tube of tobacco contemplatively between his fingers. Finally, he murmured a brief thanks to John before tucking the filter end between his lips, thrusting his fists deep into his coat pockets and moving as unobtrusively as a shadow towards the door.

John’s inner-medic sulkily reminded him how hard it had been to get Sherlock back off the cigarettes in the first place but he steadfastly ignored it. Sherlock had earned a smoke today.

There was a movement in his peripheral vision and John looked around to discover Lestrade had joined him.

“He alright?” The Inspector asked quietly, nodding in the direction Sherlock had gone.

John hesitated but shook his head. “He’s getting a thousand different answers but they’re not the right ones. Half of them aren’t even to questions he’s asked.”

“He’s broken a pretty major drugs smuggling ring, saved a boy from abuse, probably also torture and death, and caught a dangerous sexual predator today, John. Surely he can see-“

But, John was shaking his head. “They were not his case. They were everyone else’s. So what if he’s caught a few more petty criminals? He still can’t solve his case.”

Lestrade scruffed his hand through his short grey hair, wearily. “Well, while he’s on such a roll maybe I should shove the Lord Lucan notes under his nose and see what happens.”

Rubbing his eyes in sympathetic exhaustion, John chuckled. “Can’t hurt.”

“Excuse me,” looking around they found the Cooper family trying to catch their attention. Clearly wanting to thank them.

John’s heart sank. They would want to talk to Sherlock. Sherlock wasn’t good at being thanked. Sherlock wasn’t good at anything to do with people on a good day. And today was about the furthest thing possible from a good day.

“On you go, John.” Lestrade murmured. “I’ll make your excuses for you. You go and get his head back in the right place.”

“Thanks.” John said in a low voice.

He tried to ignore the confused and slightly hurt faces on the couple’s face as he left, hearing Lestrade’s smooth voice apologising that Dr. Watson had to leave, only he and Mr. Holmes were currently in the middle of another case and had other commitments to attend to

He found Sherlock leaning against the wall of Scotland Yard. His eyes were closed, head rolled back, exposing the pale column of his neck and his lips hung open, allowing the smoke to curl lazily out of his lungs. Despite the deliberately relaxed posture, John could see the tension corded in the little muscles around his jaw and hands.

John just found a patch of wall next to him and waited patiently. He had given him this one cigarette and he wasn’t going to allow him another one again for a bloody long time. The least he could do was let him enjoy it. Besides, he could see purple stains of exhaustion cradled in the hollows around the man’s eyes and his cheekbones were made even starker by missing a few days worth of meals. Breaking the cigarette embargo was worth it if it made the ridiculous man stand still for five minutes.

The detective pinched the butt between his lips and sighed regretfully before taking one last deep puff. He winced as the acrid taste of burnt filter ruined that last perfect inhalation.

“What now?” John asked quietly, as Sherlock ground the butt out on the wall before flicking it carelessly away.

The man stood silently for a long moment.

“Sherlock?”

The movement unexpectedly sudden, Sherlock strode away, the words, ‘Baker Street’ thrown hoarsely over his shoulder like the discarded cigarette end.

As John caught up with Sherlock, his arm already stretching out to hail a taxi, the corpse of the cigarette rolled carelessly along the ground before tumbling into a drain, leaving a wispy, shimmering trail of ash behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

221B felt bizarrely clammy, as though it had been standing empty for weeks instead of just a few hours. There was a maudlin sense of abandonment in the air as the two men trod wearily up the stairs.

Where have you been? The building seemed to ask, resentfully. Was it worth it, whatever it was, to make you leave me?

John watched as Sherlock settled himself in his chair, fingers worrying against themselves in a gesture of agitation he had picked up from the man in front of him. He was waiting for something. If Sherlock did it then he knew that he had the situation even a little bit under control. He could hope that everything would be alright.

However, no matter how tightly John crossed the fingers of his other hand in the pockets of his jacket; Sherlock’s hands did not stray to his violin.

This was more than a little bit not good.

