Sherlock Fanfiction: Silk Road
Jan. 12th, 2013 06:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101Title: Silk Road
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saki101
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: Mature
Word Count: ~10K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: Sherlock is on a case involving an international serial killer while also trying to solve the mystery of the package under John's bed.
A/N: Written for Holmestice 2012 forcorpsereviver2. Also posted on A03. Can be read as a stand-alone or slotted into the Experiments Series after Locked Rooms (Part II).
Silk Road
The edges of stone grey buildings blurred into the paler grey of cobbles and clouds in the watery light. A lone vehicle slowed to a stop on Wigmore Street. Coat collar up, a grey woollen-clad shape descended from the taxi, glided past the shuttered shops leading to St Christopher’s Place. A gruff voice echoed from the tiny square ahead, ordering the water in the fountain to be turned off. Other voices answered. Sherlock halted next to Lestrade, considered the sodden form on the granite, the sprawled legs, the awkward angle of the torso, the neck curled towards the concrete seat behind which it lay.
“We’re checking camera footage on Oxford, James and Wigmore Streets,” Lestrade said. “And in here, of course.”
“Time of death?” Sherlock asked, turning full circle to scan the security camera positions in the plaza.
“Don’t have a medical opinion yet. Restaurant workers found him twenty minutes ago. I thought you’d have John with you.”
“Night shift, A&E. You called me before you left the Yard. Why?” Sherlock asked, shoving his leather gloves into his pocket and snapping on a nitrile pair.
“Sous-chef sent us photos of the victim,” Lestrade replied.
Sherlock leaned over the body, crouched between the legs. “I see,” Sherlock said, letting out a long breath. “Zeta.”
“No ID on the body.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “Report came in from Cirencester last night. Corpse discovered during some excavations near the Roman villa out that way. Dead ten, twelve years. We’re waiting for ID from dental records on that one. A triangle still visible, scratched into the back of the skull.”
“Delta. Part of the original set, then,” Sherlock said, shifting to stare under the seat at the victim’s chest. He pulled a small torch from his pocket, aimed the beam into the deeper shadow. “You should have called me last night. You know what I think about those deaths.” Sherlock stretched out his arm to touch the victim’s coat, considered the fingers of his glove when he drew it back.
Lestrade nodded. “Yup, and you’re probably right.”
Sherlock huffed as he swivelled to examine the edges of the fountain spout. “Now we have a continuation. Why now? And where’s Epsilon” He took out his magnifier. “The metal is scored here…by a blade. Might have broken.” He peered into the grooves in the granite leading to the drain. “Ah.” Sherlock pulled a small case from an inside pocket, extracted a long pair of tweezers from it and reached for the metal fragment with them. “What checks are you running?”
“People released from prisons, long term hospitalisation, returning from abroad after many years.” Pipes gurgled. Lestrade stepped back as icy water splashed over his shoes. “Who turned the fountain on?” Lestrade shouted as water sluiced over Sherlock’s shoulders.
Various recriminations were heard from around the corner; the water stopped again. “Someone should take a photo of this before it goes down the drain with the next bout of idiocy,” Sherlock said, holding the knife tip in place with one hand and fishing out his phone with the other. The flash lit up the wet stone. “I’ll send you a copy,” Sherlock added, standing and holding the fragment up to the sky. Water streamed from his soaked hair. He took another photo. “There’s part of a maker’s mark or a design on this…unusual for it to be so far down the blade.” A young sergeant ran over with a bag, held it open towards Lestrade. Sherlock dropped the fragment into it. “Where are your usual familiars?” Sherlock asked, leaning over the fountain spout.
“Anderson and Donovan are on holiday,” Lestrade answered. Sherlock looked over his shoulder with one eyebrow up. “What? They happened to request leave at the same time.” Lestrade shrugged, spreading his hands, palms up.
“No explanations necessary,” Sherlock replied and took another photo. “Look.” He gestured for Lestrade to come closer. “Holographic glitter sticking to the cement.” He flashed the camera on his phone again. “There are traces of it visible on the body, on the hands, the cheeks, the lashes, in the hair. Make sure they don’t miss it in the post-mortem.” Sherlock straightened up. “Get an analysis of the mud on his shoes and the mud stain on his chest. The pattern of that will be helpful. Call when the body’s at the morgue. Will it be at Bart’s?” Lestrade nodded. “Good. Send the other file,” Sherlock added, turning away. “And photos of any further evidence here that hasn’t been washed away.”
“Wait. Aren’t you going to give me more than that?” Lestrade asked.
Sherlock gave Lestrade a tight smile. “After a hot shower, perhaps.”
***
“Sherlock, you’re dripping!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed when Sherlock walked in the door. She peered past him at the sky. “It’s not even raining.”
“The police will be around in a little while, Mrs Hudson. I’m going to leave a mobile in a plastic bag on the mantel here,” he said, patting the white wood. “Would you be so good as to deliver it to them? Hopefully, whoever comes will have an envelope for me. Kindly accept it on my behalf. I will be indisposed.”
“I was just going next door, but I’ll keep an eye out for them,” Mrs Hudson answered. “And you will be indisposed if you don’t get those wet things off, Sherlock.”
“Excellent advice, Mrs Hudson. That’s exactly what I shall do as soon as I examine the aforementioned phone,” Sherlock replied, rubbing his hair with the ends of his scarf as he mounted the stairs.
***
You didn’t just send me a photo from the victim’s phone, did you?
It’s charged now. The photo shows the murder site. SH
It’s mostly shadows except for the corner with the streetlamp shining through some fancy grillwork.
The ironwork is antique, distinctive. John can research the design at the V&A. The location can be narrowed down to a few places between that and the mud. SH
So the body was moved? Wasn’t the phone locked?
Yes, the body was moved. Don’t forget the report from Cirencester when you have the phone collected. It’ll be in an evidence bag. The phone was locked. SH
There's a photo of an office party, too. A masque. Check the attendees. Mrs H will give the mobile to your messenger. I will be indisposed. SH
****
John took in a lungful of misty air, turned his collar up against the breeze. Little moved with it, the trees bare, the night’s litter pasted to the wet pavement. A taxi passed, a plume of grey water hitting the footpath in its wake. John sidestepped most of it. The mist condensed into a light rain. John turned his face up into it as he passed the tube station. He didn’t want to go underground.
The aroma of fresh pastry scented the air around 221B. John dropped his keys back in his pocket and ducked into Speedy’s.
“Good morning, John,” Mrs Hudson said, taking a step away from the counter she had been leaning across. “Sherlock’s back and the police have been and gone.”
John smiled. Mrs Hudson flushed slightly.
“You look well and the house appears to be in one piece, so nothing too alarming, I hope,” John replied, turning to the display of confections. “Those almond croissants smell wonderful, Mr Chatterjee. I’ll take four. Would you like one, Mrs Hudson?”
Her right hand plucked at her hair. “No. No, thank you, John. I’m baking this morning myself. I’ll bring some up later.”
John passed a five-pound note to Mr Chatterjee. “Anything particular I should know before I open the front door?” John asked. He reached for the white bag Mr Chatterjee held out and said, “Thank you.”
“No. Just an envelope in the hallway that the police left for Sherlock. He was in the shower when they came. Good thing, too. His hair was dripping when he got back,” Mrs Hudson said, looking John over. “You’re rather wet yourself.”
“Yes, well,” John gestured towards the windows.
“It wasn’t raining when Sherlock got back though,” she added.
***
John wiped his feet, shut the door and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Envelope under one arm, he opened Sherlock’s text message on his way up the stairs.
Identify designer of ironwork. V&A best place to start. Find addresses of buildings with intact examples of his work in or near London. SH
John glanced into the quiet sitting room, dropped the bag of pastries onto the counter in the empty kitchen and clicked on the attachment as he headed up the stairs to his room. He paused halfway to consider the photo, shook his head, and opened the next message.
Delta discovered yesterday. John frowned. Zeta attack didn’t occur where the body was found. Zone 1-3 travelcard, so no more than an hour away from St Christopher’s Place. SH
From the landing, John saw Sherlock’s bare feet protruding from under his bed. John walked into the room and tossed the envelope onto the dresser.
“Where did you move your rugby ball?”
“Bottom of the wardrobe,” John replied, stepping out of his shoes and kneeling to peer under the bed. “Good thing I hoover under here,” he added, squinting into the dimness. Dry paper crinkled. John could see Sherlock’s head resting on the package that was almost as long as the bed. Sherlock’s fingers glided across the paper as though reading secrets in Braille. His index finger disappeared beneath a fold in the wrapping, stroking slowly. “Did you have it at Harry’s?” Sherlock asked.
“Yeah,” John said, trying to make out Sherlock’s expression. “She needed the cupboard space.” There was a small tearing sound as Sherlock’s finger moved a little further beneath the paper. John’s gaze flicked to Sherlock’s hand, followed the rhythm of his wrist as it moved to and fro.
“Was there someone you expected to be waiting for you when you returned, John? Someone who disappointed you?” Sherlock asked.
“No,” John said. “I knew no one was waiting.” He stood up, grabbed his dressing gown and headed for the shower.
***
Sherlock and the envelope were gone when John returned from the bath. The package was halfway out from under the bed, but other than the tiniest gleam of blue-green showing where the paper had torn, the wrapping was intact. John looked at the red curlicues stamped at regular intervals across the paper and the block letters in black ink spelling, Captain John Watson. He pulled the parcel the rest of the way out and leaned it up against the bed before he got dressed.
***
John switched on the kettle, got out a carton of eggs. Sherlock was still buttoning his cuffs as he walked into the kitchen.
“Tea?” John asked.
“Afghanistan isn’t known for that kind of cloth,” Sherlock stated.
“No,” John replied, as he held an egg up to the light. “But it’s on the Silk Road.”
“I haven’t done anything to the eggs,” Sherlock said. “Someone there, then,” Sherlock suggested. “Serving with you.”
John lowered the egg. The sun hot on the back of his hand, squinting from beneath it to survey the make-shift souk at the edge of the base, brilliant with silks, alive with a Babel hum.
He skirted the crowd, stood at the end of the last table. Down the length of uneven boards, soldiers leaned forward, their faces outlined in golden light, some eyes opaque with visions of happy homecomings, others glinting as they glanced from side to side, eager to demonstrate that they possessed more for which to be thankful than their comrades. John wondered why he had come with them.
“Something different for you, sir,” the voice behind him said. “A deeper shade.”
Sherlock stopped speaking and moving, as though stillness might allow him to follow John into his memories. Sherlock’s mobile beeped.
John’s eyes flickered from the refrigerator to the table to Sherlock. Sherlock grimaced and pulled out his phone. “It’s Lestrade,” he muttered, looking down. “The body’s at Bart’s.” A few steps took him to the sitting room. “There should be time for you to locate the likely murder sites before I get back.” He grabbed his coat, swirled it about him as he walked out the door.
John didn’t reply. He stared at the empty doorway as if studying an afterimage that lingered there.
***
The battlefield of London was particularly obvious on the stretch of road leading to the trio of museums, mementos of the Blitz slashed into the stone on either side of the broad street. John ran his fingers over the gouges by the Exhibition Road entrance to the V&A, the gesture habitual, the feeling of gratitude always fresh. He smiled at The Sluggard as he passed to mount the stairs at the other end of the sculpture gallery. They were all survivors there.
The entrance to the Art Library was just coming into view when John realised where he had seen the forgework pattern before. The glossy English Trust book presented to Sherlock for solving the Apsley House case was under a stack of medical journals near John’s chair in their sitting room. John could picture the photograph spread over the two title pages of an article about the restoration work at a property north of the heath. He got out his phone as he turned towards the corridor festooned with metalwork, stopping in front of a filigree gate with an intricate lock, its ornate key hung on the wall beside it. John held his phone up next to the ironwork and nodded. The article had had an insert about the forgemaster. John was sure the locations of other examples of the smith’s work had been listed there. “I’ll have an answer for you before you get back to Baker Street, Sherlock,” John murmured, already walking towards the nearest staircase.
Cutting through the costume exhibit was usually a faster way to the side exit than weaving through the gift shop, but a group of students swarmed in from the gallery and surrounded John before he could retreat. The children gathered near a portly woman standing in front of the display on the wall opposite to where John stood. Softly, she began speaking and the students quieted to hear her. John’s back was pressed against a glass case featuring an array of military uniforms with no way to get through the crowd without disrupting the spell the speaker seemed to have cast over her young audience. John resigned himself to listening to a presentation about costumes he could barely see. The guide was pointing out details, similarities and differences, challenging the children’s assumptions about the functions of certain features and mingling a bit of history and geography in with facts about the origins of some of the materials or the designs. One manikin wore a type of Victorian hunting cap the children found amusing. The guide allowed a few giggles before she resumed speaking, continuing to pepper her talk with questions and using the answers to lead into the next part of her lecture. John thought it a clever presentation. Finally, the guide led the group to a display case further along the wall.
