Coda
part eightJohn thought nothing of the crime scene footage as he watched it on Billie's tablet. Sherlock was his usual self, spinning and dashing around the mud-made footprints with all the excitement of a two year old at the zoo while the sometimes stuttering movements of the 'camera' managed to maintain acceptable stability though still not unlike a shaky-cam horror movie. He was going to be mildly disappointed when they weren't attacked by zombies or a swamp monster. Billie's voice was much louder than all the other's but luckily she didn't say much as Sherlock rattled on instead. He was quick to point out the steps of the father and son, the way they were deeper, both men shifting in their steps with anger ("Fantastic!" Billie exclaimed and John pretended not to care that Sherlock colored as he smiled). He pointed out the retreating steps of the son, the even pace, the deep impressions of someone stomping away in rage and then, almost overlapping them, the quick steps of a man running back. Sherlock followed the son's footsteps into the woods while the audio caught Constable Wiggins asking Billie to drinks later with poor results. John wished he'd shut up with the small talk as Sherlock's call back to them was almost masked completely with one-sided flirting.
"He's innocent," Sherlock exclaimed, almost skipping his way back down into the muddy flood plain. "You can clearly see how he retreats just once and returns the same, that smear beside where the body was found being the mark made by his knees as he slid to the dead man's side."
"That's brilliant!" Billie said.
Only his hands visible on camera, the constable still managed looked annoyed. "His are the only footprints entering this area from that side and we can tell from the footprints that this was the direction Charles McCarthy was facing when he was attacked."
Sherlock paused only for a moment, his head tilting to view the large impression in the mud near the knee smear--the corpse's landing pattern. His expression was troubled, eyes growing more narrow as he seemed to consider, rethink, abandon and start again. He pulled his lips in tight, stepping back to view the larger picture, a motion Billie did not mirror. She kept the camera on Sherlock instead, not missing a single flicker across his pale face.
He started off towards the trees, ducking around them, the improvised dance awkwardly graceful over the soggy terrain. He asked questions like 'Is this where Patience would have stood?' and 'whose footsteps are these?' to which the replies were nearly obvious, most of it being in the police report. Sherlock was in the height of his element, working off so much and so little, weeding out the useful from the useless.
"Is he always like this?" the constable asked, whispering to Billie.
"Pretty much." There was not even the hint of criticism in her tone. "Isn't he amazing?"
John leaned back against the headboard, letting the tablet rest against his bent knees as his head tilted back, tongue feeling thick in his mouth as he swallowed and let the video continue on without too much interest in the rest of the investigation.
Fantastic. Brilliant. Amazing. In the first several months he'd known Sherlock, he hadn't been able to keep inside just how awesome he found the man's deductive powers to be. He could remember plain as day the quiet in the cab as Sherlock sat rather stunned at the compliment, the way he gave pause throughout the night as they continued, the way he blushed and flustered in his own quiet, reserved sort of way. John had been the only one to praise him, Lestrade's appreciation for him shown only in his belief in him as he criticized him openly for what he wasn't despite all the wonderful things he was. John wondered when exactly he became that same way.
He remembered Henry Knight more clearly than any other client, the way Sherlock's behavior had been completely unprofessional and downright rude. John had sat bored, eyes rolling in their sockets as Sherlock took the man's morning apart in every detail from stains and napkins, no longer impressed by what had been so impressive a year before and expecting more from the man who had never professed to be more than his own work. That had been before he'd lost him, in those twilight hours between wanting Sherlock to be more ordinary and simply wishing he was there. Somehow he'd never really picked back up the habit of telling him he was great. Like Lestrade, he showed his appreciation in believing in him. It wasn't the same. If the way Sherlock reacted to Billie's words was any indication, he was a little starved for that reassurance. His work had changed. Everything but his work was the way it was before or at least the way he wanted it to be. His public image as a consulting detective was still under construction and all the rules and regulations were being built and bent as needed. Sherlock could be an interesting creature in the face of change and little things like words, proof he had captivated his audience--a necessary component to genius--buffered him against all the things he couldn't alter. Sherlock could do without it, he was a very strong man who had built very tall, strong walls to defend himself, but if all it took was a few words of praise to make him happy and feel appreciated, then John could see no reason not to give him every complimentary word in the English language twice over.
It wasn't Billie's fault for still being in that beginning phase of astonishment--it was John's for becoming complacent with astonishing things.
Sherlock knew he was brilliant. Sherlock knew John thought he was fantastic, brilliant and amazing. But John had never shirked from telling a woman she looked beautiful after spending hours getting ready just to try and impress him or even first thing in the morning when her mascara had flaked black smudges under her eyes. No matter how many times Sherlock took a man apart or solved a case on almost nothing or got stumped and had to let it go, John wanted to be the one reassuring him that he was wonderful.
John took a deep breath before he realized the room had grown far too quiet. The video had stopped but more than that Sherlock had stopped pacing. He looked towards the foot-board, finding Sherlock standing still near the bed, looking at him with a slightly puzzled expression. There was no telling how long he'd been doing so.
