Follow up to The League of Red-Headed Gentlemen
Chapter 1: The Eyes & Ears of London
For all intents and purposes the homeless were invisible. Or at least they were to the many Londoners’ that rushed past them. They moved along as quickly as they could, never making eye contact or sparing a thought as to what would lead someone to choose to live life rough on the streets.
It was this aspect that made The Homeless Network the invaluable asset that they were. They saw and heard all manner of things that they weren’t supposed to.
People were so careless around them. They didn’t care what they said and did in front of them. The homeless they regarded as non-entities, having little to no value.
Sherlock Holmes knew better.
Being one of them for a time had taught him that.
DRUG DEN SOMEWHERE IN LONDON – THE PRESENT
It had been three months since he’d last seen her. Not since that night, the night when she had been the one to deduce him and what he’d known about The Red Headed League.
He had tried to talk to her, see her since then. But she’d refused, even going so far as to restrict his access to the morgue at Bart’s so that he wasn’t permitted to enter if it was her shift.
She said she still needed time.
It hadn’t occurred to him how much his unwillingness to share with her what he knew would hurt her. In fact, he still wasn’t sure he understood.
He hadn’t deduced quite how she’d react. He’d been so confident that he could talk her round.
“Sheeza,” Billy Wiggins shook the unconscious man with growing urgency. But there was no response.
He lifted a limp wrist, noting the multiple injection sights that resembled a pincushion. The drug had been injected recently, and of a high dosage, if ‘Sheeza’s’ comatose state was anything to go by.
An intervention was needed, and for that Billy was going to need help, and he knew exactly where to go.
DR J. H. WATSON’S MEDICAL PRACTICE
John Watson let out a sigh of relief when his last patient for the day left. It had been an extremely busy day, and all he wanted to do was go home to his wife and baby daughter and relax.
What he didn’t need was a possibly drug affected madman barging into his surgery. He was just getting ready to wrestle the man out when the man said.
“Sheeza’s in a bad way Doc. I’m real worried about ‘im.”
He immediately recognised the man as one of Sherlock’s Homeless Network. It was his self-appointed protégé, Wiggins.
Without a second thought John responded. “Take me to him.”
But when they got there, Sherlock was gone.
The only sign that he’d been there was a hand written note he’d left pinned to the wall.
‘You can’t help me this time John, no one can. Tell Molly I’m sorry, for everything.’
SH
DRUG DEN – AN HOUR EARLIER
As soon as Billy had rushed off, Sherlock knew where he was headed. It was time for him to move on.
He quickly scribbled a note, collected the few belongings he had with him and headed back out on the streets.
With the drugs still in his system, Sherlock was finding it difficult to concentrate. It usually took him a couple of hours on average to come down from his drug-induced high. But circumstances had meant that he had been forced to leave before he had his cognitive faculties back in order.
That and the fact it been several years since he’d last seriously indulged. The Magnussen case didn’t count, he’d made sure that he’d only used enough to give the impression he was back on drugs.
Absently he rubbed his cheek as he remembered Molly’s reaction after she’d performed the drug test John had requested.
The usually sweet, adorable Molly was nowhere to be seen as she let rip, slapping him twice on one cheek, once on the other.
Shaking with an uncontrolled mixture of rage and disappointment, she looked him right in the eye as she vented her feelings. “How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with, and how dare you betray the love of your friends. Say you’re sorry.”
How he wished she’d reacted the same way when she’d worked out that Irene Adler had been behind The Red Headed League. At least then it would have brought everything to a head.
But as things were, with her unwillingness to see or speak to him about it made him fear that she was withdrawing from him, not just physically but emotionally as well.
When she’d slapped him that day in the lab it had shown absolutely how much she still cared.
And if she no longer did…
The very thought made him stumble to a halt. Leaning against the nearest hard surface, Sherlock allowed his suddenly wobbly legs to collapse under him as he slid down to the cold, hard pavement.
He needed Molly, wanted her… loved her.
But had he ever told her? Shown her how irreplaceable she was to him?
Damn the drugs, they were making him overly sentimental. He shook his head vigorously in a vain attempt to clear his mind of such thoughts.
What he wouldn’t give now for a case…
THE STREET’S OF LONDON – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE
Pain, that told him that he’d been lying in the awkward position for quite some time. The cold, hard, gritty surface that rubbed against his stubbled cheek indicated he was outside. The vibrations of cars as they made there way at regular intervals led to there being only one logical conclusion about his current whereabouts.