Indulging his curiosity, John walked across the aisle for a quick look at the subjects of the lecture. Beside the hunter in his caped coat, two manikins in evening wear lounged against a mantelpiece set with porcelain and crested invitations. A seated figure stretched his long legs towards a fake fire wearing embroidered slippers with curled toes, the rest of his body swathed in the full folds of a purple silk dressing gown. The top of the garment was obscured by the newspaper spread between the manikin’s hands. John angled his head to read the date: 20 March 1895. John snorted, only the year was different. He took a step towards the exit and stopped. Glancing quickly about him, he moved back to the glass, took out his phone and aimed at the display.
***
There were no signs of Sherlock having returned when John reached Baker Street. He slid the English Trust book out from under a pile of journals and folded newspapers and found the list of properties boasting William Edney ironwork while still on his knees. “There, there…and there,” John muttered, running a finger down the list. He flipped back to the beginning of the article. “That’s it. Different angle, sunny sky…” John pulled out his phone, compared the images and nodded to himself. He rose, open book in hand and fished a pencil and a small pad of fluorescent green notepaper bearing the logo of a prominent pharmaceutical company from beneath the debris scattered over the table. He hummed as he lay the book down and inscribed the top leaf of the pad with a large number three and an arrow. Beneath that, he printed, See pp 95-96.
John slapped the note onto the book, next to the list, and was outside, bundling a large package into the back of a taxi moments later. The cabbie took the next turn and headed towards Savile Row.
John smiled. His first visit to the premises of Hastings & Sons had been under duress. Sherlock had declared that if John wanted him to endure an awards ceremony that required a bow tie, John had to permit himself to be fitted for a dinner jacket. It had been a significant mutual sacrifice.
The English Trust had been very grateful to Sherlock for catching a certain arsonist in time to save a national treasure from flames. Sherlock had reasoned that if the English Trust were so very grateful, they shouldn’t be punishing him for doing it. When John had insisted that it was only proper for Sherlock to accept their accolades in person, Sherlock proclaimed that it was up to John to meet the condition or not. John had pointed out that he owned a perfectly serviceable black suit and if that wouldn’t do, he could hire a dinner jacket. John couldn’t quite classify the sound Sherlock had made after that, but it had been closest to a growl. John laughed quietly in the back of the taxi. He was going to rub in the fact that if they hadn’t attended that dinner, they wouldn’t own the illustrated book of English Trust properties that was probably going to solve the case on now. Sherlock was likely to growl about that, too, or point out that they could simply have posted it to him with a polite note. John thought he might not mention the awards dinner after all.
***
“Dr Watson,” Mr Hastings said as he emerged from the rear of the sedately furnished, and fortunately nearly empty, showroom of Hastings & Sons. John rose from his seat. “How pleasant to see you again,” the elderly tailor said, looking John up and down and clearly adjusting measurements he seemed to have stored in his head. “Will we be implementing Mr Holmes’ plan?”
“In a manner of speaking,” John replied and tugged the parcel round from where he had leaned it against the other side of the wing-backed chair.
The tailor stepped closer, his eyes honing in on the small tear in the brown paper and the fleck of colour it revealed. “What have we here?” he said and held out his arms.
As the soldiers approached, the merchants lifted their arms and cascades of cloth shimmered.
John blinked, felt the weight being lifted from his arms. “No let me,” he said. “Where would you like to open it?”
Mr Hastings gestured towards a walnut table, signalling to an assistant to remove the colour wheel of silk cravats arranged there. John set the package on the polished wood and allowed Mr Hastings to brush his hands away. John watched him carefully fold back the brown paper protecting the contents of the parcel.
“This is old, you know,” Mr Hastings’ quiet voice explained. “See how this part has been discoloured by the light.” He held up an end of the cloth. John focussed on the mass of fabric on the table that the tailor had unwound from one bolt. “The green dye of the warp has faded nearly to yellow and the blue threads in the weft are greener here. It’s a pity. Although the change in colouring hardly diminishes its beauty,” he continued, running his fingers lightly over the design in the brocade. “Still there is more than enough undamaged. What type of garment did you have in mind? Something for yourself?” Mr Hastings’ glance swept from John to the table and back, dividing this time.
“I have a photo,” John began, taking out his phone and handing it to the tailor. “I don’t know if you can work from that. It was dark in the museum.”
Mr Hastings considered the photo. “Oh, yes,” he said, a hint of enthusiasm enlivening his voice, “I help Thomas occasionally. I loaned him a couple pieces for that exhibit. We have a historic collection of our own here.” Mr Hastings’ voice dropped. “A number of lovely things have gone unclaimed over the years.” He looked up at John with brighter eyes. “He’ll let me take measurements after hours.” The tailor turned back to the fabric. “The pattern on the cloth, however, was designed for a taller person. We’ll have to decide where to trim it for you.”
“It’s not for me,” John said quickly. “I’d like to have it made for Sh-Mr Holmes.”
“Ah,” Mr Hastings replied, handing John back his mobile and opening the end of the folded cloth fully. It hung down over the edges of the table. “It is perfect for someone of his height.” He smoothed the material and narrowed his eyes in mental calculation. “And the hue will suit his colouring,” he added.
“Something different for you, sir,” a voice behind John said. “A deeper shade.” John knew the ways of the bazaar, the dance of deception that was bargaining, yet he turned to see what the man thought would tempt him. He was gone when John looked. Plastic bags rustled, something bumped against the table leg. “Here.” The word came from beneath the table, definitive and satisfied. “Here,” the man said again as he stood, placing a large bundle atop the reds and pinks and golds blooming there. “See,” he said, his kohl-rimmed eyes falling to the plain, dark cloth his hands had pulled open. “For someone rare.”
“I have no one,” John said, in an attempt to fend off the usual speech about weddings and plump and plentiful children.
“But you will,” the merchant asserted, dragging the rest of the cotton wrapper away from the silk. The oblique rays of the sun revealed the pattern of the brocade. “And the cloth will match their eyes.”
***
The irritating shade of green caught Sherlock’s eye the instant he walked into the sitting room. He stopped unbuttoning his coat, walked to the table and scanned the list, three addresses in London: Greenwich, Richmond-upon-Thames and Camden. “Well done, John,” Sherlock said and bounded up the stairs.
Shoes flew out of the wardrobe until Sherlock had his hands around the rugby ball. He glanced at John’s bed as he turned to leave, bent to look underneath. “Where have you taken it?” he murmured, before running back to the sitting room and smearing soot from the hearth over half of the ball. He strode to the kitchen, considered his angle, and threw the ball at the refrigerator. Sherlock leaned towards the stainless steel and smiled. “Let’s see which location has a rugby pitch nearby.”
Sherlock wiped his hands on a tea towel, dropped his coat over a chair and settled in front of John’s computer to search. He scowled. “Why have you changed your password since this morning? And to something that takes more than thirty seconds to guess.” Sherlock gave the computer a quizzical look and reached over to pick his laptop off his chair. His gaze passed over the note again. “What’s on pages 95 to 96?” Sherlock flipped the pages and jumped out of his seat. “John, you are a marvel. Where are you?” he cried, spinning around, mobile in hand. Seconds later Lestrade had the address.
Sherlock’s phone pinged. Want a ride?
I’ll meet you there. SH
***
The beep John’s mobile made sounded rude in the quiet of the fitting room. “Excuse me,” he said and pulled the phone out of his pocket.
You found it. Meet me at the address in Camden at once. SH
John's face lit up. “I’m sorry. I have to leave,” John said, looking over his shoulder at Mr Hastings.
Mr Hastings began looping the tape measure around his fingers. “I’ve finished checking my measurements. How soon would you like this?”
John’s mind was already calculating how long it would take him to find a taxi. “This could wait,” John said. “But something like the…the other…would take a while, I imagine.” He took a step towards the door.
“You know the agreement, Dr Watson. I can’t do the other until I’ve finished at least one suit for you.”
John nodded. “Well, both will surely take a long time.” He took a step closer to the exit.
“We could make them a priority, of course, if there were an occasion…”
John felt his face grow warmer. “No occasion,” he said. “Whenever you can fit them in.”
John’s hand closed around the door handle. He glanced back.
Mr Hastings was considering him. “It wouldn't be any trouble,” he assured John. “I've known Mr Holmes since he was in shorts." Mr Hastings paused, his voice becoming softer. "And in our time of need, he came to our aid.”
John held the old man's eyes and nodded to another member of the network of people Sherlock had helped. “Thank you,” John said and was out the door.
****
John walked down the long drive towards the police cars parked on the grass. Two officers were cordoning off an area near the rear of the building, a Victorian Gothic fantasy in grey stone built around something smaller and older. John spotted the grillwork just as the officers spotted him. “Dr Watson,” the man called. “DI Lestrade and Mr Holmes are inside. I can show you in, sir.”
John stopped. It was a startling improvement from, ‘Are you still following the freak around?’ “Are you new, Sergeant…?” John asked.
“Rafferty, sir,” the young officer replied. “On temporary transfer from Cirencester since yesterday. And to work with you and Mr Holmes already…” Rafferty’s eyes crinkled with his smile. “I follow your blog faithfully, sir, and I hoped I might have a chance…legendary, sir. That’s what you and Mr Holmes are.”
“Have you actually spoken to Sherlock?” John asked, doing a quick survey of the part of the gardens he could see, wondering whether Moriarty might jump from behind a shrubbery at any moment and squeal, “Surprise!” He saw the streetlamp then, through the bare trees beyond the hedges. Sherlock would have seen it, too.
“No, no, Mr Holmes needed to gather his impressions of the crime scenes first, sir,” Rafferty explained reverently. He lowered his voice slightly. “I heard him tell DI Lestrade that your research located this site, sir.”
John was beginning to feel like he was back in the military. He noticed he was standing straighter when a small cough emanated from behind Rafferty. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, this is Sergeant Mehta. She came down from Cambridge this morning.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant,” John said and considered the fact that Beta's and Gamma’s bodies had been found in Cambridgeshire. Sherlock had talked a lot about this cold case. It was one thing to be ignored at twelve, quite another as a postgraduate student. It rankled. John was surprised that Moriarty hadn’t latched onto the connection. John looked at Rafferty’s and Mehta’s faces. They would have been schoolchildren when the first set of murders occurred. Perhaps they had not even heard of the crimes before yesterday. He tilted his head at the house and said, “So…”
“Oh, of course, sir.”
Rafferty looked at Mehta. “Go ahead,” she said. “Maybe they’ll let you stay for a couple minutes this time.” Rafferty extended his arm towards the colonnade. John looked back over the wide lawn and the high hedges and paused. They had reason to suspect the murderer might work on the property. He heard voices and two more officers emerged from the hedges with what appeared to be a gardener.
John let out a breath. “Lead on, Sergeant,” John said to Rafferty.
***
John leaned his head back against the seat of the taxi, let his eyes close. Sherlock continued explaining how they had seen an abundance of the glitter that had been found on the body as well as small traces of blood. Other people could have bled in the colonnade; it would have to be tested. Most of the glitter was from the masks many of the staff had worn for the party celebrating the completion of the restoration project held the night before, so more than a score of people were probably twinkling with it.
John had noticed some on the hem of Sherlock’s coat when they got in the taxi. Sherlock was confident the site and the personnel records from the estate were going to provide them with a few more pieces of the puzzle. He didn't think they would need to go to Cirencester, but that couldn't be ruled out yet.
Sherlock paused in his narrative. “Have you fallen asleep, John?”
“Not yet,” John replied, without opening his eyes. “But all night and most of the day on my feet, is starting to make itself known.” John couldn’t see Sherlock looking at him, but he was sure he was. “Mere mortals sleep, you know.”
Sherlock patted John’s knee. “Remarkable that that book should turn out to be useful.”
John was surprised at the concession. “I tried to show you the photograph when I was reading the article. You must have deleted it.”
“Yes, but I remembered that it was something you would know. That’s all that was necessary,” Sherlock replied. John grumbled sleepily. “I’ll tuck you into bed myself, if we ever get back to Baker Street. The traffic around the heath is always terrible.”
“It’s gone four and I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” John added. He felt his breathing getting slower and slower. Sherlock kept his hand on John’s knee as though to keep him from drifting off.