"The second case," he said, arms clasped behind his back. "Is it us?"
John felt his hairline rise at the question, crossing his legs on the bed as he sat up. "Ah.. no. No, it's a proper case," he confessed.
"Oh." Sherlock almost looked disappointed at that, though perhaps it was reflected more at himself for getting it wrong. "You were thinking about me."
"Yeah."
"Not about the case."
"Nope."
"And?"
John licked his lips, his teeth following after. "And I was thinking how lucky I am. Brains, beauty, and the body of a slightly emaciated Greek statue."
Sherlock's scoff was more of a snicker, his cheeks coloring predictably. "Something has certainly gotten into you today. Not that I mind. It's distracting but... good."
"Distracting?" John couldn't help the one-sided smirk that tucked into his left cheek. "Still thinking about earlier?"
The detective shrugged with nonchalance, walking over to the side of the bed and leaning against the wall. He was all legs as he towered over him, looking down at his partner with his hands at his sides. "I'm not preoccupied by it but this whole thing is rather odd. An anonymous tip, a secret case, and you suddenly initiating a more physical element to our relationship within minutes of our arrival. It actually would have been a rather clever way to go about it: creating a case element to appeal to my interest in solving things. And it shows some attention to our previous discussions on the matter by relocating ourselves to a destination where falling into normal habits is less of a concern."
"We're not a case, Sherlock; we're a couple."
"Practically the same thing." He smiled with John's short chuckle, looking off at some unknown spot on the bed. "I don't think I said so at the time but I did enjoy that. Kissing hasn't been like that before and it was... good. I especially liked rutting against your thigh. You've already proven to be vastly superior to masturbation and since you are rather preoccupied with questions regarding what I want, I thought I should inform you with my educated response to the fact that I want more of that when convenient."
John tried not to let the blood rush straight to his face but the alternative destination would have been just as awkward. He cleared his throat as his hand tried to hide the blush along the back of his exposed neck. "Ah... yeah. Yes. I, uh... good. Very good. We'll do that. Thank you... for.. telling me..." He cleared his throat again. A double throat clear. He didn't have to look at Sherlock to know what face he was wearing now.
He looked anyway.
The laughing felt so good it hurt. Sherlock hid his eyes behind the shield of his hand as his rumbling baritone rolled under John's tenor. Forty was far too old to still be two blushing school boys but John didn't care and Sherlock never would. Whatever John had expected, a summation of Sherlock's favorite excerpts from their adventures in heavy petting had been far from it. He was at a loss for how else to have a grown-up discussion about what sorts of things were sexually acceptable but most of John's brain was still giggling because Sherlock said 'rutting'. They were hopeless and he loved them for it.
"Sorry," Sherlock said at last, still choking on his breath as his smile put deep creases along his face.
John shook his head, swallowing what he could of his own mirth as he wiped tears from his eyes. "No, no, I meant it. Thanks. I could tell and all but hearing you say it is good." He let his breath catch back up with him, still sighing to the tune of their laughter as the quiet returned. "I appreciate your honestly. I guess... I mean, if I'm honest myself, I was scared before. Of doing something to hurt our friendship or making you feel rushed or coerced into things. I'm not scared anymore. We've always just jumped right into everything and it's always worked out so... I just have to trust us rather than try to control us."
Sherlock cocked his head slightly as he regarded him. "What made you stop being afraid?"
"I thought of something even more terrifying."
"A life celibate?" Sherlock joked, fingers curled along the bed post at the foot of the bed as swung around to the open part of their room.
John shook his head, knees drawn with his arms resting over the tops. "A life without you."
The detective stopped, his back turned as he paused mid step into the grounds he'd earlier paced. His elbows bent, fingers likely steepled near his face as his head bent slightly. The dark curls were no longer wet and bounced with every minute movement. "The second case is dangerous?" he asked.
"I would have told you if it was." John hated the way the atmosphere changed almost immediately but Sherlock himself had switched over once more. This was case!Sherlock and case!Sherlock was busy. Something John had said had given him a clue and though John knew exactly what words they had been, how they had contributed to case!Sherlock's thoughts was a mystery.
It was for the best that things hadn't matured from a heart-to-heart into another impromptu chest-to-chest as Billie knocked on their door minutes later to find Sherlock more or less as she'd left him. He wasn't so far gone into his own thought patterns not to acknowledge her presence as John let her in but he said nothing as he plopped down on the now vacated bed, legs out and crossed at the ankles.
"He said anything?" she asked, hair still slightly damp from her shower.
John shook his head. "Not exactly." He closed the door behind her as they instead took over the empty space before the bed. "I watched the footage, though. Footprints say McCarthy didn't do it, all other evidence says he has to have. I need to talk to someone at the local jail in the morning but if it turns out James McCarthy is left-handed, it's pretty much a sealed deal." He looked over to make sure Sherlock hadn't completely zoned them out as he produced his laptop from the side table. He flipped the screen open and flashed it at Billie before dropping it in Sherlock's lap. "The wound is on the right side of Charles' head. In the vast majority of cases, a right handed man's blow strikes against the left side of his victim when standing face to face."