Slowly raising his head that felt like it weighed twice what it should, he silently ordered his eyes that preferred to remain ignorant to open and face the harsh reality and inescapable truth.
He way laying facedown in a gutter on the side of the road, with no memory of how he ended up there.
Morphine was his current opiate of choice.
Drug’s helped to calm the constant clamour in his mind. They slowed the chaos going on within his brain. They reduced the loud voices down to a gentle murmur. They relaxed him, and let him sleep.
That is what he told himself over and over as he attempted to focus on his surroundings.
As his vision gradually cleared he became aware of a pair of battered old boots inches from his face.
“You look as if you’re in need of help,” noted the owner of the boots in a gruff but kindly voice. “I think I can help you there.”
Chapter 3: A Brother's Account
THE DIOGENES CLUB, VISITOR’S ROOM – THE PRESENT
Mycroft Holmes led John into the only room where speaking was permitted before closing the door securely behind them.
He made his way over to a chair in the middle of the room. Before sitting he poured himself a large whisky and indicated for John to sit in the chair opposite.
“What do I owe the honour of this visit?” he asked, though John was certain he already knew.
“Information,” he replied.
“Concerning?” it was clear Mycroft was still miffed over the events of The Red Headed League and was determined to draw things out as long as possible.
Except John wasn’t in the mood to play games. He’d come to get answers and he wasn’t leaving until he got them. “I need to know about Sherlock…”
“I don’t know where he is.”
Refusing to allow Mycroft’s petulant attitude to deter him. John leaned forward and pointed out. “I didn’t ask you where he was Mycroft. And before you say anything further I know bloody well that you do know where he is, you always do.”
Something in the former army doctor’s expression warned Mycroft to tread carefully when he responded. “What is it you want to know?” he finally asked in resignation.
John relaxed back into his chair. “I want to know about Sherlock’s drug addiction. When did it begin, and why?”
Mycroft’s expression became thoughtful as he observed the man sitting opposite him. It was clear that the minor government official was debating how much he should reveal.
“You have to understand John,” he began. “Sherlock and I found it extremely difficult dealing with the average person. We’ve both become more adept at it as adults, but while we were growing up it was incredibly difficult.”
John knew on a rudimentary level the difficulties that child prodigies suffered. But he needed details. Details specific to Sherlock.
Mycroft let out a dramatic sigh. “The usual,” he began. When John leant forward once again he quickly went into specifics, or at least those details that would be pertinent to John’s understanding of what made Sherlock the way he was. “It may surprise you to learn John, but as a young boy Sherlock was a very sensitive child.”
“The young Sherlock fully embraced the concept of sentiment, despite my best efforts to educate him on such a folly.”
“I’m sure you did.” John noted wryly.
“Things especially came to a head with Redbeard.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow in surprise. “He’s never mentioned Redbeard?”
“You should ask him when you see him next. Suffice it to say that the little boy who dreamed of being a pirate needed a first mate and he found the perfect one in Redbeard.”
“What happened?” John asked, though he was fairly confident he knew the answer.
“Redbeard died,” Mycroft responded. “Heartbroken he came to me to teach him how to block sentiment and all other painful and unnecessary emotions.”
“That was good of you,” John noted, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.
“Sadly Sherlock was not the best of students. I could get him to a certain point and then he’d try to make friends, impress others, and try to be accepted by his peers. It always ended in tears. And then he went off to university.”
“He was introduced to drugs,” Mycroft stated simply. “They became his solution for distancing himself from the distraction and destructive forces of emotional entanglements.”
“And what did you do about it?”
“Once we became aware of just how bad the situation was he was placed in one of England’s most prestigious rehabilitation facilities.”
“How many times has he relapsed between then and now?”
“A handful of times. But minor in comparison to this latest episode.”
Cautiously John queried. “And what do you put that down to?”
Mycroft smiled coolly. “Since meeting you Sherlock has once again opened himself up to the possibilities offered by sentiment. His recent attachment to Doctor Hooper has certainly made him extremely vulnerable to the emotions surrounding matters of the heart. This is one area for which he has little experience. The emotion not the physical act.”
When John made no comment, Mycroft clarified his statement.
“It amuses me that so many people assume Sherlock is a virgin. But I can assure you that my little brother while high on whatever drug of choice he happened to be on, has had his fair share of sexual encounters. As to whether he remembers the exact details, well I’ll leave that to your… imagination.”