With the other hand, Sherlock texted Angelo. “Angelo will deliver food, so you can eat,” Sherlock said. He glanced at John, could tell he wasn’t quite asleep. “Then I will figure out your password.”
John smiled. For once, he doubted it.
***
The aroma of Angelo’s Saturday special awaited them in the hall. Its source on the mantel. As John ate, Sherlock talked, about the cause of death, the Greek letter carved on the body, the knife tip, the old mark, Toledo steel. John listed sideways on the sofa, feet still on the floor. Sherlock paused, stared at John’s position.
“You’ll be in knots if you sleep like that,” Sherlock said.
John hauled himself to his feet and shuffled towards the stairs.
Sherlock grasped John’s shoulders, steered him towards the closer bedroom. “I’m going to run a couple tests in the kitchen, do some research. If the doors are open, I can talk to you while you sleep.”
“Efficient,” John mumbled.
“I thought so,” Sherlock replied.
***
Any usable traces of DNA on the body? Any matches? SH
Nothing yet. I’m pushing them to speed up the testing. You think another murder is imminent?
Beta and Gamma were close together. Has Jean-Pierre contacted you recently? SH
No, I could try to reach him. You think the murderer was abroad?.
Strong possibility. Ask him about bodies in our timeframe with any deliberate markings, not necessarily Greek letters and not only knife wounds. SH
What? Separate series?
Possibly. A killer who likes to classify things or who develops a different grudge in different places. Need more data. SH
***
The light was too bright. Rockets whistled through it. The injured shrieked. Dust billowed. It would cover them all.
John woke gasping in the dark. He flung his covers off, fumbled at the end table for water. Things clattered to the floor.
A cold bottle was pressed into his hand. It was open. John spilt some as he brought it to his mouth. The water felt good. Sherlock’s hand settled on John’s shoulder. It felt good. John leaned forward, pressed his head against the smooth cloth of Sherlock’s shirt. John rubbed his face across it, felt the lean muscle beneath it. It all felt good.
His pillow was no longer hot. A sheet settled over him in a puff of cool air. He liked the hand at his shoulder, thought to pat it with his own, but the fatigue pulled him away.
The light dimmed, wavered. In it, red dots danced. Through it, a voice echoed.
John tensed. The hand grasped more tightly. John rolled and an arm curved across his chest, firm muscles against his back. Sleep returned, without dreams.
***
John was perusing a medical journal and sipping his second cup of tea of the morning when Sherlock marched through the room to the window. “Want some tea?” John asked.
“No time,” Sherlock said. “Have you packed warm things? We shouldn’t be more than two or three days, but it will be cold on the glacier.” John looked up. Sherlock checked his watch. “We need to be at Heathrow in an hour,” he added and unplugged his computer.
“We’re going somewhere…cold?” John asked, taking another sip of tea and considering Sherlock’s open-necked shirt.
“Reykjavik, John. Two bodies found beneath the ice east of the city yesterday afternoon. Well-preserved. Marked. Lestrade relayed the information from Jean-Pierre this morning. He’ll meet us there.”
“Eta?” John asked, standing.
“No, Epsilon. And a second body marked with the number four.”
“Another series?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Cold, right. I’ll be down in a minute,” John called, already on the stairs.
***
"Why don't you take the window seat," Sherlock said on the flight back to London as he lay his garment bag over John's carry-on in the overhead compartment. "One can't forecast auroral activity, but just in case."
"You prefer the aisle," John said, slipping past him into the other seat. "But it wouldn't hurt to look." Sherlock slammed the compartment closed, undid his jacket button and settled into his seat. Beyond the window the airport lights reflected off the snow by the runway. "I'd always wanted to see the Northern Lights."
"I know. You'd said," Sherlock murmured, pulling down his tray table and opening his laptop on it.
John turned. "That was months ago. You remembered that?"
"Mm. I want to type up my notes now. I'd prefer to talk through them with you, but it's not quite the place," Sherlock replied.
John glanced at the other passengers streaming past them and nodded. "The Lights were even more incredible than I had thought they would be. Thank you," John said.
"What for? I couldn't have predicted we would see them while we were here," Sherlock asked, typing rapidly. John looked at Sherlock's profile, opened his mouth as if to speak, but didn't. "Here, if I tilt the computer like that, can you read the screen?" Sherlock asked. John adjusted the laptop again and nodded. "Ask questions and I'll type the answers, if necessary," Sherlock directed.
"If that dormant geyser hadn't erupted, would they ever have been found," John asked quietly.
"Unlikely," Sherlock answered. "Unless there was some need to drill in the area, only volcanic activity was going to shift that much ice."
"How'd they get that deep then?" John asked.
Sherlock’s fingers danced over the keyboard. They were in a small crevasse. At the time of the murders, it must have been recently formed. Since then, seven years of ice and snow had sealed them in.
John leaned closer to Sherlock. “The excavation near Cirencester and the geyser here. It’s just chance that these things uncovered what they did now.”
Sherlock sat back in his seat, one finger tapping against his lips.
John pulled the laptop closer and typed, If he hadn’t killed Zeta, these deaths would never have been connected, would they? John turned the screen towards Sherlock.
He stretched forward. Lestrade would have sent me the Cirencester report. He and I have discussed the Cambridge murders before. He’d see the connection. He may work with idiots, but he has been known to rise above their level occasionally.
John leaned across Sherlock, his arm brushing past Sherlock’s. He felt the warmth of it through his sleeve as he typed, If you hadn’t suggested he contact Jean-Pierre, we wouldn’t know about the bodies here.
Sherlock crowded closer to the computer than necessary. I suppose not, unless it came up over a bottle of wine with Lestrade sometime. I give Jean-Pierre credit for requesting our help. Even knowing about the connection, with all their fingertips missing, identifying the bodies may take him awhile.
“Please put your seats in an upright position and fasten your seatbelts,” a sing-song voice announced.
John secured the tray table and his seatbelt, but as the lights flashed by the window and the wheels thumped into the body of the plane, he left his shoulder pressed against Sherlock’s.
***
Sherlock lifted his bow and John looked up from his newspaper. “There’s a delivery and Mrs Hudson’s gone out,” Sherlock said from where he stood by the window. He resumed playing. There was a prompt rustle as John tossed the paper aside and rushed to the front door.
The music grew louder as John climbed the stairs. Sherlock stepped onto the landing without missing a note and eyed the two large boxes in John’s arms. Sherlock stood squarely in front of the stairs to John’s room and looked pointedly at the open sitting room door.
“Sooner than I expected,” Sherlock said and followed John inside, still playing. He pushed the door closed with his foot and lifted his bow. “And two.” Sherlock stepped closer, stood over the boxes with the entwined "H" and "S" on them that John had set on the table by his laptop. “Which will you show me first?” Sherlock asked.
John tilted the top of the upper box away from Sherlock just enough to reach his hand in and under the tissue paper. It darted back out. John lowered the cover and slid the second box out from under the first, took its top off with a flourish and stood back. “This one,” he announced.
Sherlock used the tip of his bow to flip open the tissue. “Navy,” he said, setting down the violin and bow and running his fingers over the wool. “I thought you would choose from among the browns first,” Sherlock commented. “Take off your jumper. Let me see it on you.”
John pulled his cable-knit sweater over his head and draped it on the chair. John lifted the jacket. He saw a light blue and white striped shirt underneath and a pale blue tie that he had not selected. “I like stripes,” John said, looking up. Sherlock scowled. “What?” John asked, unbuttoning his shirt.
“The excuse I gave Mycroft for our not being able to attend his latest tedious reception is no longer valid,” Sherlock sighed as John slipped on the new shirt. Sherlock held out the jacket for John. “What made you choose this fabric?”
“You mean I had some choice?” John asked, tugging down the open, white cuffs of the shirt.
Sherlock gestured at the sleeves. “At least one of us can make use of the cuff links and tie pins people keep giving me.” John smiled. “I selected a variety of textures in every colour I thought might suit you.”
“I chose the softest,” John said. “I thought you would like that.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John looked away. “You always surprise me, John.”
“So everything I was shown, you had pre-selected,” John said, fastening the buttons of the shirt.
Sherlock smiled, his fingers trailing down John’s lapel. “Mr Hastings is an artist,” Sherlock added and took a step to the side, so John could see himself in the mirror over the mantel.
John looked in the glass, rolled his shoulders. “He is,” John agreed and turned to check the side view. “Only my dress uniform ever fit like this.” Sherlock stood behind John, both hands smoothing over the cashmere now. “I might almost enjoy attending one of Mycroft’s functions wearing this,” John said.
“You would receive admiring glances,” Sherlock said.
“People might notice we have the same tailor,” John grinned and met Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror.
“They might at that,” Sherlock replied and his hands went down both sleeves. “What do you think they might make of it?”
“Likely nothing more than what they have been saying about us for some time,” John replied.
“And you wouldn’t mind?” Sherlock asked.
“No,” John said, holding Sherlock’s gaze in the glass. “I wouldn’t mind.”
After a moment, Sherlock turned to pick up his violin and bow. “Shall I play while you try everything on?”
“Don’t you want to see what’s in the other box?” John asked, stepping to the side of the table.
Sherlock drew a sweet sound from the strings as he moved towards the window. “A brown suit. Am I right?” The first bars of Paganini’s Caprice No. 24 filled the flat.
“Why don’t you check?” John asked. “It might not be for me.”
The music stopped instantly. Sherlock strode to the table, set his violin on top of the rest of John’s clothes, and lifted the second box. “It’s heavier than a suit,” Sherlock said. He tilted the box. “Little room inside for the contents to shift. A voluminous garment. The package of cloth under your bed has been gone for eight days. Might we deduce something from that?” Sherlock put the box down and regarded John steadily.
John raised his eyebrows, expression otherwise neutral. “Might we?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and lifted the cover. John let himself smile a bit. Sherlock’s gaze shifted to the open box. A dark blue-green colour glowed through the white tissue. “Aha,” Sherlock said and slipped a hand beneath the folded paper. He closed his eyes; his fingers moving over the cloth. The tissue rustled as he rubbed the fabric between his thumb and index finger.
John waited. He had thought Sherlock would rip the tissue away and pull out the garment. John’s eyes flickered between the slow movement of Sherlock’s arm and his face.
“There are two types of cloth,” Sherlock said. “Both silk. One smooth, light, the other heavy brocade.” John thought about Sherlock’s fingers ghosting over his skin in the dark, gathering knowledge as they went. Sherlock’s elbow angled. He delved deeper into the folds of the cloth. “The habotai lines the garment.” Sherlock’s forearm shifted. “There are pockets inside.” The corners of Sherlock’s lips curved upwards. “One, two. Ah, a third. Four.” Sherlock’s eyes opened and he pulled the tissue paper away. “Oh!” he exclaimed as the jewel-toned collar of the garment came into view, the end of one sleeve folded below it. “Oh,” Sherlock repeated and bent closer, a fingertip tracing the pattern of feathers visible on the brocade sleeve above the filigree border of the cuff. “I hadn’t pictured this.”
“Will you put it on?” John asked softly.
Sherlock nodded, his fingers dipping under the cuff. He smiled. “There’s another pocket here,” he said.
“You like pockets,” John said quietly.
Sherlock nodded again, slipped off his maroon dressing gown and tossed it towards the sofa. His hands returned to the box, pushed between the garment and the side until he found the other cuff. “A pocket here, too,” he observed.
“Yes,” John whispered.
“I could keep many things in it,” Sherlock said and pulled his vest over his head, flung it after the dressing gown. It landed on the coffee table.
“Many things,” John echoed, his eyes riveted on the play of muscles beneath the skin of Sherlock’s back.
Sherlock scooped the garment from the box, held it up over one arm, moving it so the light accentuated the outline of a curved claw amidst feathers. “Peacocks are rarely depicted fighting,” he commented, “defending their territory.”
“Artists are distracted by their beauty,” John said, his gaze on the curve of Sherlock’s neck as he studied the cloth. “Predators by their all-seeing eyes.”
Sherlock exploded into motion, one hand shoving his pyjama bottoms over his hips, the other holding the robe higher, then both hands seized the garment, swirled it over his shoulders. The weighted hem cleared the newspapers and the vest off the coffee table. One pale arm disappeared into a sleeve and then the other.
“It will be warm in winter,” Sherlock observed. He held out one side of the dressing gown and then the other, his head tilted, examining details. “Would you like to tie it, John?” he asked, looking up, one end of the sash in his hand.
