Murder with Lens: A Sherlock Holmes Case (221B Baker Street Series) (13 page)

“So he fired at a police officer,” John looked up at Lestrade. “I mean, he tried to kill Sherlock, not to mention me and half the upstairs.” Delov was cuffed, hand and foot. His face was black and blue, but his blue eyes still glinted with hate. He passed easily in and out of consciousness as John worked to make him comfortable for the paramedics who were on the way.

Lestrade nodded. “That was nice work… that you should have left to professionals. But nice.”

“Look, respectfully, Detective Inspector, either Sherlock has a badge, or he doesn’t. It’s confusing to everyone involved, otherwise,” John finished setting the arm and bound it in a sheet Donovan had fetched. It was hard work, with the man cuffed.

“You two aren’t trained to apprehend a suspect.”

Sherlock shot off the couch, his hand half wrapped in bandages. “Come on, Lestrade. You lot would have shot him in the head. What good would he be then?” He looked down at Delov. “What did you do with the boy’s head and the hands?”

The man slurred emphatic Russian, blood bubbling on his lips.

“Not in this lifetime you won’t. Now who paid you? Who contacted you? I want a name.” Sherlock said. He said it over again in such excellent Russian, it surprised even Delov. “Tell me.”

In thickly accented English, Delov said. “I will kill you in your bed.”

“You wouldn’t make it in the flat.” Sherlock sneered and stepped away.

John snorted. That was right. Mycroft had the place monitored.

“He’s a bad read, now,” Reese reached up and gave a jumping muscle in John’s shoulder a squeeze. “Everything we’d normally see is wrecked by the pain and swelling. If we give the hospital a little time to soften him up with anesthetic, he’ll be like cookie dough. That was one crazy ass brawl, though. I can’t believe he didn’t nail one of you.”

“Yeah,” John huffed and gave her small hand rubbing his shoulder a grateful squeeze. Really, there was a spark of some emotional element to her that was lacking entirely in Sherlock.

“You gotta deal with that flaming case of PTSD, though, Doc.” She deposited a peck on his cheek, and then went to join Lestrade. John just hoped that Sarah and Sherlock hadn’t overheard.

***

At the Yard, it was possible to hear Special Agent Young shouting at Reese halfway across Lestrade’s floor. For John, it was off-putting. He liked Reese, her mix of innocence, humour, and high intelligence was an echo of his flatmate’s, and John was beginning to see he was sort of designed to get along with extraordinary people like Reese, and Sherlock.

Speaking of Sherlock, the genius paced restlessly and waited for the tirade to end. Lestrade’s squad seemed irritated with his hyperactivity, but, so far, made no comment on it. John didn’t feel the need to step in, but watched Sherlock’s expression grow darker and darker.

Finally, Sherlock threw his hands out and up as if conducting. “Lestrade, that martinet of a woman is wasting our time. Do something.”

“It’s CIA business, Sherlock,” Lestrade also looked down the hallway. “We’re not involved.”

Holmes put his head down and tried – John swore – to be patient. It lasted a record 30 seconds. Then he turned and stalked toward the yelling.

“Sherlock. Don’t interfere,” Lestrade rubbed his eyes as Holmes cut through the desks from Lestrade’s squad, and made a straight line of his trip to the blackened room that Reese kept. That office was in the far corner of the area that Lestrade’s people occupied.

“We should follow him,” John said quickly.

Lestrade looked hopeless. “Why?”

John pointed out, “Because he’s angry.”

“What? He’s what?” Lestrade glanced after Holmes’ trim figure striding away. His wasn’t the only head to turn in Sherlock’s direction.

This was stunning to John. He caught hold of Lestrade’s sleeve. “You didn’t see his face?”

Donovan got up from her desk, “Freak almost always looks put out, John.”

“He was grinding his teeth,” John was astonished they’d missed this. He set off after Holmes. “It’s not just that he wants to get back to the case – I mean, he’s impatient; this is Sherlock we’re talking about.”

Sherlock reached the door of the black boxy office and threw it open.

“Oh damn,” John started to lope. The conversation inside the room changed instantly.