Observing Mycroft’s smug, self-satisfied smirk had John getting up from his seat and without a backward glance leaving the room. If he stayed a moment longer he knew that there was a fair to reasonable chance that he would have done something he knew he wouldn’t have regretted.
SALVATION ARMY SOUP KITCHEN – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE
Old Harry as the old man had introduced himself, led Sherlock to a table where they both sat and began to eat the food on their trays.
At least Sherlock attempted to. Except that every mouthful he ate might as well have been sawdust for the lack of taste.
He observed the others around him. Everyone else seemed to be chowing down their meals with relish. Some were even going up to get seconds.
Confused by his inability to taste the food in front of him, his nose soon gave him a clue as it began to twitch with distaste.
It was then that Sherlock became acutely aware of the fragrant hum that permeated the air around him.
It came from the other people who sat at their table.
“Ah now, none of that,” Harry said a little impatiently, having clearly interpreted Sherlock’s thoughts. “We’re all equals here.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but was silenced by the stern expression of his companion.
“There’s a lot you have to learn Sherlock if you want to survive on the streets,” Harry stated firmly. “The first is that you leave your airs and graces behind you, they wont serve you here. The second is acceptance of your fellow street dwellers. You’re now in the same position as them. Treat them with respect and they’ll teach you how to survive. Remember that.”
THE STREETS OF LONDON - THE PRESENT
Sherlock was knocked out of his Mind Palace when his head was smacked hard against the building where he was currently sitting.
“Sherlock!” came the desperate plea from a young woman who was crouched down in front of him. She shook him vigorously again to make sure she had his attention.
He instantly recognised her as a member of his Homeless Network.
Alice got to her feet before pulling Sherlock to his. “This way,” she said as she grabbed hold of his hand and dragged him down the street.
Alice led Sherlock to a little park.
“Over there,” she said pointing in the direction of some bushes.
Sherlock made his way over. It didn’t take him long to discover what Alice had brought him to see.
Lying under the bush as if asleep was a homeless man. Pinned to his shirt was a note. It read:
‘The labour of the righteous leads to life;
the activity of the wicked leads to sin.’
Sherlock stared at the note for several minutes. Its implications bringing back unwelcome memories.
HYDE PARK – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE
He knew Harry was dead even before he checked his pulse. The old man’s skin was cold to the touch, so he’d been dead some time.
Sherlock frowned. Harry had recently moved into temporary accommodation provided by The Salvation Army. There was no reason for him to be living rough, yet here he was.
An initial inspection showed that his few personal possessions were not on him. They would have been of no monetary value to anyone wishing to steal them. And anyway, if anyone had attempted to take them Harry would’ve put up a fight for them. Yet it was clear that no such altercation had taken place. There were no marks of violence upon the body that Sherlock could see. In fact in his current position, resting as he was curled up on his side, Harry presented an image of one who was at peace.
Given his age, somewhere between 65-70, coupled with his poor health that Sherlock had deduced had not been good for a number of years and hadn’t been improved by living on the streets, his death could hardly be regarded as suspicious.
And yet… something wasn’t right.
Crouching down, Sherlock began examining the body more closely.
A quick smell of his mouth had Sherlock wrinkling his nose at the telltale scent of vomit. But he could detect no sign of alcohol, Harry’s main vice and the cause of his decent into homelessness.
Sitting back on his haunches Sherlock sat in silent contemplation. There was any number of plausible explanations for the old man’s death. Natural causes, an undiagnosed heart condition.
These explanations were simple, straightforward and to the point.
Sherlock again leant down over the body, as he did so he caught a whiff of something. It wasn’t aftershave, or perfume, or any type of soap or lotion that he was aware of. The scent tickled at the edges of his consciousness, but before he could name it, it had slipped free, vanishing into the breeze.
His attention was suddenly caught by a slip of paper clutched in the old man’s hand.
A closer examination was enough to convince Sherlock that the paper had been placed in Harry’s hand after death.
Unwilling to disturb the body lest he contaminate any evidence, he attempted to read what had been scribbled on the paper.
‘… feed many, but fools die for lack…’
Sherlock re-read the words several times, but could make little sense of them.
He was certain that they’d been written for a reason, but he was at a loss as to their exact meaning.
The Police he knew would need to be contacted. But would they be concerned over the death of yet another vagrant who chose to live on the street?