John stood immobile, his eyes relaying too many impressions, his mind whirling through too many options. Sherlock lifted his other arm. His chest rose and fell as though he had run to that spot in the middle of their sitting room, plumes of silk settling about him.
Peacock feathers of light rippled through the icy dark, excited ions on a solar wind.
“John,” Sherlock repeated, voice low.
Magnetism.
John responded, catching the end of the sash, drawing one side of the dressing gown diagonally across Sherlock’s chest. John’s fingers ran along the divide between dark silk and pale skin to Sherlock’s side, over his hip. Sherlock drew in a deep breath and John’s fingers dug into the swell of a buttock. Sherlock exhaled and John let the sash sag, pressed his lips to pink skin, eyes closed, tongue tasting. Sherlock’s arms fell to his sides and John rested his cheek against Sherlock’s chest, one arm behind Sherlock’s back stroking the silk, his other hand languidly exploring the crest of Sherlock’s hip as he listened to Sherlock’s heart pound.
“John,” Sherlock whispered and his arm brought one side of the robe around John’s back.
As though his tendons had been cut, John slid to his knees, one arm grasping Sherlock’s legs over the robe, the other sliding between his thighs beneath it. John pressed his face against the half-covered leg, breathing hard. “All I could imagine anymore was the casual friction of surfaces,” John murmured against the skin and Sherlock’s fingertips stilled in John’s hair. Sherlock bent his head, watching. John looked up into dark forests, deep seas, moonless nights. “Do you understand?” he asked and lifted the silk, drew Sherlock into his mouth as though famished, suckled as though parched.
Sherlock gripped the edge of the table, eyes widening, body curling over John. The folds of the dressing gown shifted and John moved like a current beneath the waves of it, a wind through the branches of it. The onslaught was intense, the ending rapid. Sherlock gasped for breath, dropped to his knees when John released him, reached out for John’s face, touched a thumb to one corner of his lips. John’s eyes remained closed, but his head tipped up as Sherlock held it, lips parted, desire still contorting his features.
“I simply refused to imagine,” Sherlock said, folding his arms around John, pulling him so close the buttons of John’s shirt dug crescents into their skin. “Before you, I thought to dwell alone in my mind palace.”
***
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up when his laptop chimed. He opened the personnel files of the English Trust, began running the set of searches he had already run on present and former staff at the British Library and the British Museum. Sherlock leaned a bit to the left and clicked between a few screens on John’s computer, the Corinium, the Fitzwilliam, the University of Cambridge.
Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table as the computers hummed. On the sofa, John murmured. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, watched John roll onto his side, cuddle his crumpled jumper against his chest. The maroon dressing gown slipped lower on John's hips, showing a sliver of belly. Sleepy fingers fumbled for it, pulled it higher. John sighed and lay still.
Sherlock turned back to the monitors, fingers drumming faster. The searches were taking too long. He jabbed another set of symbols into his computer, the screen flashed and he entered a longer string. He smiled and re-set the searches.
Next to his laptop, Sherlock’s mobile pinged. He ignored it, eyes flickering between the two computers. The phone pinged again. Sherlock checked the time, exhaled, rapped at the small screen and picked up the device.
What are you doing? M
Mainframe use just to prove you were right all those years ago? M
Did you block those investigations? SH
No. M
The lives of British citizens are endangered, Mycroft, the sort that speak Ancient Greek fluently. SH
Two minutes. M
Sherlock glanced at both laptops.
Done. SH
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, texted Lestrade the results. He pushed the send button, opened a new tab on John's computer and started reading Robert Fenwood’s most recent article, Ostraca: Display and Preservation.
***
Sherlock’s phone vibrated on the table. John yawned on the sofa. Sherlock closed his hand over the mobile and turned sideways in his chair. John stretched, sat up and stretched again. Sherlock opened the message from Lestrade.
Checked all four. No police records. No fingerprints on file. DVLA next.
“How long have I been asleep?” John asked, standing and pulling his vest down over his stomach. He stared at his unbuttoned shirt, left it open, reached back for Sherlock’s third-best dressing gown.
“Seventy-two minutes,” Sherlock replied, thumbs flying even as he glanced back up at John. The corner of Sherlock’s lips quirked again. His gaze dropped to John’s bare thighs, lingered on the sock still on John’s left foot.
“Solve it while I was unconscious?” John asked.
“No,” Sherlock frowned, eyes back on his mobile. “Made progress, but Lestrade’s not finding anything on the names I gave him.” Sherlock sent the message.
Can Jean-Pierre access arrivals to Iceland by sea or air, including lay-overs, throughout our timeframe. SH
John wandered to the kitchen, fiddling with the robe’s sash. “I don’t think we have much left to eat,” he said, switching on the kettle and opening the refrigerator.
Sherlock slipped his phone into one of his inside pockets and followed John into the kitchen.
“Who did you buy it for?” Sherlock asked from where he had stopped a few centimetres behind John.
John dropped the box of tea he had taken out of the cupboard. “God, you can be quiet when you want to be,” John said, opening the box.
“I do not like this person,” Sherlock stated.
“It’s for you,” John replied, dropping a tea bag into a cup and turning to face Sherlock.
The reply met with a furrowed brow. Impatiently, Sherlock whirled away, the skirt of the robe flaring dervish-like, rustling past the legs of the kitchen table and chairs. “Yes, obviously you had it made for me, but this isn’t Hastings’ style. Where did you get the design?” Sherlock held up a finger. “No, don’t tell me that. Tell me for whom you bought the cloth.” Sherlock stilled to wait for an answer and the silk settled about him.
“You,” John repeated, his gaze fixed on Sherlock’s eyes, the absence of their usual pale lustre.
John took a step closer to Sherlock. “Since you must know, I fell, like a tourist, for the patter of a silk merchant,” John said. “He told me the cloth was for someone rare.” One of Sherlock’s eyebrows flicked upwards. “I told him I had no one, rare or otherwise, and he said that I would and that their eyes would match the cloth.” John tilted his head from side to side, but the illusion persisted. “And they do, you know. Look in the mirror,” John said.
Sherlock strode to the mantelpiece, the garment flowing behind him. He belted the dressing gown, raised his chin, lowered it, angled his head to the left and the right. The afternoon light continued to play the trick between the peacock tones of the fabric and the colour of his eyes. Sherlock stood up straighter, smoothed his hands over the brocaded silk. “Spoils of war?” he asked.
John chuckled as he walked into the sitting room. “You mean how could I have afforded it?”
Sherlock observed John’s face in the mirror, saw his hand appear at the shoulder, felt it stroke along the sleeve. John stopped halfway, his fingers circling in the crook of Sherlock’s elbow.
“He saw how I touched it. I didn’t intend to. That’s the end of bargaining if you do that. But when he opened the dark cotton the silk was wrapped in, my hand just went out, started tracing the feathers and then he turned the bolt a couple times and I saw the face of the peacock, its open beak and its splayed talons and my fingers wouldn’t leave them.” John paused. “I told him I couldn’t afford it. He asked me to empty my pockets and I did. He counted everything, different currencies, coins and all, looked me in the eye and said that was the price, exactly.”
Sherlock was quiet, his eyes holding John’s in the glass. “But you didn’t think of giving it to me until you found me examining the package under your bed.”
“You mean petting the cloth underneath the bed,” John amended with a small smile. “You might recall that something else occurred not very long before I found you under there.”
“Ah,” Sherlock said and turned his head to look down at John.
“Yeah, ‘ah’, Sherlock,” John said and really smiled.
****
Lestrade pounded up the stairs. “Sherlock, we’ve arrested him,” Lestrade announced as he pushed the door open. “Oh, excuse me,” he said when he saw the robed figure bending over the couch. “I didn’t realise Sherlock and John had a guest.”
Sherlock stood and faced Lestrade with his violin and bow in hand. “Good morning, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “I was about to play a pavane I composed for John. Would you care to listen?” Sherlock plucked a note and tightened a string. “Did Mr Fenwood go peaceably?” Sherlock asked as he adjusted another string.
Lestrade was staring, his mouth slightly open. “Christ, Sherlock, you look like an emperor. Where did that come from?” he asked, making an elongated ess in the air with his hand.
Sherlock played another note and smiled. “It’s a present from John,” he replied.
“’Morning, Greg. Did I hear you got your man? It was Fenwood, right?” John asked, ambling into the room and rubbing the back of his head. He had on Sherlock’s maroon robe and possibly nothing else from what Greg could see. Between the words, the kettle clicking off sounded loud. “Want some tea?”
Greg’s mouth had not managed to close as he turned from John, to Sherlock and back to John again. “Ah, tea would be nice, thanks. It was Fenwood. Search of his flat turned up the broken dagger. Turns out it had gone missing from the Wallace Collection a year ago. Fenwood had been managing the property in Camden for two years before he transferred to the British Museum last month. In the past twenty years, he’s worked at the Corinium in Cirencester, the Fitzwilliams in Cambridge and, seven years ago, he flew to a conference in Russia from New York via Reykjavik, overnight stopover extended an extra day due to bad weather in St Petersburg.”
“I wonder if he was counting on that or just seized the opportunity?” Sherlock mused. He played another note and paused. “How long was Fenwood in New York?” Sherlock asked.
“Nine years,” Lestrade said.
“Their cold cases should be checked,” Sherlock said.
“Right,” Lestrade replied, pulling out a notepad. “One, two and three?”
“One, easy to mistake for a mere gash,” Sherlock said, with a nod. “The conservation of Greek antiquities was not the only area where he held strong opinions and apparently even stronger grudges.”
Lestrade put his notebook away. “Yeah, he waited years after he left a place to commit the murders. Except for the last one.”
Sherlock plucked a string. “Yes, the mistake. Time was of the essence with Zeta. He was being promoted and would have been able to implement his views about the proper care of the ostraca immediately. You should read Mr Fenwood’s articles. He was convinced the new method of cleaning would reduce the ostraca to dust within a decade.”
“Bits of broken pots,” Lestrade said, shaking his head.
“To Mr Fenwood they were historical evidence that had endured for millennia. The idea that they would be destroyed by an ill-advised chemical innovation incensed him.”
“You sound sympathetic, Sherlock.”
“Not with his course of action, but his chemical analysis of the new cleansing agent was accurate,” Sherlock said.
“You tested it? Not on one of those historical bits, I hope.”
“A broken flower pot from Mrs Hudson’s bin was sufficient to prove the theory,” Sherlock explained.
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. “Wouldn’t that have been enough evidence to convince his colleagues?”
“The product was made by a highly-reputable chemical company,” Sherlock said. “It would have taken years to prove that their product testing had been faked. Mr Fenwood couldn’t accept the losses that would have occurred in the meantime.”
“Well, I still think he could have gone to someone above Zeta, rather than killing the poor sod,” Lestrade sighed. “What was he again?"
“Their new regional head of conservation,” John said, walking in from the kitchen, a mug in each hand. “That’s why he’d been invited to the party at the estate.” He handed Greg one of the mugs. “It’s hot,” John cautioned.
Sherlock tilted his head and played a couple bars, stopped and tuned one more string.
“Thanks,” Greg said. “It’s no way to prove a point and I suppose his precious pots are going to be destroyed now anyway.”
John cleared his throat. “Somehow, Sherlock’s lab results got circulated, so the cleanser’s being withdrawn from the market. There’ll be a product recall announcement later today,” John said, taking a small sip of his tea, his eyes turning to Sherlock. “Sherlock, you want yours now or later?”
Sherlock smiled at John over the violin. “Later,” he said and John looked down into his mug.
Lestrade’s eyes switched back and forth between the two. He took a drink of tea, winced at the temperature. “Yeah, well, I was in the neighbourhood and thought you’d like to know.” Sherlock considered Lestrade over the instrument for a moment, one corner of his mouth turned up and his eyes half-closed. He plucked another string. Lestrade set his mug down and turned toward the door. “I’ll let you know if I hear of anything from New York.”
“Thanks, Greg,” John said and accompanied Lestrade to the hall.
On the landing, Greg leaned his head down and whispered, “Where did you find that? And what bank did you rob?”
John chuckled. “You mean the dressing gown? Had it made. The cloth, I got in Afghanistan.”
Lestrade glanced back through the doorway at Sherlock. He was playing, half turned towards the window, his body swaying to the music, the sunlight playing along the silk as it swayed with him.
“I’ll text first,” Greg said to John.
“Good idea,” John replied, his smile broadening as he closed the door.
~~~~~~~~~~~
If you began reading with Zygomata, you have reached the end of the Experiments series. Thank you very much for reading through to the conclusion.
If you would like to explore the AU frame for the Experiments series, the Other Experiments series begins with Sometimes.
