Coda
part fiveThe ride from Paddington Station to Gloucester wasn't long enough for much more than a nap but certainly long enough for Sherlock Holmes to piss off several in their train car. John smiled politely in the face of their fellow passenger's scowls, offering the occasional shoulder shrug when Sherlock had earned the disdain and leveling them with an even stare when they seriously needed to just let it go. Sherlock had a case--not the most interesting case on the books thus far but a murder with no witnesses was at least something to look forward to. As well as other things.
"So I don't get a single clue what the other case is?" Sherlock asked over steepled fingertips. The sunlight made his dark hair seem brighter, hints of red rarely seen now catching on the rays that spilled over his face in ribbons through the half-drawn shades.
John shook his head as he watched him, himself shaded in the seat opposite. "If the only way to get you to take this case is to offer a mystery within a mystery, then you're just going to have to be extra observant and try and figure out what it is."
With an arch of his brow, Sherlock looked off into the ether, mind churning with its cogs and gears in smooth and rapid motion not unlike their transport.
It had been surprisingly simple to convince Sherlock to take the case. John felt a slight guilty for not explaining in detail the reason for his own interest--a matter that affected them both greatly--but he hadn't had to deceive him. Sherlock knew John knew something he didn't, that there was something more to their journey to Ross-on-Wye than just the murder of Charles McCarthy, and that he had received the information from a secret source that wished to remain anonymous. Sherlock loved games as much as he did mysteries and in the end it had been too appealing to reject a fourth time. It wasn't true manipulation when Sherlock was more than happy to allow himself to be coerced; the hard-headed detective never did anything he didn't in some respect want to do. It certainly helped to have that much off John's conscious at any rate. He felt more than enough unease for the both of them at the possibilities lurking in the existence of James McCarthy.
John sipped his coffee to still his anxieties as the train hurried them off through the countryside, poking at some notes on his laptop as the silence dragged on for once, the next stop not for quite some time. His e-mail was full of late correspondence from his work fellows trying to catch up on his patient notes, medical opinions shared alike on the trickier cases that tested a person's time against medical technology. If Sherlock had ever cared to learn as much about anatomy and biology as he had chemistry, John rather thought he'd enjoy some of the medical mysteries that came through his inbox. Lupus, lupus, it was never lupus. Celiac was getting to be rather too common an initial diagnoses as well. He couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor sods avoiding pasta and beer over IBS or CFS. Disease was an interesting villain, a criminal to the proper function of the human body. When Sherlock had been gone, these cases had been his own personal means of reliving the thrill of discovery, that race against time with lives on the line. He still enjoyed it no matter what form it took. Having both in his life again felt right.
Despite the hospital's assurance he could take leave whenever he needed to, he wasn't at all surprised they still wanted him to look over some items when he could. Understandable. His patients didn't stop being his just because Sherlock had a case.
And neither did Billie stop being Sherlock's assistant just because John was in tow.
The blonde smiled at John as she took her seat next to Sherlock again, another thigh hugging, knee length skirt gaining a brief glance as she sat with her knees pressed and ankles crossed. "Still not a fan of those new loos," she said, toes tapping against the floor with tell-tale nerves. At least the girl had the sense to know she was a third wheel. "Now, uh... I've been over the case file DI Lestrade had sent over from the local force. Have to say, I'm still not really sure why this is a job for Sherlock."
Sherlock tucked his nose below the bridge of his hands. "You're not the only one. Charles McCarthy was found murdered near Boscombe Pool around seven o'clock Sunday by Patience Turner who earlier witnessed a heated argument between father and son in that very location not half an hour before. The son, James McCarthy, was found with his father's blood on his hands and has no alibi for the time spent between the time Patricia saw them arguing and when she found the father dead. The land is private, leased to the McCarthy's by the Turners, making it improbable any one else was around to have committed the crime. Charles has no known enemies and there's no clear motive leaving nothing but a dispute and a dead man less than an hour apart."
Billie nodded, following along on her tablet computer--a purchase Sherlock hadn't needed to insist upon too heavily. The young woman seemed quite keen to use it, the flicks and pokes of her fingers as efficient as a spinster at her loom. "So, yeah, I mean... looks pretty cut and dry. The son killed the father in the heat of their argument. I mean, this James guy is doing a pretty shit job defending himself. He says he's not guilty but he won't even disclose what the argument was about. According to his statement, he just got into town that day and happened upon his dad in the woods where the argument started. He walked away and came back when he heard him call out to find him already dead."
"And yet if it were so simple, why would we get an anonymous tip to investigate it?" Sherlock smirked faintly behind his hands, letting them slowly drop to his belly. "There are a few things we can consider. The argument is an interesting piece of missing information for starters. The only reason not to disclose the information is to protect either himself or someone else from being incriminated by it. With no witnesses to the exact nature of the argument, he could easily have lied to lead suspicion off himself but instead he chose to say nothing. It seems to suggest that he is, in fact, protecting someone else--guilt by omission in this case as he is not willing to disclose the conversation that would point out the true killer."
Billie worried her bottom lip as she considered this. John imagined at her desk she probably had several half-chewed pens and pencils.
"He already has lied, though; hasn't he?" John asked. He closed the lid to his laptop, giving the sleuths his full attention as they readily gave him theirs. "James said he just got into town when he came across his father in the woods, right? So where's his suitcase? If he arrived in the evening, surely he would have packed something of an overnight bag at least. And what are the odds that, if this area is as secluded as the reports say, he just so happened upon his father in the middle of it on his way to the house? If he's innocent, imagine the coincidences in place for him to be there at the right time and place someone else was going to murder his father."