There was nothing for it. Official channels needed to be put into action. Sherlock was convinced that once the police saw the note, which in itself indicated that Harry’s death couldn’t be regarded as natural or accidental. That left only one logical explanation. It was murder, premeditated murder.
221B BAKER STREET – THE PRESENT
John had no sooner opened the front door than Mrs Hudson came rushing out of her flat.
It was apparent from her crestfallen expression that she’d hoped the one walking through the door would be Sherlock. But she quickly rallied her spirits, ushering the doctor into her flat. “Come in John, come in.”
But no matter how cheerful she tried to sound it was clear she was worried.
“Sit down John,” she insisted as she busied herself with preparing them both a cup of tea. “Any news?” she asked as she brought the cups over to the table where John was seated.
He waited until she had sat down before replying. “Not as yet.”
The hope in the landlady’s eyes died.
“I’m certain Mycroft and Lestrade are keeping an eye out for him and Wiggins is checking with the homeless network. He’ll be found soon and I’m sure he’ll be fine, this is Sherlock we’re talking about,” John attempted to reassure her.
Unfortunately his words had the opposite effect, leaving her looking even more distressed.
John reached over, taking one of her hands in his. “Can you tell me anything about Sherlock’s younger days? Mycroft said he started using drugs at uni…”
“I don’t know that it’s really my place to say,” Mrs Hudson replied.
“I need to understand,” John pleaded.
Mrs Hudson took a deep breath. “Very well, I’ll tell you what I can,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
“The drug use, how bad was it?”
“I don’t know the full details of Sherlock’s drug addiction, what I’ve been told is largely second hand. If you require a more detailed account you need to speak to his mother.”
John nodded. “I understand.”
“University instead of being the ideal solution ended up becoming a total nightmare. Sherlock’s parents thought that by going to university he might finally start making friends. And he did, just not the type they were hoping for,” Mrs Hudson paused to collect her thoughts. “By the time they found out about his drug use, he’d already been experimenting with a wide range. He claimed he was doing it as part of a science experiment, ‘the affects of narcotics on a superior mind’. Then when they got him into rehab he caused a hullabaloo, demanding they give him his drugs because they helped to calm and quieten his mind.”
John had only witnessed Sherlock’s drug use once to his knowledge. But he had seen the affects prolonged drug use had on people and how they behaved when they couldn’t get their next fix.
“Were drugs his only vice?”
“John,” Mrs Hudson admonished gently. “You know the answer to that as well as I do.”
John shrugged. “Just checking. So Sherlock was already putting his deductive skills to use?” he asked distractedly as he remembered Sherlock telling him about his first case, Carl Powers as well as the comments made by one of Sherlock’s former uni associates at the time of the case he’d chronicled under the title The Blind Banker.
“Well he had to put that colossal brain of his to some practical use,” Mrs Hudson noted with a smile. “Though to be fair the idea of turning his rather unorthodox observational skills and using them in a professional manner wasn’t Sherlock’s idea at all.”
This was news to John, the second time that day that he’d heard something about Sherlock that he had no knowledge of. He certainly did appear drawn to people who either had secrets or knew how to keep them.
“So who’s idea was it?” he asked.
“Sherlock did have one friend at university, Victor Trevor. He found Sherlock’s abilities intriguing, where others were made uncomfortable by them.”
“They wouldn’t be the last.” John noted dryly.
“No,” Mrs Hudson agreed. “Anyway, Victor had told his father all about Sherlock, and his father was likewise curious about these amazing abilities. So at term break Mr Trevor invited Sherlock to accompany Victor to the family home. It was Victor’s father who spotted a potential career choice for the gifts that up until then Sherlock used mainly to relieve boredom.”
“Well at least we now know who to blame,” John joked, but immediately became serious when he saw Mrs Hudson’s expression.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Mr Trevor may have had an ulterior motive for asking Sherlock to visit. It turned out that he had become the victim of a blackmailer, someone he knew from his younger days.”
“Was Sherlock able to help out?”
“I believe so,” Mrs Hudson nodded. “But not before Mr Trevor died. The probable cause was a stress related heart attack.”
“Was Sherlock involved in many cases after that?”
“The odd one or two. After university he moved to London and rented a flat in Montague Street. It was while there that another former university associate, Reginald Musgrave engaged him concerning the disappearance of an employee.”
“How did that case turn out?”
“Not well for the employee, he was found dead. He’d come across a family heirloom belonging to the Musgrave family. Something called The Musgrave Ritual. To Reg and previous generations of his family it was nothing more than a silly children’s nursery rhyme. But this employee realised that the words of the rhyme were in fact directions.”