Finally, if you started off with Sometimes, the next part of Other Experiments may be found here.
Author:
saki101Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: Mature
Word Count: ~10K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: Sherlock is on a case involving an international serial killer while also trying to solve the mystery of the package under John's bed.
A/N: Written for Holmestice 2012 for
corpsereviver2. Also posted on A03. Can be read as a stand-alone or slotted into the Experiments Series after Locked Rooms (Part II). The edges of stone grey buildings blurred into the paler grey of cobbles and clouds in the watery light. A lone vehicle slowed to a stop on Wigmore Street. Coat collar up, a grey woollen-clad shape descended from the taxi, glided past the shuttered shops leading to St Christopher’s Place. A gruff voice echoed from the tiny square ahead, ordering the water in the fountain to be turned off. Other voices answered. Sherlock halted next to Lestrade, considered the sodden form on the granite, the sprawled legs, the awkward angle of the torso, the neck curled towards the concrete seat behind which it lay.
“We’re checking camera footage on Oxford, James and Wigmore Streets,” Lestrade said. “And in here, of course.”
“Time of death?” Sherlock asked, turning full circle to scan the security camera positions in the plaza.
“Don’t have a medical opinion yet. Restaurant workers found him twenty minutes ago. I thought you’d have John with you.”
“Night shift, A&E. You called me before you left the Yard. Why?” Sherlock asked, shoving his leather gloves into his pocket and snapping on a nitrile pair.
“Sous-chef sent us photos of the victim,” Lestrade replied.
Sherlock leaned over the body, crouched between the legs. “I see,” Sherlock said, letting out a long breath. “Zeta.”
“No ID on the body.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “Report came in from Cirencester last night. Corpse discovered during some excavations near the Roman villa out that way. Dead ten, twelve years. We’re waiting for ID from dental records on that one. A triangle still visible, scratched into the back of the skull.”
“Delta. Part of the original set, then,” Sherlock said, shifting to stare under the seat at the victim’s chest. He pulled a small torch from his pocket, aimed the beam into the deeper shadow. “You should have called me last night. You know what I think about those deaths.” Sherlock stretched out his arm to touch the victim’s coat, considered the fingers of his glove when he drew it back.
Lestrade nodded. “Yup, and you’re probably right.”
Sherlock huffed as he swivelled to examine the edges of the fountain spout. “Now we have a continuation. Why now? And where’s Epsilon” He took out his magnifier. “The metal is scored here…by a blade. Might have broken.” He peered into the grooves in the granite leading to the drain. “Ah.” Sherlock pulled a small case from an inside pocket, extracted a long pair of tweezers from it and reached for the metal fragment with them. “What checks are you running?”
“People released from prisons, long term hospitalisation, returning from abroad after many years.” Pipes gurgled. Lestrade stepped back as icy water splashed over his shoes. “Who turned the fountain on?” Lestrade shouted as water sluiced over Sherlock’s shoulders.
Various recriminations were heard from around the corner; the water stopped again. “Someone should take a photo of this before it goes down the drain with the next bout of idiocy,” Sherlock said, holding the knife tip in place with one hand and fishing out his phone with the other. The flash lit up the wet stone. “I’ll send you a copy,” Sherlock added, standing and holding the fragment up to the sky. Water streamed from his soaked hair. He took another photo. “There’s part of a maker’s mark or a design on this…unusual for it to be so far down the blade.” A young sergeant ran over with a bag, held it open towards Lestrade. Sherlock dropped the fragment into it. “Where are your usual familiars?” Sherlock asked, leaning over the fountain spout.
“Anderson and Donovan are on holiday,” Lestrade answered. Sherlock looked over his shoulder with one eyebrow up. “What? They happened to request leave at the same time.” Lestrade shrugged, spreading his hands, palms up.
“No explanations necessary,” Sherlock replied and took another photo. “Look.” He gestured for Lestrade to come closer. “Holographic glitter sticking to the cement.” He flashed the camera on his phone again. “There are traces of it visible on the body, on the hands, the cheeks, the lashes, in the hair. Make sure they don’t miss it in the post-mortem.” Sherlock straightened up. “Get an analysis of the mud on his shoes and the mud stain on his chest. The pattern of that will be helpful. Call when the body’s at the morgue. Will it be at Bart’s?” Lestrade nodded. “Good. Send the other file,” Sherlock added, turning away. “And photos of any further evidence here that hasn’t been washed away.”
“Wait. Aren’t you going to give me more than that?” Lestrade asked.
Sherlock gave Lestrade a tight smile. “After a hot shower, perhaps.”
***
“Sherlock, you’re dripping!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed when Sherlock walked in the door. She peered past him at the sky. “It’s not even raining.”
“The police will be around in a little while, Mrs Hudson. I’m going to leave a mobile in a plastic bag on the mantel here,” he said, patting the white wood. “Would you be so good as to deliver it to them? Hopefully, whoever comes will have an envelope for me. Kindly accept it on my behalf. I will be indisposed.”
“I was just going next door, but I’ll keep an eye out for them,” Mrs Hudson answered. “And you will be indisposed if you don’t get those wet things off, Sherlock.”
“Excellent advice, Mrs Hudson. That’s exactly what I shall do as soon as I examine the aforementioned phone,” Sherlock replied, rubbing his hair with the ends of his scarf as he mounted the stairs.
***
You didn’t just send me a photo from the victim’s phone, did you?
It’s charged now. The photo shows the murder site. SH
It’s mostly shadows except for the corner with the streetlamp shining through some fancy grillwork.
The ironwork is antique, distinctive. John can research the design at the V&A. The location can be narrowed down to a few places between that and the mud. SH
So the body was moved? Wasn’t the phone locked?
Yes, the body was moved. Don’t forget the report from Cirencester when you have the phone collected. It’ll be in an evidence bag. The phone was locked. SH
There's a photo of an office party, too. A masque. Check the attendees. Mrs H will give the mobile to your messenger. I will be indisposed. SH
****
John took in a lungful of misty air, turned his collar up against the breeze. Little moved with it, the trees bare, the night’s litter pasted to the wet pavement. A taxi passed, a plume of grey water hitting the footpath in its wake. John sidestepped most of it. The mist condensed into a light rain. John turned his face up into it as he passed the tube station. He didn’t want to go underground.
The aroma of fresh pastry scented the air around 221B. John dropped his keys back in his pocket and ducked into Speedy’s.
“Good morning, John,” Mrs Hudson said, taking a step away from the counter she had been leaning across. “Sherlock’s back and the police have been and gone.”
John smiled. Mrs Hudson flushed slightly.
“You look well and the house appears to be in one piece, so nothing too alarming, I hope,” John replied, turning to the display of confections. “Those almond croissants smell wonderful, Mr Chatterjee. I’ll take four. Would you like one, Mrs Hudson?”
Her right hand plucked at her hair. “No. No, thank you, John. I’m baking this morning myself. I’ll bring some up later.”
John passed a five-pound note to Mr Chatterjee. “Anything particular I should know before I open the front door?” John asked. He reached for the white bag Mr Chatterjee held out and said, “Thank you.”
“No. Just an envelope in the hallway that the police left for Sherlock. He was in the shower when they came. Good thing, too. His hair was dripping when he got back,” Mrs Hudson said, looking John over. “You’re rather wet yourself.”
“Yes, well,” John gestured towards the windows.
“It wasn’t raining when Sherlock got back though,” she added.
***
John wiped his feet, shut the door and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Envelope under one arm, he opened Sherlock’s text message on his way up the stairs.
Identify designer of ironwork. V&A best place to start. Find addresses of buildings with intact examples of his work in or near London. SH
John glanced into the quiet sitting room, dropped the bag of pastries onto the counter in the empty kitchen and clicked on the attachment as he headed up the stairs to his room. He paused halfway to consider the photo, shook his head, and opened the next message.
Delta discovered yesterday. John frowned. Zeta attack didn’t occur where the body was found. Zone 1-3 travelcard, so no more than an hour away from St Christopher’s Place. SH
From the landing, John saw Sherlock’s bare feet protruding from under his bed. John walked into the room and tossed the envelope onto the dresser.
“Where did you move your rugby ball?”
“Bottom of the wardrobe,” John replied, stepping out of his shoes and kneeling to peer under the bed. “Good thing I hoover under here,” he added, squinting into the dimness. Dry paper crinkled. John could see Sherlock’s head resting on the package that was almost as long as the bed. Sherlock’s fingers glided across the paper as though reading secrets in Braille. His index finger disappeared beneath a fold in the wrapping, stroking slowly. “Did you have it at Harry’s?” Sherlock asked.
“Yeah,” John said, trying to make out Sherlock’s expression. “She needed the cupboard space.” There was a small tearing sound as Sherlock’s finger moved a little further beneath the paper. John’s gaze flicked to Sherlock’s hand, followed the rhythm of his wrist as it moved to and fro.
“Was there someone you expected to be waiting for you when you returned, John? Someone who disappointed you?” Sherlock asked.
“No,” John said. “I knew no one was waiting.” He stood up, grabbed his dressing gown and headed for the shower.
***
Sherlock and the envelope were gone when John returned from the bath. The package was halfway out from under the bed, but other than the tiniest gleam of blue-green showing where the paper had torn, the wrapping was intact. John looked at the red curlicues stamped at regular intervals across the paper and the block letters in black ink spelling, Captain John Watson. He pulled the parcel the rest of the way out and leaned it up against the bed before he got dressed.
***
John switched on the kettle, got out a carton of eggs. Sherlock was still buttoning his cuffs as he walked into the kitchen.
“Tea?” John asked.
“Afghanistan isn’t known for that kind of cloth,” Sherlock stated.
“No,” John replied, as he held an egg up to the light. “But it’s on the Silk Road.”
“I haven’t done anything to the eggs,” Sherlock said. “Someone there, then,” Sherlock suggested. “Serving with you.”
John lowered the egg. The sun hot on the back of his hand, squinting from beneath it to survey the make-shift souk at the edge of the base, brilliant with silks, alive with a Babel hum.
He skirted the crowd, stood at the end of the last table. Down the length of uneven boards, soldiers leaned forward, their faces outlined in golden light, some eyes opaque with visions of happy homecomings, others glinting as they glanced from side to side, eager to demonstrate that they possessed more for which to be thankful than their comrades. John wondered why he had come with them.
“Something different for you, sir,” the voice behind him said. “A deeper shade.”
Sherlock stopped speaking and moving, as though stillness might allow him to follow John into his memories. Sherlock’s mobile beeped.
John’s eyes flickered from the refrigerator to the table to Sherlock. Sherlock grimaced and pulled out his phone. “It’s Lestrade,” he muttered, looking down. “The body’s at Bart’s.” A few steps took him to the sitting room. “There should be time for you to locate the likely murder sites before I get back.” He grabbed his coat, swirled it about him as he walked out the door.
John didn’t reply. He stared at the empty doorway as if studying an afterimage that lingered there.
***
The battlefield of London was particularly obvious on the stretch of road leading to the trio of museums, mementos of the Blitz slashed into the stone on either side of the broad street. John ran his fingers over the gouges by the Exhibition Road entrance to the V&A, the gesture habitual, the feeling of gratitude always fresh. He smiled at The Sluggard as he passed to mount the stairs at the other end of the sculpture gallery. They were all survivors there.
The entrance to the Art Library was just coming into view when John realised where he had seen the forgework pattern before. The glossy English Trust book presented to Sherlock for solving the Apsley House case was under a stack of medical journals near John’s chair in their sitting room. John could picture the photograph spread over the two title pages of an article about the restoration work at a property north of the heath. He got out his phone as he turned towards the corridor festooned with metalwork, stopping in front of a filigree gate with an intricate lock, its ornate key hung on the wall beside it. John held his phone up next to the ironwork and nodded. The article had had an insert about the forgemaster. John was sure the locations of other examples of the smith’s work had been listed there. “I’ll have an answer for you before you get back to Baker Street, Sherlock,” John murmured, already walking towards the nearest staircase.
Cutting through the costume exhibit was usually a faster way to the side exit than weaving through the gift shop, but a group of students swarmed in from the gallery and surrounded John before he could retreat. The children gathered near a portly woman standing in front of the display on the wall opposite to where John stood. Softly, she began speaking and the students quieted to hear her. John’s back was pressed against a glass case featuring an array of military uniforms with no way to get through the crowd without disrupting the spell the speaker seemed to have cast over her young audience. John resigned himself to listening to a presentation about costumes he could barely see. The guide was pointing out details, similarities and differences, challenging the children’s assumptions about the functions of certain features and mingling a bit of history and geography in with facts about the origins of some of the materials or the designs. One manikin wore a type of Victorian hunting cap the children found amusing. The guide allowed a few giggles before she resumed speaking, continuing to pepper her talk with questions and using the answers to lead into the next part of her lecture. John thought it a clever presentation. Finally, the guide led the group to a display case further along the wall.