Always, always Sherlock fiddled with his violin when he thought. It was one of the reassuring consistencies about the man. It had taken John a very long time to get used to the staccato notes. Often he used to find himself waking up at an appalling hour of the morning as a particularly empathic minor note sliced through the dusky silence and, on more than one occasion, he had gotten up and threatened Sherlock’s violin with destruction if the noise did not instantly desist. Once he was so vehement that Sherlock hesitantly began to play a lullaby as an apology and an aid to John’s return to sleep. But, now John realised the music’s importance as an indicator of Sherlock’s psychological state and he found its absence to be highly disturbing.

John took an uncertain step forward, frowning unhappily down at Sherlock who had slumped back into a loose tangle of limbs, his spine crooked and lax. A far cry from his usual, tightly poised thinking posture.

“So,” he said, doing his best to keep his tired voice level.

“So?” Sherlock said, and John groaned internally at the aggressive undercurrent of frustration in that one word.

“So, what next?” He asked.

Sherlock blew out hard through his nostrils, muttering something angrily under his breath.

“What did you s-“

“I said I don’t know John, are you happy?” He snapped, throwing himself to his feet. “I don’t know. Alright! ME! I don’t know. The forensic evidence is compromised. Dead end.” He snatched up the gun from mantelpiece and John froze, instantly alert for this to go very badly wrong. “The bodies were unremarkable. Dead end. The flat had no evidence pertaining to the case. Dead end. Pentonville was a dead end! The gun was a dead end! The CHILD was a dead end!” Sherlock wheeled around and took aim, John’s hands flying to protect his ears. “Nothing but dead!”

John flinched as the first shot rang out.

“Bloody!”

Yet more plaster flaked off to join the debris from the last bout of wall abuse.

Ends!

The gun clicked. Empty. Sherlock obviously hadn’t reloaded it from the time before.

Displaying his usual high regard for correct firearms procedure, Sherlock lobbed the gun back onto the mantelpiece.

There came a timid knock on the open door.

Mrs Hudson stood there, her lovely, welcoming face crinkled with worry. “Everything alright, boys?” She said, eying the wall.

At the sight of her the energy seemed to drain out of Sherlock and he sagged once more into his chair, like a puppet whose strings had been severed.

Seeing no reply forthcoming from him, Mrs Hudson turned her eyes to John.

He shook his head, wearily. “This is a bad one, and we’re getting nowhere with it.”

“How bad?” She asked.

John hesitated but told her anyway. “Two men dead. Married ones like Mrs Turner’s ones next door. Ben and Evan? And, their four year old son’s been abducted.”

Her hand flew to her mouth and John felt a surge of regret as he viewed the heartbreak on Mrs Hudson’s face. Empathy was such a cruel sensation to know; sometimes he envied Sherlock in that regard. He’d never understand how much it hurt.

Her hand lowered to toy uneasily with her necklace. John noticed absently that it was new. Mr. Chattergee trying to win back favour?

“So, no idea at all then?” She said, entering the room.

“No.” Sherlock said, voice flat with self-disgust and fury.

“No.” John repeated, quietly.

Mrs Hudson stood there for a long moment, looking awkwardly between the two despondent men, about her at the flotsam and jetsam of the case strewn about the room. Her hand found a four day old newspaper and she picked it up, rolling it between her hands absent-mindedly.

Then, her jaw set as she reached some internal decision.

To John’s utter amazement, she turned and whacked Sherlock hard on the head with the rolled-up newspaper.

He jerked at the unexpected blow and stared up at her, uncharacteristically flabbergasted.

“Shame on you, Sherlock Holmes!” She scolded, her eyes flashing. “You look an utter state, what on earth have you been doing! Did you sleep in a skip last night? And you reek to high heaven! Good Lord, in all my years as landlady I have never seen the like! How on earth are you going to convince people to talk to you when you look so disreputable? And look at all the dust you’ve dragged in, for shame! I’m the one that’s going to have to clear it up you know!”

Were he not so bewildered, John would have laughed at the look of wide-eyed fear on Sherlock’s face.

“You! Go and have a shower right now, young man! This minute! Go!” Another hearty thwack from the newspaper and Sherlock was out of his chair and running for the door towards the sanctuary of the bathroom.