“You’re kidding me!” John exclaimed.
“No dear,” Mrs Hudson shook her head. “All true. And what’s more, they found it.”
“I believe it was the crown of Charles I, but you’d need to verify that with Sherlock.”
Mrs Hudson got up, collected their cups and took them over to the sink.
“So that’s how Sherlock became a consulting detective,” John mused aloud.
“Oh no,” Mrs Hudson corrected. “That happened about, oh, eight years or so ago. Sherlock was using drugs again and was living on the streets at the time. I seem to remember there was something about the death of an elderly homeless man. If you want more details you might want to speak to Inspector Lestrade, its how they met.”
John got up and walked over to his former landlady and gave her a kiss on the cheek, before heading out. “Thanks Mrs H, I’ll do that.”
“Keep me informed if you hear anything,” Mrs Hudson called out after him.
Chapter 5: The Police Report
NEW SCOTLAND YARD – THE PRESENT
When John walked into Lestrade’s office, the detective inspector remarked. “I wondered when you’d get to me.”
“How did you…?” John began as he took a seat opposite.
Lestrade snorted in annoyance. “I have been in the Police Force over twenty years, John,” he remarked. “I may not possess Sherlock’s particular skill-set, but I am perfectly capable of working out certain things, especially when they concern me as well,” he paused briefly before continuing. “You’re concerned about Sherlock, and you’ve been attempting to understand the man before you knew him, in the hope that it will help to make sense of why he has chosen to go back to a life on the streets.”
“Is that how you first met him?” John asked, genuinely curious. “On the streets.”
HYDE PARK – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE
Sherlock stood guard over Harry’s body, having sent another homeless person to fetch the police.
But when the Police eventually turned up, Sherlock was left disappointed and dismayed by their lack of professionalism.
After almost completely trampling the ground around the body, and a brief examination of Old Harry’s body, the detective in charge was of the opinion that the death was not suspicious. Detective Jones was satisfied that it was clearly an open and shut case of suicide, nothing more.
Before Sherlock could point out the features of interest that his own examination had found, the police had departed the scene, far quicker than the time it had taken them to arrive.
Sherlock stood where he was a moment, completely stunned.
But once Harry’s body was taken away Sherlock was determined that his mentor and friend would receive justice.
NEW SCOTLAND YARD – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had just settled into his chair in his new office when he became aware of a commotion. Sighing in resignation he reluctantly got up from his seat and went to investigate the ruckus.
What he found was a couple of constables attempting to restrain a young homeless man. But it was clear he was not your regular deadbeat down-and-out. This young man was tall, with a mass of unruly curly hair, had a bearing and grace about him. He also possessed a very commanding voice and attitude. Clearly someone used to getting his own way.
“Anyone with eyes can see it wasn’t suicide,” the man stated in growing agitation.
Detective Jones looked at the man with unconcealed contempt. The last thing he needed was some posh git, who clearly dabbled a bit too often with illegal narcotics, cocaine would be his guess, trying to lord it over him. It was clear that despite his current situation he’d come from a well-to-do upbringing. As far as Jones was concerned all the young man’s airs and graces, and so-called connections stood for naught compared to the facts at hand.
“It was suicide,” he snarled. “Life had become too hard on the street…”
“He’d moved into accommodation provided by the Salvation Army.”
“Some random quote from the Bible, not written in his own hand.”
“Alcohol was Harry’s vice, not drugs.”
The young man intrigued Lestrade. He was clearly intelligent, but his attitude would likely see him being charged, with insubordination and thrown in the slammer, if Jones’ expression was anything to go by.
Stepping forward Lestrade addressed his comments to the young man. “Why don’t we take this conversation into my office, yeah?”
The man looked at Lestrade, assessing him and his sincerity. Whatever he read had him relaxing and nodding his head in agreement.
The constables immediately released him and he followed Lestrade into his office.
NEW SCOTLAND YARD – THE PRESENT
“So was it suicide?” John asked.
“That was the official finding. But Sherlock never believed it.”
“Well he wouldn’t, would he?”
“No,” Lestrade replied, though it was clear he was lost in thought.
John got to his feet. “Thanks Greg. Let me know if you hear anything.”
“Yeah, will do.” Lestrade responded as he too got to his feet and lead John to the door.
Ten minutes after John left, Sherlock barged into his office.