Indulging his curiosity, John walked across the aisle for a quick look at the subjects of the lecture. Beside the hunter in his caped coat, two manikins in evening wear lounged against a mantelpiece set with porcelain and crested invitations. A seated figure stretched his long legs towards a fake fire wearing embroidered slippers with curled toes, the rest of his body swathed in the full folds of a purple silk dressing gown. The top of the garment was obscured by the newspaper spread between the manikin’s hands. John angled his head to read the date: 20 March 1895. John snorted, only the year was different. He took a step towards the exit and stopped. Glancing quickly about him, he moved back to the glass, took out his phone and aimed at the display.
***
There were no signs of Sherlock having returned when John reached Baker Street. He slid the English Trust book out from under a pile of journals and folded newspapers and found the list of properties boasting William Edney ironwork while still on his knees. “There, there…and there,” John muttered, running a finger down the list. He flipped back to the beginning of the article. “That’s it. Different angle, sunny sky…” John pulled out his phone, compared the images and nodded to himself. He rose, open book in hand and fished a pencil and a small pad of fluorescent green notepaper bearing the logo of a prominent pharmaceutical company from beneath the debris scattered over the table. He hummed as he lay the book down and inscribed the top leaf of the pad with a large number three and an arrow. Beneath that, he printed, See pp 95-96.
John slapped the note onto the book, next to the list, and was outside, bundling a large package into the back of a taxi moments later. The cabbie took the next turn and headed towards Savile Row.
John smiled. His first visit to the premises of Hastings & Sons had been under duress. Sherlock had declared that if John wanted him to endure an awards ceremony that required a bow tie, John had to permit himself to be fitted for a dinner jacket. It had been a significant mutual sacrifice.
The English Trust had been very grateful to Sherlock for catching a certain arsonist in time to save a national treasure from flames. Sherlock had reasoned that if the English Trust were so very grateful, they shouldn’t be punishing him for doing it. When John had insisted that it was only proper for Sherlock to accept their accolades in person, Sherlock proclaimed that it was up to John to meet the condition or not. John had pointed out that he owned a perfectly serviceable black suit and if that wouldn’t do, he could hire a dinner jacket. John couldn’t quite classify the sound Sherlock had made after that, but it had been closest to a growl. John laughed quietly in the back of the taxi. He was going to rub in the fact that if they hadn’t attended that dinner, they wouldn’t own the illustrated book of English Trust properties that was probably going to solve the case on now. Sherlock was likely to growl about that, too, or point out that they could simply have posted it to him with a polite note. John thought he might not mention the awards dinner after all.
***
“Dr Watson,” Mr Hastings said as he emerged from the rear of the sedately furnished, and fortunately nearly empty, showroom of Hastings & Sons. John rose from his seat. “How pleasant to see you again,” the elderly tailor said, looking John up and down and clearly adjusting measurements he seemed to have stored in his head. “Will we be implementing Mr Holmes’ plan?”
“In a manner of speaking,” John replied and tugged the parcel round from where he had leaned it against the other side of the wing-backed chair.
The tailor stepped closer, his eyes honing in on the small tear in the brown paper and the fleck of colour it revealed. “What have we here?” he said and held out his arms.
As the soldiers approached, the merchants lifted their arms and cascades of cloth shimmered.
John blinked, felt the weight being lifted from his arms. “No let me,” he said. “Where would you like to open it?”
Mr Hastings gestured towards a walnut table, signalling to an assistant to remove the colour wheel of silk cravats arranged there. John set the package on the polished wood and allowed Mr Hastings to brush his hands away. John watched him carefully fold back the brown paper protecting the contents of the parcel.
“This is old, you know,” Mr Hastings’ quiet voice explained. “See how this part has been discoloured by the light.” He held up an end of the cloth. John focussed on the mass of fabric on the table that the tailor had unwound from one bolt. “The green dye of the warp has faded nearly to yellow and the blue threads in the weft are greener here. It’s a pity. Although the change in colouring hardly diminishes its beauty,” he continued, running his fingers lightly over the design in the brocade. “Still there is more than enough undamaged. What type of garment did you have in mind? Something for yourself?” Mr Hastings’ glance swept from John to the table and back, dividing this time.
“I have a photo,” John began, taking out his phone and handing it to the tailor. “I don’t know if you can work from that. It was dark in the museum.”
Mr Hastings considered the photo. “Oh, yes,” he said, a hint of enthusiasm enlivening his voice, “I help Thomas occasionally. I loaned him a couple pieces for that exhibit. We have a historic collection of our own here.” Mr Hastings’ voice dropped. “A number of lovely things have gone unclaimed over the years.” He looked up at John with brighter eyes. “He’ll let me take measurements after hours.” The tailor turned back to the fabric. “The pattern on the cloth, however, was designed for a taller person. We’ll have to decide where to trim it for you.”
“It’s not for me,” John said quickly. “I’d like to have it made for Sh-Mr Holmes.”
“Ah,” Mr Hastings replied, handing John back his mobile and opening the end of the folded cloth fully. It hung down over the edges of the table. “It is perfect for someone of his height.” He smoothed the material and narrowed his eyes in mental calculation. “And the hue will suit his colouring,” he added.
“Something different for you, sir,” a voice behind John said. “A deeper shade.” John knew the ways of the bazaar, the dance of deception that was bargaining, yet he turned to see what the man thought would tempt him. He was gone when John looked. Plastic bags rustled, something bumped against the table leg. “Here.” The word came from beneath the table, definitive and satisfied. “Here,” the man said again as he stood, placing a large bundle atop the reds and pinks and golds blooming there. “See,” he said, his kohl-rimmed eyes falling to the plain, dark cloth his hands had pulled open. “For someone rare.”
“I have no one,” John said, in an attempt to fend off the usual speech about weddings and plump and plentiful children.
“But you will,” the merchant asserted, dragging the rest of the cotton wrapper away from the silk. The oblique rays of the sun revealed the pattern of the brocade. “And the cloth will match their eyes.”
***
The irritating shade of green caught Sherlock’s eye the instant he walked into the sitting room. He stopped unbuttoning his coat, walked to the table and scanned the list, three addresses in London: Greenwich, Richmond-upon-Thames and Camden. “Well done, John,” Sherlock said and bounded up the stairs.
Shoes flew out of the wardrobe until Sherlock had his hands around the rugby ball. He glanced at John’s bed as he turned to leave, bent to look underneath. “Where have you taken it?” he murmured, before running back to the sitting room and smearing soot from the hearth over half of the ball. He strode to the kitchen, considered his angle, and threw the ball at the refrigerator. Sherlock leaned towards the stainless steel and smiled. “Let’s see which location has a rugby pitch nearby.”
Sherlock wiped his hands on a tea towel, dropped his coat over a chair and settled in front of John’s computer to search. He scowled. “Why have you changed your password since this morning? And to something that takes more than thirty seconds to guess.” Sherlock gave the computer a quizzical look and reached over to pick his laptop off his chair. His gaze passed over the note again. “What’s on pages 95 to 96?” Sherlock flipped the pages and jumped out of his seat. “John, you are a marvel. Where are you?” he cried, spinning around, mobile in hand. Seconds later Lestrade had the address.
Sherlock’s phone pinged. Want a ride?
I’ll meet you there. SH
***
The beep John’s mobile made sounded rude in the quiet of the fitting room. “Excuse me,” he said and pulled the phone out of his pocket.
You found it. Meet me at the address in Camden at once. SH
John's face lit up. “I’m sorry. I have to leave,” John said, looking over his shoulder at Mr Hastings.
Mr Hastings began looping the tape measure around his fingers. “I’ve finished checking my measurements. How soon would you like this?”
John’s mind was already calculating how long it would take him to find a taxi. “This could wait,” John said. “But something like the…the other…would take a while, I imagine.” He took a step towards the door.
“You know the agreement, Dr Watson. I can’t do the other until I’ve finished at least one suit for you.”
John nodded. “Well, both will surely take a long time.” He took a step closer to the exit.
“We could make them a priority, of course, if there were an occasion…”
John felt his face grow warmer. “No occasion,” he said. “Whenever you can fit them in.”
John’s hand closed around the door handle. He glanced back.
Mr Hastings was considering him. “It wouldn't be any trouble,” he assured John. “I've known Mr Holmes since he was in shorts." Mr Hastings paused, his voice becoming softer. "And in our time of need, he came to our aid.”
John held the old man's eyes and nodded to another member of the network of people Sherlock had helped. “Thank you,” John said and was out the door.
****
John walked down the long drive towards the police cars parked on the grass. Two officers were cordoning off an area near the rear of the building, a Victorian Gothic fantasy in grey stone built around something smaller and older. John spotted the grillwork just as the officers spotted him. “Dr Watson,” the man called. “DI Lestrade and Mr Holmes are inside. I can show you in, sir.”
John stopped. It was a startling improvement from, ‘Are you still following the freak around?’ “Are you new, Sergeant…?” John asked.
“Rafferty, sir,” the young officer replied. “On temporary transfer from Cirencester since yesterday. And to work with you and Mr Holmes already…” Rafferty’s eyes crinkled with his smile. “I follow your blog faithfully, sir, and I hoped I might have a chance…legendary, sir. That’s what you and Mr Holmes are.”
“Have you actually spoken to Sherlock?” John asked, doing a quick survey of the part of the gardens he could see, wondering whether Moriarty might jump from behind a shrubbery at any moment and squeal, “Surprise!” He saw the streetlamp then, through the bare trees beyond the hedges. Sherlock would have seen it, too.
“No, no, Mr Holmes needed to gather his impressions of the crime scenes first, sir,” Rafferty explained reverently. He lowered his voice slightly. “I heard him tell DI Lestrade that your research located this site, sir.”
John was beginning to feel like he was back in the military. He noticed he was standing straighter when a small cough emanated from behind Rafferty. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, this is Sergeant Mehta. She came down from Cambridge this morning.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant,” John said and considered the fact that Beta's and Gamma’s bodies had been found in Cambridgeshire. Sherlock had talked a lot about this cold case. It was one thing to be ignored at twelve, quite another as a postgraduate student. It rankled. John was surprised that Moriarty hadn’t latched onto the connection. John looked at Rafferty’s and Mehta’s faces. They would have been schoolchildren when the first set of murders occurred. Perhaps they had not even heard of the crimes before yesterday. He tilted his head at the house and said, “So…”
“Oh, of course, sir.”
Rafferty looked at Mehta. “Go ahead,” she said. “Maybe they’ll let you stay for a couple minutes this time.” Rafferty extended his arm towards the colonnade. John looked back over the wide lawn and the high hedges and paused. They had reason to suspect the murderer might work on the property. He heard voices and two more officers emerged from the hedges with what appeared to be a gardener.
John let out a breath. “Lead on, Sergeant,” John said to Rafferty.
***
John leaned his head back against the seat of the taxi, let his eyes close. Sherlock continued explaining how they had seen an abundance of the glitter that had been found on the body as well as small traces of blood. Other people could have bled in the colonnade; it would have to be tested. Most of the glitter was from the masks many of the staff had worn for the party celebrating the completion of the restoration project held the night before, so more than a score of people were probably twinkling with it.
John had noticed some on the hem of Sherlock’s coat when they got in the taxi. Sherlock was confident the site and the personnel records from the estate were going to provide them with a few more pieces of the puzzle. He didn't think they would need to go to Cirencester, but that couldn't be ruled out yet.
Sherlock paused in his narrative. “Have you fallen asleep, John?”
“Not yet,” John replied, without opening his eyes. “But all night and most of the day on my feet, is starting to make itself known.” John couldn’t see Sherlock looking at him, but he was sure he was. “Mere mortals sleep, you know.”
Sherlock patted John’s knee. “Remarkable that that book should turn out to be useful.”
John was surprised at the concession. “I tried to show you the photograph when I was reading the article. You must have deleted it.”
“Yes, but I remembered that it was something you would know. That’s all that was necessary,” Sherlock replied. John grumbled sleepily. “I’ll tuck you into bed myself, if we ever get back to Baker Street. The traffic around the heath is always terrible.”
“It’s gone four and I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” John added. He felt his breathing getting slower and slower. Sherlock kept his hand on John’s knee as though to keep him from drifting off.