Sherlock’s deep voice boomed through the office. “This is not a trained animal! Do not roll up your regulations and smack her about the head with them! Considering not one of you possesses the faculties required to solve this case, dispense with the fatuous idea you have any input here and stay the hell out of our way!”

John reached the door first. Sherlock shoved past him on the way out, stone-faced, and, at the end of his hand was Reese’s wrist. He hauled her along in a fashion anyone else might have called negligent, or even violent, and she stared at him.

“Sherlock,” John turned to follow. “Calm down.”

He swung an arm, “Don’t speak to me.”

“I know you know this, Holmes: she ran off in a foreign country with a pair of men they don’t know to track down an infamous assassin, and this was after drugging one of her-”

Holmes turned John’s way. “Don’t speak to me right now, John.” He released Reese and shouted, “The whole lot of you shut up! All this yelling, and fussing, and milling about. We gave you the man who killed Lawrence Waters. Find something to occupy yourselves, quietly, and let us think.”

John backed up from Holmes a step. More than anything, this made Sherlock’s temper brake.

***

“Maybe it’s too much adrenaline from the fight, but you’re a bit unglued,” John told Sherlock quietly. He smoothed his coat. “So what’s happened?”

Holmes huffed a few deep breaths of air and looked across at where Reese stared at him. Her face was entirely unguarded. When Sherlock was being so obvious about reading people, he tended to look keen as a weapon – his inner radar making his green eyes seem soulless. Reese, with those societally imposed screens down, had the unblinking intensity of a camera. Sherlock looked away from her almost immediately, the corners of his mouth dimpling his cheeks in a soft grimace. Whatever John could make out in Sherlock’s expression and posture, she was seeing gads more, and he was visibly pulling himself under control again, because of it. Finally, he looked at John, no more than a passing glance, and managed, “I… need quiet.”

“Yeah, fine, we’ll get you quiet,” John rolled his shoulders. He did hear Young clacking hurriedly across the office at them. She was sure to want to yell some more. “Lestrade, you’re not going to get anything further from these two until they unwind. Where can we go while you handle the CIA?”

“God,” Lestrade sighed mightily.

Less than five minutes later, Sherlock sat at a bench in the police museum. It was a large, lecture-theatre-like affair with death masks staring down. Macabre, but neither of the geniuses seemed to mind. Reese paced back and forth in front of the bench. After a few minutes of this, Sherlock shifted to lay out flat on the thin padding and stare at the ceiling.

Neither of them spoke.

John stood close to the door and remained as inconspicuous as he could manage. He thought about Sarah, who had been dropped at the Islington clinic by officers. He should be there, except she refused to take him from this case. It did nothing to assuage his guilt, or the pang of loneliness he felt as he thought of her closing up the clinic for the night. Would she sit in the break room overlooking traffic, alone? How many nights had she done that before they’d met?

But she wanted him to solve the case, and protect Sherlock. Increasingly, she found Holmes to be reckless. He wondered how long it would be before she began having terrible misgivings about John’s association with Sherlock. He’d had a few. But he’d also quickly dismissed them. Then what? If it came down to a choice… how would he choose? His potential partner, or his partner in crime?

Finally, Reese sat down with her back to the bench.

“John,” Lestrade said quietly.

John stepped around the corner into the second room of the Crime museum and greeted the harrowed-looking Detective Inspector. “Smoothed it over?”

“They’re up to something,” Lestrade’s brow wrinkled. “I’m not sure what it is. I’d bet they want to get Sherlock back to Langley, but I don’t know for sure. That’s neither here nor there. Young wants to restrict Sherlock’s access to Reese. He’s a ‘corrupting influence’.”

After a moment of consideration, John shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“She’s not an adult, so it’s not my call. What’s going on with them?”

Seconds ticked. “Something. I don’t know.” John shook his head. “If… if you’d never met anyone who could speak your language, you’d get as good at another language as you could grasp. What would you do if you bumped into another native in the crowd?”