“It’s happening again Lestrade. We have to do something.”
Apart from his clothes and his unkempt appearance, Sherlock appeared no different than his normal demanding self. A little agitated maybe…
“I’m fine Lestrade,” Sherlock snapped quickly becoming frustrated with the detective inspectors lack of response to his request.
Lestrade shook his head ruefully. ‘Yep, same old Sherlock.’ “What’s happening again?”
As Sherlock finished his explanation, Lestrade’s mobile rang.
“Yeah, right. We’ll be there shortly.” Putting his phone away, he grabbed his jacket. “Your homeless person has been taken to the morgue at Barts. Coming?”
Instead of barging off ahead as was usual with Sherlock, he hung back. Lestrade knew why the consulting detective was hesitating. Going to Barts meant seeing Molly. Lestrade had absolutely no idea what had gone wrong with Sherlock and Molly’s relationship. Neither of them would talk about it. But it is clear that being apart wasn’t making either of them any happier.
“You can’t avoid her forever Sherlock,” he said. “At some point you’re going to have to face Molly, and it might as well be now.”
Chapter 6: Straight to the Heart
BART’S MORGUE – THE PRESENT
Molly waited anxiously for Lestrade and Sherlock to arrive. Greg had texted her that they were on their way.
She hadn’t seen Sherlock for several months. She’d needed time to get over the hurt she had felt on realising that he had known all along that Irene Adler had been behind The Red-Headed League. At the time she’d convinced herself she was justified, but as weeks turned into months she realised that she may have overreacted. At the very least she should have allowed Sherlock to explain.
At that moment a dishevelled and clearly uncomfortable Sherlock entered the morgue in the company of Lestrade, Molly thought her heart would break, he looked so lost, so unsure of himself. Without hesitation she made her way over to Sherlock and drew him aside so they could speak in private.
Sherlock braced himself, remembering clearly the last time he’d faced Molly when he’d temporarily returned to using drugs. At least then it had been for a case.
But her response to his appearance this time had nothing to do with anger.
“I’m so sorry, Sherlock for the way I behaved,” she began.
“You’re…you’re sorry?” the consulting detective responded, clearly taken aback by her words.
“Yes,” she confirmed as tears welled up in her expressive eyes. “Can you forgive me for the way I acted? I have no excuse other than that I was afraid…”
This was not at all how he’d imagined this conversation would go. He’d been so certain that Molly would be disgusted by him and angry that he slipped back into substance abuse. Instead she was pleading for his forgiveness.
“Afraid? Why were you afraid?” he queried, his voice cracking with emotions so long suppressed. Then a worrying thought occurred to him. “Not of me…?”
“No! No, no,” Molly hastily assured him.
“Then why?” he asked, now genuinely confused.
“I shouldn’t have walked out that night, after The League of Red-Headed Gentlemen case had been sorted. I should have had more faith in you… Trusted you.”
Though Molly had started her explanation calmly, she soon became more emotional.
“I was afraid that you would tire of me before our relationship ever got a chance to develop. I was so certain that you’d get bored with me, and had even convinced myself that that was possibly why our relationship hadn’t gone any further…intimately speaking.”
Molly cringed as she heard the words she was speaking aloud. It all sounded so ridiculous, but she conceded that’s what happened when you allowed your insecurities to take control. Taking a deep breath she finished her explanation. “It seemed to be the only explanation for your not confiding in me about…” She paused briefly, glancing over at Lestrade, who was doing a terrible job of trying to not look like he was watching the couple. “That woman,” she finished quietly, so that only Sherlock could hear.
“You can’t honestly believe that I would ever leave you for…” Sherlock responded in disbelief.
But the look on Molly’s face brought him up short. And he instantly berated himself for not recognising Molly’s need for a little reassurance. In his defence he was still very new to the whole relationship thing. His previous encounters nothing more than sexual liaisons, a means to ridding himself of pent up sexual frustration without the emotional entanglements associated with developing a loving relationship with a significant other. And that too was probably why their relationship hadn’t gone any further than kissing and cuddling. He’d feared that once they’d become sexually intimate, ‘made love’, then that would be the trigger for him to pull away before he became too emotionally involved.
With a rueful laugh, Sherlock gathered Molly into his arms. “Oh Molly mine,” he murmured into her ear. “What fools we’ve been.”
Molly released a sigh of heartfelt relief and nodded her head in agreement as she wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled up against the reassuring beat of his heart.