John finally burst into stifled giggles at the sound of Sherlock frantically scratching the lock closed as though all the hounds of hell were after him but, then he found a newspaper pushed threateningly under his nose.

“And as for you, doctor! Have you seen the state of your shirt recently? Good Lord, it’s a wonder you boys get anything done when you look like such vagrants! Go and change, for goodness’ sake!”

Holding his hands up in surrender, John ducked away.

Honestly though, a few minutes later he realised the logic of Mrs Hudson’s order. A blast of fresh deodorant, a clean shirt and a swig of water from the glass on his bedside table and he suddenly felt alert and ready for intelligent thought once more.

As he descended the stairs he heard the hiss of the shower, Sherlock seemed to be taking his time. Either he had realised how badly he had needed a shower or Mrs Hudson and her newspaper had scared him into lingering in the safety of the tub.

John entered the front room and began to smile, despite himself.

It was tidy. How, he didn’t know. He’d been gone maybe five minutes but everything that had been carelessly scattered had been neatly placed on tables, clearly visible to be easily rediscovered by either of them.

Not for the first time, John Watson wondered if their landlady was magic.

Mrs Hudson herself was in the kitchen, chopping something neatly. As John entered the room she turned and smiled; her ire nowhere to be seen.

“There now, isn’t that better?” She said, reaching out to dust a fleck of lint off John’s shoulder in an unthinking maternal gesture. “By the way, that nice Miss Cole called while you were out.”

“Did she? Damn!” John scuffed his foot angrily on the floor. “I wanted to make sure she was alright, she looked absolutely wrecked yesterday.”

Christ, was it only yesterday?

“Don’t mark the floor.” Mrs Hudson chided. “She came to drop these off, DI Lestrade told her to let either him or you two know if she found anything that may possibly come in handy.”

She gestured to a little heap of leaflets on the kitchen table. John picked one up and had a look. They were for the annual choir competition between all the Newham churches. Backdated for the last five years. He flicked through one, noticing that the competitors were listed under their respective churches. A brief search found Tommy and Rhodri’s names. Another heap bore photos of all the competing choirs.

“Well, that was decent of her but I don’t quite see how they will be useful.” He said, doubtfully, turning it over.

“That was my thoughts exactly but to be honest, I think the poor girl just wanted an excuse to find someone to talk to.” Mrs Hudson admitted, rooting around in the fridge. “I opened the door for her and told her you both were out but the poor love looked like she didn’t know what in the world to do with herself so I brought her in and sat her down and gave her a cup of tea.”

“Oh, you are a star.” John said, heart surging with gratitude that this remarkable woman was their landlady. “How was she?”

She paused in her rummaging and made eye-contact with John over her shoulder. Her expression said it all.

John nodded, sadly. “Poor Alison.” He said, softly.

“We had a bit of a chat.” Mrs Hudson said, pulling things from the fridge. “I think she got the picture I knew more about the case than I did but I didn’t want to make her explain, the poor dear looked – Sherlock needs to do something with this spleen you know, it’s going off – poor dear looked like she was at the end of her tether. Still, I made sure she got some food and drink in her, I don’t think that’s been a priority, and she had a bit of a cry and I’ve told her someone will look in on her tomorrow and make sure she’s alright. If you are both too busy then I’ll go but the poor love needs someone right now.”

They heard a patter of feet and Sherlock entered the kitchen, his hair curling wetly over his forehead. It seemed that the quarter of an hour of alone time had worked wonders as his frame had lost its old-elastic sagginess and stood tall and purposeful once more.

“There you are now.” Mrs Hudson grinned, pulling him down so she could tidy his wet hair for him. “That must feel better. Now, both of you sit down. Dinner will be ready in a minute and, when you’ve eaten, you’re going to talk me through the case. I know it helps you both to explain things. Helps order everything in the head.”

John and Sherlock shared a glance, both of them hesitant to delay now they both felt a bit more human. But then again, how they felt was irrelevant. They were still surrounded by dead ends.

So, like good little children, they sat down and waited for their dinner, Sherlock’s foot jumping impatiently.

A minute or two later and three heaped plates of spaghetti were placed on the table.