Lestrade looked into the room beyond him. From his vantage, he couldn’t see Holmes, just the edge of Reese’s slender arm as she shifted. “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised if he’s annoyed they’re shouting at her then. Cuts a bit close, don’t it?”

John shook his head. “Lestrade, honestly… I don’t know. I mean, being the only person to understand the things he does is maddening, particularly since – you can trust me, I live with him – he can’t dial it back.”

“Must be a nightmare.” Lestrade considered.

“We get along fine,” but after the Sofia debacle, John couldn’t exactly deny Sherlock had issues. He shrugged instead, “But don’t you think Sherlock’s skills are exclusive? It’s like being in a private club. He doesn’t trust Reese, that’s plain, but that doesn’t stop her being in his club.”

“Well get his head together. Delov is getting patched up as we speak. We’ll have access to him again in about an hour, so we’re leaving in 15.” Lestrade pointed into the room. “I need him to do what he does.”

“In that case, Young and her bullies need to stay away from them. I mean the both of them.” John hid the beginnings of his own frustration. “Let him cool off. He’s got to be sore after that fight, he’s pumped full of adrenaline, and he won’t take pain pills.” When it came to Sherlock and Reese, neither the CIA nor the Yard quite saw beyond the utility.

“It’s fine,” Lestrade walked backwards a few steps, “It’s all fine, as long as it works. I should tell you that a letter was dropped off for him though. The name Charlie Heath ring bells?”

“Yes,” John nodded. “You have it?”

“Do not show this to the CIA before I have a chance to look at it, John.” Lestrade handed it over turned and headed out of the museum.

“You have my word. I can’t give you his.”

“No offence, John. Yours is probably better than his.”

Inside the room lined with death masks, the soft resonances of Sherlock and Reese talking didn’t sound like English at all. Perhaps they had returned to Latin, or moved on to some other dead language. John smiled at the thought. He’d resolved to give them a few minutes alone before he intruded on their conversation. He was burning with curiosity though. What was in the letter? What was going on with the two geniuses? Was it just that Sherlock and Reese could speak at the same level? Or was there no more need for setups like with Sofia? Reese was young, certainly. Could Sherlock look past it? John thought about it for a minute and decided he was being foolish. Hope availed nothing. There was no predicting Sherlock Holmes.

The letter. This would be the work of Lawrence’s flatmates, all reporting on the mystery boyfriend. Was there a lead in here?

When he did go to get them, John found his steps flagged. It might have had to do with the lack of substantial sleep the night prior, or it might have been Sherlock. Holmes sat up with his elbows balanced on his knees, and his face was quite close to Reese’s where she sat lotus on the floor before him. Their laser-like focus had seemed to increase with proximity. Sherlock broke that connection. He turned his green eyes in John’s direction and Reese, with her colourless blues, followed suit.

She got grumpily to her feet. “I suppose you’re here to say Delov is ready for his close-up.”

“Sorry to,” John’s hand flicked over his mouth and chin, “to interrupt the pair of you.”

“We were just thinking together,” she stretched on the way past him.

John continued on to Holmes. “Didn’t look like thinking.”

“What did it look like?” Sherlock leaned back and perused the death masks curiously.

Maybe he’s picking a dust-cover for the skull at home. God, how garish, John! He gave himself a little shake. “Uh, yeah. Looked more intimate than thinking.” He nodded.

“Yes, well…” Sherlock’s tone was dry. He folded to look down at the floor before him. “I’m finding it’s… not the same, sharing my thoughts with other people.”

John blinked, “As with her?”

Now he looked intensely uncomfortable, even cross, and then Sherlock got up, picked up his coat, and pulled it onto his tall, slim frame.

“Perfectly natural,” John said when no reply came. “I mean, there aren’t many people who could approach your thinking, it only makes sense. My question is do we consider her friend or foe?” He extended the letter.

Sherlock immediately looked to be certain Reese was gone.

“Reese and I can only be adversaries, John.” He tied of his scarf with an expert hand and glanced up at the death masks. “I’ll be glad when she’s gone and my world returns to normal.” He took the letter and opened it quickly. His green eyes scanned it at astonishing speed, and he tucked it into his coat.