Sherlock let his hands part and rest on the keys, going over John's work as Billie hurried to join them. "So, wait, if he's right handed then it probably wasn't him?"
"Certainly makes it less likely."
"Or it would mean a right handed killer hit him from behind," Billie injected. "But the only footprints in the mud behind Charles' belonged to Patience and she never got close enough to Charles for her to have attacked him."
John nodded. "And the blow landed to the face, not the back of the head."
"Zipper," Sherlock said.
Both John and Billie paused and looked at him.
Sherlock turned the screen out so they could both see. "The marks on the dead man's cheek. It's a zipper imprint," he explained, zooming in on interlocking pattern.
John scowled. It seemed a bit obvious now. "Okay, so he was hit with something with a zipper on it." No sooner had he said it than did his inner detective jump for joy. "James McCarthy's bag."
"There was no bag."
"I know there wasn't but there must have been one at one time." John rushed to the foot of the bed, the fabric-draped posts standing like theatre wings as he took center stage before his audience. "Okay, so picture this. James and Charles are fighting when Patience sees them but she never says that she saw James walk away--only that she walked away. So maybe he didn't. Maybe he killed his father and then walked away. He gets quite a ways out but hears someone else in the woods and worries maybe his father isn't quite dead yet and that he might expose his killer. Thinking fast he throws the bag and runs back down to his father. Charles is dead but unfortunately for James, it's Patience again who's not buying the grieving son act for one minute. She calls the cops and his crime is discovered."
Sherlock nodded along while Billie sat perched beside him, elbowing the detective in the chest.
"He's good," she said.
Sherlock frowned slightly. "Yes, it's very impressive and also very wrong."
John gripped the foot-board, leaning hard into the bed. "You're only saying that because you didn't find a bag. Those woods aren't exactly private property though. Patience said the Turners, McCarthys and the Morans played there all the time together. Maybe check those three properties. Maybe someone picked it up and has no idea what they're actually in possession of."
"Based entirely on the assumption that James McCarthy is left-handed," Sherlock stated.
John opened his mouth to respond but found his voice lost for a moment. His pulse skipped a beat as his brain berated him sharply. This was why Sherlock wasn't supposed to be told. John was doing exactly what Church had wanted to avoid--letting biases challenge fact. He swallowed, taking a deep breath. "An assumption based on most of the evidence," he said.
"Wait, 'Patience said'?" Billie sat up straighter. "You spoke to Patience?"
"Uh, in the bar downstairs, yeah." John smiled weakly at the woman, no longer taking near as much pleasure in beating her to the interview as he had thought he would. "I wrote it all down. I'll e-mail it to you. Nothing really all that new as far as this case is concerned."
Sherlock's gaze flickered in intensity but held steady against John. He slowly nodded. "Billie, contact the constable when you've got the chance and let him know we'd like to drop in on the Turners and Morans. Also, remind him I'd like to speak with James McCarthy."
Billie nodded, finding her tablet on the mattress still and programming herself a reminder.
John tried not to show how Sherlock's request had made his chest ache. Sherlock wouldn't be allowed to see the criminal, Church had made sure of that, but it would raise suspicion if he was told 'no' in an investigation primarily being lead by him. "Actually, I thought I'd talk to McCarthy," John said, fingers still tightly curled along the frame, thinking fast. "It's one of the few things I can do in this case as a medical examiner. No one has to know that doesn't include psychiatric medicine. I could interview him. I know your methods and I can record the conversation and have it typed up for you. Save you time and give me something better to do than just sit around here all day."
"Sounds good to me," Billie said, though her opinion was rather unrequested. "We've already got two households to interview. If John can take the guy in jail then that's one less stop to make. Probably even give us time enough to maybe get Patience to walk us through it at the scene."
Sherlock looked between the two of them questioningly, not enjoying their present company by the look on his face. He was outnumbered though hopefully not by stupid. With a long sigh he sank back into the pillows, kicking his shoes off like projectiles at John. "Fine," he said at last, catching John in the chest and arm.
John looked at him reproachfully but felt none of it. He was too relieved to have steered them clear of the hiccups they would have encountered had Sherlock pursued an audience with James McCarthy. That simply wasn't going to happen.
And certainly not without John there at his side.
Billie blew out a long breath as she hoisted herself off the bed. "Okay, John, medical notes and your notes from your talk to Patience in my e-mail in the next five minutes. Sounds like I have some catching up to do before bed." She stretched, a yawn slipping through as she padded towards the door. "Or with a side of eggs in the morning."
"Yeah, I'll send them as soon as Sherlock gives me my laptop back," he promised, not bothering to be bothered at being ordered. It wasn't actually his case.
Billie wished them both a goodnight and let herself out. Sherlock ignored her in favor of throwing his shirt at John, lamp-shading him with one good toss.