John may have been the doctor and Sherlock may have been the cleverest person in the room but Mrs Hudson was the true genius as, as soon as they comprehended the food in front of them, they both discovered that they were absolutely ravenous.

Sherlock was amazed to find his stomach whimpering and churning for the food in front of him, normally hunger was never an issue with him but now he fell on the meal in front of him like a starved dog.

Mrs Hudson laughed as both men cleared their plates while she still had about three quarters of her smaller portion left to finish. “There’s seconds if you want it, boys.”

John grabbed seconds and Sherlock seconds and thirds and, by the time they’d finished that, Mrs Hudson had cleared her plate too.

She put the pot in the sink to soak and sat back down, sighing in satisfaction at a job well done.

“Right then,” She said, determinedly. “Start at the beginning please. Where, when and how?”

Sherlock and John’s eyes met.

Then, Sherlock took a deep breath and began to speak.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“And so there’s no way that any of the lads in the prison could have organised it from the inside at all?” Mrs Hudson pressed a while later once she was up to speed, sipping her tea.

Sherlock shook his head, fingers dancing agitatedly on the table top as the urge to move stole over him once more now their explanation was finished. “Absolutely none. They had motive but no means or opportunity.”

“So, everything hinges basically on an unregistered gun?” She said, licking her thumb and wiping away a splash of sauce on the table top.

“In a nutshell, yes.” John admitted. “So, you see what a fix we’re in. We’ve got plenty of facts but the facts aren’t going anywhere.”

Mrs Hudson fell silent for a moment, staring vaguely into space.

“A Makarov PM you say?” She said, distantly. “Lord, I haven’t heard anyone talk about one of those for absolute donkey’s years.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows tightened in confusion and he and John looked at each other, intrigued by the unusual statement.

“So, you used to hear about them?” John prompted, looking at their landlady.

“Oh yes, all the time.” She licked her thumb and idly rubbed at another mark on the table. “My husband, God rest his bastard soul, used to be in business with a gentleman who dealt in all sorts of horrible things. He had connections to Eastern Europe and so could always get his hands on Makarovs, used to sell them cheap.”

Sherlock’s hands balled into fists, knuckles white with excitement.

Everyone used to call him Makarov Nelson because he always operated out of the Admiral’s Arms pub. Horrible weaselly little man.”

“The Admiral’s Arms on Fleet Street?” Sherlock demanded.

“That’s the one. How the police never rumbled him I have absolutely no idea, he was there consta-“ She broke off with a yelp as Sherlock lunged forward and seized her face with both hands, planting a massive kiss on her forehead.

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, his every word ringing with glee. “There are not words enough in the English language to describe how so very much I love you right at this moment in time!”

She stared as he whirled away, deftly catching his coat as John threw it to him. “Did . . . Did I help?” Mrs Hudson asked, hopefully.

“Like you would not believe!” John grinned as Sherlock went bolting out of the door, following the detective with a departing bellow of ‘thanks for the food!’

Left alone, Mrs Hudson shook her head and smiled.

“That’s my boys,” she said, fondly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Admiral’s Arms was a relic of the Victorian era. One that clung on with more tenacity than it deserved.

It took all of John’s poker skills not to wrinkle his nose in disgust at the stench of vomit as they entered. The bar was dark and rickety, with the ancient fixtures retained for the sake of thriftiness rather than charm. There were maybe four or five little groups of people dotted about. It wouldn’t be busy on a Tuesday evening

No one looked up. They looked too conspicuously alien to warrant any scrutiny. If they had tried to blend in then they instantly would have been pegged for undercover police. As it were, they looked like naïve new customers who could be scammed with ease.

They stood in the doorway for a moment, John silently waiting for Sherlock to find their mark. After a brief moment, Sherlock nudged John and nodded to a broad, squat man in a grubby flat-cap sat alone at the bar.

Making their way over, Sherlock did not bother to beat about the bush.  “Makarov Nelson?” He asked, calmly.

The man turned to glare at them, piggy little eyes glowering out from beneath a craggy-brow and oft-broken nose. “Who wants t’ know?”

“A person interested in Makarov PMs.” Sherlock said, silkily. “May we get you a drink?”