Sherlock nodded, the small spark in his eyes glistening at the sound of John employing some of his own methods. "And yet someone wants us here, making me all the more curious as to how we're going to prove James McCarthy is innocent."
And that he was or wasn't the man who strapped a Semtex vest to John's chest to dance with Sherlock Holmes. John tried not to let the idea pinch his expression or flinch across his face. There was more than a small amount of consolation in knowing the man in question was currently under arrest. McCarthy wasn't calling the shots this time--if he ever had been in the past in regards to them. Guilty of being Moriarty until proven innocent seemed the most cautious way to approach the unique situation. But with iron bars and armed guards standing far between the killer and the detective, the suffocating danger was little more than an asthmatic twinge.
Billie looked between the two of them, her lips still caught between her teeth. "Not to be a bitch or anything, but just so we're all on the same page, Lestrade wanted me to remind you that John isn't here in any official capacity. I get that you two are used to being a team and all and I don't mind discussing this stuff between the three of us but once we get there, I'd really like there not to be any confusion with the local force."
Sherlock said nothing, moved nothing. He was off in his own little world, passing glimpses of it reflected in his eyes as it rolled passed the window in the guise of trees and valleys. John hated it when he checked out in public. It generally meant it was up to him to make his excuses and usher out the unnecessary presence the detective had all but forgotten about. This time it was the two of them: himself and Billie and the not entirely unspoken tension of their situation. John supposed he couldn't blame her. This was her big break: working with the one and only Sherlock Holmes. Nothing worse than being asked to replace someone that wasn't really gone. She wasn't there to simply make the tea and take messages when John muscled his way in on a case--she was the partner, she was the officer of the law.
Not that John wouldn't just as soon leave her at the next station and forget all about contracts and legality.
"Well, I'm not an official legal presence," John admitted, hands folded against his lap, trying not to grimace though his smile felt hard. "I don't think anyone would mind Sherlock bringing in his own medical examiner, though. Especially one who happens to be taking a quick holiday in the same village at the same time."
Billie nodded, a bit of lipstick clinging to the tips of her teeth. "Okay, that's fine. That works. I'm not medically trained so... Just, well, this is my first time working with both of you so.. just want to make sure we get started on the right foot so we don't end up stepping on each other's feet. Don't get me wrong; I have a lot of respect for you, it's just that this is my job."
John sipped his coffee, eyes flickering back over to Sherlock who seemed to have divorced himself from their conversation entirely. Lucky git. "Believe me; I understand. No hard feelings. This is your case; I'll make sure to stay out of your way."
"Thank you, John."
"No, not at all," he said with his most charming of tones and smiles.
He did not like the woman.
And if the way she smiled back was any indication, Billie didn't care too much for him either.
The Red Lion Inn was a lovely stone building with its white-painted face looking out on the banks of the Wye. Everything was the sort of green that made John breathe deeper, the smell of the river and the moist lands around them inviting him pleasantly far, far away from the sights of London. No paparazzi, no loud traffic, no scrambling hoards, no hurried voices clamoring at all hours. Moriarty be damned; it felt good to travel outside the city limits where the world was more than cabs, culture, and crowds.
It felt good to be somewhere that didn't have so many memories tied to it--the good and the bad.
"Dull," Sherlock said, eyeing a flier for otter spotting with photos taken from outside the Beer Garden. Billie looked similarly impressed with images of stones jutting out of the countryside, arms crossed against her beige cardigan as she toed the cobblestone walk.
John rolled his eyes. "Sorry no one considered you when they decided what would make good tourist attractions. Not everywhere can have a Jack the Ripper walk," he said, carrying his bag towards the front desk where a handsome looking young woman waited with an open smile.
"Holmes?" she asked, the tip of her pen tapping against her ledger.
John nodded, putting his bag down at his feet. The sounds from the bar were a comforting rumble of good cheer and the smells from the kitchen carried right up under his nose with yeast rolls and peppered gravies. No, he was most definitely going to enjoy this as much as possible. "Right. Should have two rooms for us."
The woman smiled, producing a pair of keys almost before he'd finished. "I have you in the twin and we upgraded the double to our honeymoon suite," she said, passing the two tinkling items to him as she looked past towards his companions. "My, but they're a sweet couple."
John stalled, looking over his shoulder to where Sherlock and Billie were still standing, side by side, eyeing with considerable disapproval the local idea of fun.
"You see a lot of couples here. We do weddings, you know. I can always tell when two people are going to enjoy a happy life together."
"Oh, you can, huh?" John set his jaw, clearing his throat. "Which, uh, key is it to the twin?"
The smiling woman pointed out the one with the yellow flower charm.
"Ta. Billie," John turned and, gaining her attention, tossed her the key in an underhand arc. She caught it in her cupped hands, giving him an odd look. "Your accommodations await," He explained. "Us too, Sherlock." He jingled the remaining key as much for Sherlock to see as the woman. "Let's go. I'd like to unpack before we get started."
Sherlock nodded simply, a slight smile in the corner of his lips, as he took up his bags and walked towards the wide stairs to the rooms above. Billie went ahead of him as he stood and waited while John gave the attending woman one big smile of his own. "Thanks again. If the constable comes, let him know we've arrived and to wait in the bar if he can."
Dumbstruck and ruby red, the woman nodded mutely as John picked up his things and joined Sherlock at the stairs.
"You did that on purpose."
"Did what?" John asked, feigning innocence with as much believability as a politician.
Sherlock chuckled, eyes half closed in a rare smile, no pity spared for mere men and mortals.