With the other hand, Sherlock texted Angelo. “Angelo will deliver food, so you can eat,” Sherlock said. He glanced at John, could tell he wasn’t quite asleep. “Then I will figure out your password.”
John smiled. For once, he doubted it.
***
The aroma of Angelo’s Saturday special awaited them in the hall. Its source on the mantel. As John ate, Sherlock talked, about the cause of death, the Greek letter carved on the body, the knife tip, the old mark, Toledo steel. John listed sideways on the sofa, feet still on the floor. Sherlock paused, stared at John’s position.
“You’ll be in knots if you sleep like that,” Sherlock said.
John hauled himself to his feet and shuffled towards the stairs.
Sherlock grasped John’s shoulders, steered him towards the closer bedroom. “I’m going to run a couple tests in the kitchen, do some research. If the doors are open, I can talk to you while you sleep.”
“Efficient,” John mumbled.
“I thought so,” Sherlock replied.
***
Any usable traces of DNA on the body? Any matches? SH
Nothing yet. I’m pushing them to speed up the testing. You think another murder is imminent?
Beta and Gamma were close together. Has Jean-Pierre contacted you recently? SH
No, I could try to reach him. You think the murderer was abroad?.
Strong possibility. Ask him about bodies in our timeframe with any deliberate markings, not necessarily Greek letters and not only knife wounds. SH
What? Separate series?
Possibly. A killer who likes to classify things or who develops a different grudge in different places. Need more data. SH
***
The light was too bright. Rockets whistled through it. The injured shrieked. Dust billowed. It would cover them all.
John woke gasping in the dark. He flung his covers off, fumbled at the end table for water. Things clattered to the floor.
A cold bottle was pressed into his hand. It was open. John spilt some as he brought it to his mouth. The water felt good. Sherlock’s hand settled on John’s shoulder. It felt good. John leaned forward, pressed his head against the smooth cloth of Sherlock’s shirt. John rubbed his face across it, felt the lean muscle beneath it. It all felt good.
His pillow was no longer hot. A sheet settled over him in a puff of cool air. He liked the hand at his shoulder, thought to pat it with his own, but the fatigue pulled him away.
The light dimmed, wavered. In it, red dots danced. Through it, a voice echoed.
John tensed. The hand grasped more tightly. John rolled and an arm curved across his chest, firm muscles against his back. Sleep returned, without dreams.
***
John was perusing a medical journal and sipping his second cup of tea of the morning when Sherlock marched through the room to the window. “Want some tea?” John asked.
“No time,” Sherlock said. “Have you packed warm things? We shouldn’t be more than two or three days, but it will be cold on the glacier.” John looked up. Sherlock checked his watch. “We need to be at Heathrow in an hour,” he added and unplugged his computer.
“We’re going somewhere…cold?” John asked, taking another sip of tea and considering Sherlock’s open-necked shirt.
“Reykjavik, John. Two bodies found beneath the ice east of the city yesterday afternoon. Well-preserved. Marked. Lestrade relayed the information from Jean-Pierre this morning. He’ll meet us there.”
“Eta?” John asked, standing.
“No, Epsilon. And a second body marked with the number four.”
“Another series?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Cold, right. I’ll be down in a minute,” John called, already on the stairs.
***
"Why don't you take the window seat," Sherlock said on the flight back to London as he lay his garment bag over John's carry-on in the overhead compartment. "One can't forecast auroral activity, but just in case."
"You prefer the aisle," John said, slipping past him into the other seat. "But it wouldn't hurt to look." Sherlock slammed the compartment closed, undid his jacket button and settled into his seat. Beyond the window the airport lights reflected off the snow by the runway. "I'd always wanted to see the Northern Lights."
"I know. You'd said," Sherlock murmured, pulling down his tray table and opening his laptop on it.
John turned. "That was months ago. You remembered that?"
"Mm. I want to type up my notes now. I'd prefer to talk through them with you, but it's not quite the place," Sherlock replied.
John glanced at the other passengers streaming past them and nodded. "The Lights were even more incredible than I had thought they would be. Thank you," John said.
"What for? I couldn't have predicted we would see them while we were here," Sherlock asked, typing rapidly. John looked at Sherlock's profile, opened his mouth as if to speak, but didn't. "Here, if I tilt the computer like that, can you read the screen?" Sherlock asked. John adjusted the laptop again and nodded. "Ask questions and I'll type the answers, if necessary," Sherlock directed.
"If that dormant geyser hadn't erupted, would they ever have been found," John asked quietly.
"Unlikely," Sherlock answered. "Unless there was some need to drill in the area, only volcanic activity was going to shift that much ice."
"How'd they get that deep then?" John asked.
Sherlock’s fingers danced over the keyboard. They were in a small crevasse. At the time of the murders, it must have been recently formed. Since then, seven years of ice and snow had sealed them in.
John leaned closer to Sherlock. “The excavation near Cirencester and the geyser here. It’s just chance that these things uncovered what they did now.”
Sherlock sat back in his seat, one finger tapping against his lips.
John pulled the laptop closer and typed, If he hadn’t killed Zeta, these deaths would never have been connected, would they? John turned the screen towards Sherlock.
He stretched forward. Lestrade would have sent me the Cirencester report. He and I have discussed the Cambridge murders before. He’d see the connection. He may work with idiots, but he has been known to rise above their level occasionally.
John leaned across Sherlock, his arm brushing past Sherlock’s. He felt the warmth of it through his sleeve as he typed, If you hadn’t suggested he contact Jean-Pierre, we wouldn’t know about the bodies here.
Sherlock crowded closer to the computer than necessary. I suppose not, unless it came up over a bottle of wine with Lestrade sometime. I give Jean-Pierre credit for requesting our help. Even knowing about the connection, with all their fingertips missing, identifying the bodies may take him awhile.
“Please put your seats in an upright position and fasten your seatbelts,” a sing-song voice announced.
John secured the tray table and his seatbelt, but as the lights flashed by the window and the wheels thumped into the body of the plane, he left his shoulder pressed against Sherlock’s.
***
Sherlock lifted his bow and John looked up from his newspaper. “There’s a delivery and Mrs Hudson’s gone out,” Sherlock said from where he stood by the window. He resumed playing. There was a prompt rustle as John tossed the paper aside and rushed to the front door.
The music grew louder as John climbed the stairs. Sherlock stepped onto the landing without missing a note and eyed the two large boxes in John’s arms. Sherlock stood squarely in front of the stairs to John’s room and looked pointedly at the open sitting room door.
“Sooner than I expected,” Sherlock said and followed John inside, still playing. He pushed the door closed with his foot and lifted his bow. “And two.” Sherlock stepped closer, stood over the boxes with the entwined "H" and "S" on them that John had set on the table by his laptop. “Which will you show me first?” Sherlock asked.
John tilted the top of the upper box away from Sherlock just enough to reach his hand in and under the tissue paper. It darted back out. John lowered the cover and slid the second box out from under the first, took its top off with a flourish and stood back. “This one,” he announced.
Sherlock used the tip of his bow to flip open the tissue. “Navy,” he said, setting down the violin and bow and running his fingers over the wool. “I thought you would choose from among the browns first,” Sherlock commented. “Take off your jumper. Let me see it on you.”
John pulled his cable-knit sweater over his head and draped it on the chair. John lifted the jacket. He saw a light blue and white striped shirt underneath and a pale blue tie that he had not selected. “I like stripes,” John said, looking up. Sherlock scowled. “What?” John asked, unbuttoning his shirt.
“The excuse I gave Mycroft for our not being able to attend his latest tedious reception is no longer valid,” Sherlock sighed as John slipped on the new shirt. Sherlock held out the jacket for John. “What made you choose this fabric?”
“You mean I had some choice?” John asked, tugging down the open, white cuffs of the shirt.
Sherlock gestured at the sleeves. “At least one of us can make use of the cuff links and tie pins people keep giving me.” John smiled. “I selected a variety of textures in every colour I thought might suit you.”
“I chose the softest,” John said. “I thought you would like that.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John looked away. “You always surprise me, John.”
“So everything I was shown, you had pre-selected,” John said, fastening the buttons of the shirt.
Sherlock smiled, his fingers trailing down John’s lapel. “Mr Hastings is an artist,” Sherlock added and took a step to the side, so John could see himself in the mirror over the mantel.
John looked in the glass, rolled his shoulders. “He is,” John agreed and turned to check the side view. “Only my dress uniform ever fit like this.” Sherlock stood behind John, both hands smoothing over the cashmere now. “I might almost enjoy attending one of Mycroft’s functions wearing this,” John said.
“You would receive admiring glances,” Sherlock said.
“People might notice we have the same tailor,” John grinned and met Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror.
“They might at that,” Sherlock replied and his hands went down both sleeves. “What do you think they might make of it?”
“Likely nothing more than what they have been saying about us for some time,” John replied.
“And you wouldn’t mind?” Sherlock asked.
“No,” John said, holding Sherlock’s gaze in the glass. “I wouldn’t mind.”
After a moment, Sherlock turned to pick up his violin and bow. “Shall I play while you try everything on?”
“Don’t you want to see what’s in the other box?” John asked, stepping to the side of the table.
Sherlock drew a sweet sound from the strings as he moved towards the window. “A brown suit. Am I right?” The first bars of Paganini’s Caprice No. 24 filled the flat.
“Why don’t you check?” John asked. “It might not be for me.”
The music stopped instantly. Sherlock strode to the table, set his violin on top of the rest of John’s clothes, and lifted the second box. “It’s heavier than a suit,” Sherlock said. He tilted the box. “Little room inside for the contents to shift. A voluminous garment. The package of cloth under your bed has been gone for eight days. Might we deduce something from that?” Sherlock put the box down and regarded John steadily.
John raised his eyebrows, expression otherwise neutral. “Might we?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and lifted the cover. John let himself smile a bit. Sherlock’s gaze shifted to the open box. A dark blue-green colour glowed through the white tissue. “Aha,” Sherlock said and slipped a hand beneath the folded paper. He closed his eyes; his fingers moving over the cloth. The tissue rustled as he rubbed the fabric between his thumb and index finger.
John waited. He had thought Sherlock would rip the tissue away and pull out the garment. John’s eyes flickered between the slow movement of Sherlock’s arm and his face.
“There are two types of cloth,” Sherlock said. “Both silk. One smooth, light, the other heavy brocade.” John thought about Sherlock’s fingers ghosting over his skin in the dark, gathering knowledge as they went. Sherlock’s elbow angled. He delved deeper into the folds of the cloth. “The habotai lines the garment.” Sherlock’s forearm shifted. “There are pockets inside.” The corners of Sherlock’s lips curved upwards. “One, two. Ah, a third. Four.” Sherlock’s eyes opened and he pulled the tissue paper away. “Oh!” he exclaimed as the jewel-toned collar of the garment came into view, the end of one sleeve folded below it. “Oh,” Sherlock repeated and bent closer, a fingertip tracing the pattern of feathers visible on the brocade sleeve above the filigree border of the cuff. “I hadn’t pictured this.”
“Will you put it on?” John asked softly.
Sherlock nodded, his fingers dipping under the cuff. He smiled. “There’s another pocket here,” he said.
“You like pockets,” John said quietly.
Sherlock nodded again, slipped off his maroon dressing gown and tossed it towards the sofa. His hands returned to the box, pushed between the garment and the side until he found the other cuff. “A pocket here, too,” he observed.
“Yes,” John whispered.
“I could keep many things in it,” Sherlock said and pulled his vest over his head, flung it after the dressing gown. It landed on the coffee table.
“Many things,” John echoed, his eyes riveted on the play of muscles beneath the skin of Sherlock’s back.
Sherlock scooped the garment from the box, held it up over one arm, moving it so the light accentuated the outline of a curved claw amidst feathers. “Peacocks are rarely depicted fighting,” he commented, “defending their territory.”
“Artists are distracted by their beauty,” John said, his gaze on the curve of Sherlock’s neck as he studied the cloth. “Predators by their all-seeing eyes.”
Sherlock exploded into motion, one hand shoving his pyjama bottoms over his hips, the other holding the robe higher, then both hands seized the garment, swirled it over his shoulders. The weighted hem cleared the newspapers and the vest off the coffee table. One pale arm disappeared into a sleeve and then the other.
“It will be warm in winter,” Sherlock observed. He held out one side of the dressing gown and then the other, his head tilted, examining details. “Would you like to tie it, John?” he asked, looking up, one end of the sash in his hand.
John stood immobile, his eyes relaying too many impressions, his mind whirling through too many options. Sherlock lifted his other arm. His chest rose and fell as though he had run to that spot in the middle of their sitting room, plumes of silk settling about him.