A greedy light came into his eyes. “Double scotch, if y’ please.”

Sherlock cast a brief eye over his shoulder at John.

Glaring at him, John pulled out his wallet and bought the drink.

“What’n you want t’ know about Makarovs for?” Nelson asked, his suspicion lessened very slightly by the promise of alcohol.

“Because someone shot at me with one the other day and I owe said person a visit and a little chat.” Sherlock said, lying without the faintest hint of hesitation.

The drink arrived and Nelson closed his stumpy fingers about it, eying Sherlock with what in a more intelligent man may have been mistaken for slyness. “Did you deserve it?”

Sherlock grinned, wickedly. “Does it matter?”

Nelson smothered his smile in the whiskey. “True.” He drained the glass with one gluttonous gulp and licked his stubbly lips. “So, why’d you search me out?”

“Rumour has it you’re the go-to man for Makarov PMs for the whole of London.” Sherlock said, his smooth voice at odds with his sharp eyes as he watched the man soften under the alcohol and the flattery.

“Mmm.” Nelson hummed in assent. “That might be so, it might.”

Sherlock licked his lips, eying the man’s empty glass. “Care for a refill?”

“You’re a gent.”

Sherlock half-turned but John was already resignedly catching the barman’s attention.

The next drink came and went and Sherlock decided to go for the kill. The man had already had two empty pint glasses in front of him when they came in and the smell coming from it was of one of the stronger ales. He was probably just drunk enough for their purpose.

“I suppose you don’t bother to keep names of the people who buy from you, do you? People prefer anonymity . . .” He said, off-handedly.

Nelson began to laugh, a gurgling, sputtering sound. “You shitting me? Of course I find out who they are!”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise. “Really?”

“Of course! Dun’ want ‘em trying to turn me over. The . . .” He fought to find the word and then smiled as he attempted to sound intelligent. “ . . . Transaction, as it were, there’s no names there. But, slip some aspiring little lad a fifty and he’ll find out who they are and where they live. Just for insurance purposes, like.”

“Sensible, very sensible.” Sherlock mused, casting his eye down Nelson’s back. He was drunk enough to be incautious and . . .

. . . There it was. That tiny little tell as he ran a thumb along a pocket. Checking that something was safely stowed away.

“I don’t suppose an . . . interested party . . . could perhaps buy a name off you?”

“Don’t suppose he could.” Nelson said, his voice hardening. “Don’t give out names, puts off the punters.”

Sherlock held up his hands in surrender. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Wasn’t expecting you to say yes anyway. I’ve got other avenues of inquiry to try.” He stepped back from where he was leaning on the bar and clapped a hand on Nelson’s back. “Pleasure to meet you, Sir. If ever I need your . . . particular brand of wares in the future, I’ll know who to ask.”

“A’right.” Nelson said, but he still looked at them suspiciously.

John knew that they were going to have to take evasive measures on the way out as certainly the man would have a tail on them within minutes.

Sherlock nodded and turned, indicating the meeting was over and the two of them left, John gasping in relief at being out in fresher air.

Turning to look, he noticed a hard, tight smile playing across Sherlock’s lips and a triumphant light in his eyes. For the first time in a day or two, the consulting detective actually looked like himself again.

“Good?” John asked, his voice low.

“Very good.” Sherlock smirked.

“Good.” John held out his hand.

Sherlock looked at it, as though confused.

John just glared and wiggled his fingers.

Shaking his head, Sherlock reached into his pocket and drew out a wallet, retrieving a handful of twenties and placing them in John’s hand.

The doctor opened his mouth to protest that that was far too much for the drinks he had bought but, then he noticed something. A wicked grin played across his lips. “That’s not your wallet.”

“Indeed not.” Sherlock said, off-handedly, as he retrieved another fistful of notes from the wallet before idly tossing it into a bin. “Mr. Nelson most graciously offered to pay us for the drinks he consumed and the uh . . .” He drew a thumb down the edge of the notebook concealed in his pocket. “ . . . the information he provided.”

John turned his head away in an effort to conceal his burgeoning grin as Sherlock surreptitiously tucked the surplus money into the pocket of a weary-looking woman with a baby in a battered, second-hand buggy.

Yes.

Sherlock was most definitely back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh, for God’s sake!” John bellowed, flinging his laptop down the far end of the sofa. “This bloody case-!”

Researching the names in Nelson’s – unpleasantly sticky and dog-eared – notebook had been surprisingly easy as most of those whom he had sold the Makarovs to had been criminal types who had either been arrested or met luridly violent ends.

Of the few remaining names, some obituaries were found and one had set himself up as a businessman in Australia with newspaper evidence demonstrating his being at a fundraiser in Melbourne not two hours before the murders. Obviously he was out.

John had watched with dwindling hope as his half of the list of names saw more crossed-out options. Eventually, Sherlock’s list was blotted out and John’s final name it was revealed had died in a freak flash-flood whilst visiting his family in Yorkshire.

Sherlock however, sat silently in his chair ignoring John as he raged around the flat in a fit of role-reversal. His mind was carefully sifting through the data he had available. There was a face in a photo. And a name . . . They were key.

He knew he had seen them before somewhere. But where?

Crossing his legs and taking up his violin bow, Sherlock braced his elbows on his knees; the bow held in both hands, and rested his forehead on the thin bit of wood.

He closed his eyes and opened the door to his mind palace.

A shadowy John was walking in front of him out of Cole and Tydfil’s flat . . . No, no, the photos there had only been of family and they had been few . . . He caught a glimpse of a grubby picture of a seascape, cheap and poorly painted. No, that had been in the Admiral’s Arms and he was sure that he had seen it earlier than that . . . A kind, smiling face and the taste of pasta on his tongue. Mrs Hudson had fed them. There had been plates on the table. Knives. Forks. Glasses.

And a pile of . . .

“Leaflets!” Sherlock cried, making John jump, his hand lashing out to point the bow at the kitchen table.

“S-Sorry?”

“The leaflets.” Sherlock breathed, throwing his bow aside and leaping to his feet.

He grabbed the leaflets and returned, frantically scanning them even as one long foot nudged his discarded laptop closer.

Names and faces jumped out at him but all he needed was o-there!

A brief glance from laptop screen to leaflet and a crooked smile of victory curled across Sherlock’s face.

“Got you.” He whispered.

“Sherlock?” John said, hopefully.

Sherlock just thrust the leaflet out to John, his hand going for his phone.

Even as he heard Sherlock greet Lestrade, John was searching the leaflet. Not seeing it, he looked up and caught sight of Sherlock’s laptop screen.

It displayed the obituary of a man who died a few months ago. Next to the obituary was a small photo of a genuinely tiny old man in a wheelchair, being pushed by a short, soft looking gentleman. Vaguely, he heard Sherlock ask Lestrade to run a check on a name for him.

The caption next to the picture read ‘Mr. James Wilkinson was supported in his long battle with Parkinson’s disease by his dedicated carer Mr. Le-’

John gasped with realisation, snatching at the leaflet again.

Sure enough, in the rival choir from the Lord’s Mercy Church, the name they had found was emblazoned bold in the tenor section.

A hand clenched painfully tight on John’s wrist and he looked up.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and glowing with a near feverish intensity as he listened to Lestrade’s words. Making eye-contact with John, he spoke with a calmness that belied his excitement. “Admitted to the Newham General Hospital three hours after the murders. And you say the nurses believe that he dug something out of the wound himself?”

A bullet, maybe?

“Excellent.” Sherlock breathed. “Lestrade, meet us there in one hour.” He hung up, ignoring Lestrade’s vocal demands for more information.

John and Sherlock stared at each other, hearts pounding with disbelieving elation.

“We’ve got him?” John whispered, incredulously.

Sherlock smiled with all the sympathy of a wolf at the end of the chase. “We’ve got him.”
ACK! I'm so sorry, I genuinely forgot I hadn't finished this one. Sorry! To make up for it, this entire story arc will be finished by the end of the weekend, I promise.

Part I
[link]
Part II
[link]
Part III
[link]
Part IV
[link]
Part V
[link]
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starfall-glow's avatar
Ah, Sherlock's mind palace! I've always wanted to know how it worked! This is great!