Peacock feathers of light rippled through the icy dark, excited ions on a solar wind.
“John,” Sherlock repeated, voice low.
Magnetism.
John responded, catching the end of the sash, drawing one side of the dressing gown diagonally across Sherlock’s chest. John’s fingers ran along the divide between dark silk and pale skin to Sherlock’s side, over his hip. Sherlock drew in a deep breath and John’s fingers dug into the swell of a buttock. Sherlock exhaled and John let the sash sag, pressed his lips to pink skin, eyes closed, tongue tasting. Sherlock’s arms fell to his sides and John rested his cheek against Sherlock’s chest, one arm behind Sherlock’s back stroking the silk, his other hand languidly exploring the crest of Sherlock’s hip as he listened to Sherlock’s heart pound.
“John,” Sherlock whispered and his arm brought one side of the robe around John’s back.
As though his tendons had been cut, John slid to his knees, one arm grasping Sherlock’s legs over the robe, the other sliding between his thighs beneath it. John pressed his face against the half-covered leg, breathing hard. “All I could imagine anymore was the casual friction of surfaces,” John murmured against the skin and Sherlock’s fingertips stilled in John’s hair. Sherlock bent his head, watching. John looked up into dark forests, deep seas, moonless nights. “Do you understand?” he asked and lifted the silk, drew Sherlock into his mouth as though famished, suckled as though parched.
Sherlock gripped the edge of the table, eyes widening, body curling over John. The folds of the dressing gown shifted and John moved like a current beneath the waves of it, a wind through the branches of it. The onslaught was intense, the ending rapid. Sherlock gasped for breath, dropped to his knees when John released him, reached out for John’s face, touched a thumb to one corner of his lips. John’s eyes remained closed, but his head tipped up as Sherlock held it, lips parted, desire still contorting his features.
“I simply refused to imagine,” Sherlock said, folding his arms around John, pulling him so close the buttons of John’s shirt dug crescents into their skin. “Before you, I thought to dwell alone in my mind palace.”
***
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up when his laptop chimed. He opened the personnel files of the English Trust, began running the set of searches he had already run on present and former staff at the British Library and the British Museum. Sherlock leaned a bit to the left and clicked between a few screens on John’s computer, the Corinium, the Fitzwilliam, the University of Cambridge.
Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table as the computers hummed. On the sofa, John murmured. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, watched John roll onto his side, cuddle his crumpled jumper against his chest. The maroon dressing gown slipped lower on John's hips, showing a sliver of belly. Sleepy fingers fumbled for it, pulled it higher. John sighed and lay still.
Sherlock turned back to the monitors, fingers drumming faster. The searches were taking too long. He jabbed another set of symbols into his computer, the screen flashed and he entered a longer string. He smiled and re-set the searches.
Next to his laptop, Sherlock’s mobile pinged. He ignored it, eyes flickering between the two computers. The phone pinged again. Sherlock checked the time, exhaled, rapped at the small screen and picked up the device.
What are you doing? M
Mainframe use just to prove you were right all those years ago? M
Did you block those investigations? SH
No. M
The lives of British citizens are endangered, Mycroft, the sort that speak Ancient Greek fluently. SH
Two minutes. M
Sherlock glanced at both laptops.
Done. SH
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, texted Lestrade the results. He pushed the send button, opened a new tab on John's computer and started reading Robert Fenwood’s most recent article, Ostraca: Display and Preservation.
***
Sherlock’s phone vibrated on the table. John yawned on the sofa. Sherlock closed his hand over the mobile and turned sideways in his chair. John stretched, sat up and stretched again. Sherlock opened the message from Lestrade.
Checked all four. No police records. No fingerprints on file. DVLA next.
“How long have I been asleep?” John asked, standing and pulling his vest down over his stomach. He stared at his unbuttoned shirt, left it open, reached back for Sherlock’s third-best dressing gown.
“Seventy-two minutes,” Sherlock replied, thumbs flying even as he glanced back up at John. The corner of Sherlock’s lips quirked again. His gaze dropped to John’s bare thighs, lingered on the sock still on John’s left foot.
“Solve it while I was unconscious?” John asked.
“No,” Sherlock frowned, eyes back on his mobile. “Made progress, but Lestrade’s not finding anything on the names I gave him.” Sherlock sent the message.
Can Jean-Pierre access arrivals to Iceland by sea or air, including lay-overs, throughout our timeframe. SH
John wandered to the kitchen, fiddling with the robe’s sash. “I don’t think we have much left to eat,” he said, switching on the kettle and opening the refrigerator.
Sherlock slipped his phone into one of his inside pockets and followed John into the kitchen.
“Who did you buy it for?” Sherlock asked from where he had stopped a few centimetres behind John.
John dropped the box of tea he had taken out of the cupboard. “God, you can be quiet when you want to be,” John said, opening the box.
“I do not like this person,” Sherlock stated.
“It’s for you,” John replied, dropping a tea bag into a cup and turning to face Sherlock.
The reply met with a furrowed brow. Impatiently, Sherlock whirled away, the skirt of the robe flaring dervish-like, rustling past the legs of the kitchen table and chairs. “Yes, obviously you had it made for me, but this isn’t Hastings’ style. Where did you get the design?” Sherlock held up a finger. “No, don’t tell me that. Tell me for whom you bought the cloth.” Sherlock stilled to wait for an answer and the silk settled about him.
“You,” John repeated, his gaze fixed on Sherlock’s eyes, the absence of their usual pale lustre.
John took a step closer to Sherlock. “Since you must know, I fell, like a tourist, for the patter of a silk merchant,” John said. “He told me the cloth was for someone rare.” One of Sherlock’s eyebrows flicked upwards. “I told him I had no one, rare or otherwise, and he said that I would and that their eyes would match the cloth.” John tilted his head from side to side, but the illusion persisted. “And they do, you know. Look in the mirror,” John said.
Sherlock strode to the mantelpiece, the garment flowing behind him. He belted the dressing gown, raised his chin, lowered it, angled his head to the left and the right. The afternoon light continued to play the trick between the peacock tones of the fabric and the colour of his eyes. Sherlock stood up straighter, smoothed his hands over the brocaded silk. “Spoils of war?” he asked.
John chuckled as he walked into the sitting room. “You mean how could I have afforded it?”
Sherlock observed John’s face in the mirror, saw his hand appear at the shoulder, felt it stroke along the sleeve. John stopped halfway, his fingers circling in the crook of Sherlock’s elbow.
“He saw how I touched it. I didn’t intend to. That’s the end of bargaining if you do that. But when he opened the dark cotton the silk was wrapped in, my hand just went out, started tracing the feathers and then he turned the bolt a couple times and I saw the face of the peacock, its open beak and its splayed talons and my fingers wouldn’t leave them.” John paused. “I told him I couldn’t afford it. He asked me to empty my pockets and I did. He counted everything, different currencies, coins and all, looked me in the eye and said that was the price, exactly.”
Sherlock was quiet, his eyes holding John’s in the glass. “But you didn’t think of giving it to me until you found me examining the package under your bed.”
“You mean petting the cloth underneath the bed,” John amended with a small smile. “You might recall that something else occurred not very long before I found you under there.”
“Ah,” Sherlock said and turned his head to look down at John.
“Yeah, ‘ah’, Sherlock,” John said and really smiled.
****
Lestrade pounded up the stairs. “Sherlock, we’ve arrested him,” Lestrade announced as he pushed the door open. “Oh, excuse me,” he said when he saw the robed figure bending over the couch. “I didn’t realise Sherlock and John had a guest.”
Sherlock stood and faced Lestrade with his violin and bow in hand. “Good morning, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “I was about to play a pavane I composed for John. Would you care to listen?” Sherlock plucked a note and tightened a string. “Did Mr Fenwood go peaceably?” Sherlock asked as he adjusted another string.
Lestrade was staring, his mouth slightly open. “Christ, Sherlock, you look like an emperor. Where did that come from?” he asked, making an elongated ess in the air with his hand.
Sherlock played another note and smiled. “It’s a present from John,” he replied.
“’Morning, Greg. Did I hear you got your man? It was Fenwood, right?” John asked, ambling into the room and rubbing the back of his head. He had on Sherlock’s maroon robe and possibly nothing else from what Greg could see. Between the words, the kettle clicking off sounded loud. “Want some tea?”
Greg’s mouth had not managed to close as he turned from John, to Sherlock and back to John again. “Ah, tea would be nice, thanks. It was Fenwood. Search of his flat turned up the broken dagger. Turns out it had gone missing from the Wallace Collection a year ago. Fenwood had been managing the property in Camden for two years before he transferred to the British Museum last month. In the past twenty years, he’s worked at the Corinium in Cirencester, the Fitzwilliams in Cambridge and, seven years ago, he flew to a conference in Russia from New York via Reykjavik, overnight stopover extended an extra day due to bad weather in St Petersburg.”
“I wonder if he was counting on that or just seized the opportunity?” Sherlock mused. He played another note and paused. “How long was Fenwood in New York?” Sherlock asked.
“Nine years,” Lestrade said.
“Their cold cases should be checked,” Sherlock said.
“Right,” Lestrade replied, pulling out a notepad. “One, two and three?”
“One, easy to mistake for a mere gash,” Sherlock said, with a nod. “The conservation of Greek antiquities was not the only area where he held strong opinions and apparently even stronger grudges.”
Lestrade put his notebook away. “Yeah, he waited years after he left a place to commit the murders. Except for the last one.”
Sherlock plucked a string. “Yes, the mistake. Time was of the essence with Zeta. He was being promoted and would have been able to implement his views about the proper care of the ostraca immediately. You should read Mr Fenwood’s articles. He was convinced the new method of cleaning would reduce the ostraca to dust within a decade.”
“Bits of broken pots,” Lestrade said, shaking his head.
“To Mr Fenwood they were historical evidence that had endured for millennia. The idea that they would be destroyed by an ill-advised chemical innovation incensed him.”
“You sound sympathetic, Sherlock.”
“Not with his course of action, but his chemical analysis of the new cleansing agent was accurate,” Sherlock said.
“You tested it? Not on one of those historical bits, I hope.”
“A broken flower pot from Mrs Hudson’s bin was sufficient to prove the theory,” Sherlock explained.
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. “Wouldn’t that have been enough evidence to convince his colleagues?”
“The product was made by a highly-reputable chemical company,” Sherlock said. “It would have taken years to prove that their product testing had been faked. Mr Fenwood couldn’t accept the losses that would have occurred in the meantime.”
“Well, I still think he could have gone to someone above Zeta, rather than killing the poor sod,” Lestrade sighed. “What was he again?"
“Their new regional head of conservation,” John said, walking in from the kitchen, a mug in each hand. “That’s why he’d been invited to the party at the estate.” He handed Greg one of the mugs. “It’s hot,” John cautioned.
Sherlock tilted his head and played a couple bars, stopped and tuned one more string.
“Thanks,” Greg said. “It’s no way to prove a point and I suppose his precious pots are going to be destroyed now anyway.”
John cleared his throat. “Somehow, Sherlock’s lab results got circulated, so the cleanser’s being withdrawn from the market. There’ll be a product recall announcement later today,” John said, taking a small sip of his tea, his eyes turning to Sherlock. “Sherlock, you want yours now or later?”
Sherlock smiled at John over the violin. “Later,” he said and John looked down into his mug.
Lestrade’s eyes switched back and forth between the two. He took a drink of tea, winced at the temperature. “Yeah, well, I was in the neighbourhood and thought you’d like to know.” Sherlock considered Lestrade over the instrument for a moment, one corner of his mouth turned up and his eyes half-closed. He plucked another string. Lestrade set his mug down and turned toward the door. “I’ll let you know if I hear of anything from New York.”
“Thanks, Greg,” John said and accompanied Lestrade to the hall.
On the landing, Greg leaned his head down and whispered, “Where did you find that? And what bank did you rob?”
John chuckled. “You mean the dressing gown? Had it made. The cloth, I got in Afghanistan.”
Lestrade glanced back through the doorway at Sherlock. He was playing, half turned towards the window, his body swaying to the music, the sunlight playing along the silk as it swayed with him.
“I’ll text first,” Greg said to John.
“Good idea,” John replied, his smile broadening as he closed the door.
If you began reading with Zygomata, you have reached the end of the Experiments series. Thank you very much for reading through to the conclusion.
If you would like to explore the AU frame for the Experiments series, the Other Experiments series begins with Sometimes.
Finally, if you started off with Sometimes, the next part of Other Experiments may be found here.