A subtle clearing of a throat was enough to remind Sherlock that he was at Barts for a reason. With great reluctance he released his hold on Molly and stepped back.
“So,” he said, as he cleared his throat and made his way over to the covered corpse, and waited for Molly to join him.
“I’ll let you know my findings,” Molly promised him. “And I’ll compare what I find with what appeared in the pathology reports from the original case.”
Sherlock turned to Lestrade. It was clear from the cheeky grin he received from the Detective Inspector that he’d contacted Molly before their arrival.
He turned back to Molly. “Well I’ll leave things in your capable hands, while I head bake to Baker Street to change.”
“And have a bath,” Molly added.
Sherlock glared at her, but there was a mischievous glint in his eye. Then to Molly, and Lestrade’s complete surprise Sherlock pulled Molly into his arms and snogged her breathless, before turning to sweep dramatically out of the morgue.
The World’s Only Consulting Detective was back.
Chapter 7: Turning Detective
221B BAKER STREET – THE PRESENT
When John entered Sherlock’s flat the telltale sound of running water alerted him to the consulting detective’s current location.
Flopping down into his old chair, the former army doctor pulled out his mobile phone and re-read the text he’d received twenty minutes earlier.
It was the first communication he’d had from his friend following the fallout from the conclusion of The League of Red-Headed Gentlemen case; the brief note left at the drug den notwithstanding.
He was just putting his phone back in his pocket when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. Though clean-shaven and impeccably dressed, his gaunt appearance spoke volumes about the toll that this latest relapse into addiction had taken on him physically, and no doubt emotionally.
But before John could question him, an agitated Billy Wiggins burst into the room.
In the blink of an eye Sherlock was once again the hard-edged criminal investigator, as he brusquely demanded. “Which one?”
“All three,” came the reply.
Rubbing his hands together, the detective responded excitedly. “Ohhh! Better and better.”
John looked from one to the other in complete and utter confusion, hoping that an explanation would soon be forthcoming. When it became clear that this wasn’t going to happen he decided to remind both men of his presence. “Care to share?”
Sherlock immediately fired off the necessary facts. “The three main suspects in a series of unexplained deaths from eight years ago have returned to the scene of the crime, at the precise moment that more deaths have started occurring.”
John watched his friend closely. There was something about this case that differed from others they’d worked together on. He recalled Greg’s story about the homeless man who’d apparently suicided several years before.
Choosing to test a theory, John finally surmised. “So, someone’s killing homeless people again?”
If Sherlock was surprised he didn’t show it, simply responding “Very good John. I see Lestrade has told you about how The Homeless Network came into being.”
“Not all, but some.” John admitted.
Impatient as he was to get on with his investigation Sherlock knew a brief explanation, for the time being, was needed. “Eight years ago a homeless man I knew died, in somewhat suspicious circumstances.” Though his explanation began calmly enough, the memory of that time caused the usually unflappable detective to become emotional. “Most of the fools at Scotland Yard dismissed the death as suicide. As far as they were concerned it was one less individual living rough for them to worry about. It was clear that the only way to get anything done was to investigate the case myself. To that end I decided to set up a network that I could use to assist me in investigating his death as well as those of other homeless men and women whose deaths all took place around the same time. The obvious choice was those people that these deaths most affected, and it grew from there…”
OUTSIDE NEW SCOTLAND YARD – EIGHT YEARS BEFORE
Sherlock was furious when he emerged from New Scotland Yard.
They were all idiots, lazy, incompetent…
Though, to be fair there had been one, Inspector Lestrade, who appeared to be a more than reasonable man, and an above average policeman. But for all that he failed to grasp the gravity of the situation, or the significance of what Sherlock had informed Scotland Yard with regards to his knowledge of the victim and the particular something that, admittedly he still couldn’t place, but for which he was absolutely certain would prove beyond a doubt that Old Harry’s death was due to foul play, and not an open and shut suicide.
But just how he could prove it, that was the problem.
As Sherlock approached where he’d found Old Harry it was clear that all signs of the police’s involvement had been meticulously removed. In its place a small shrine of flowers had emerged.
Harry had been well respected amongst the homeless. His unexpected death had left many devastated.
A flash of inspiration suddenly took a hold of him. If Scotland Yard wouldn’t investigate, maybe those who had a vested interest in seeing justice done should.
Sherlock felt a growing excitement the more he thought about it, The Homeless Network, perfect! They could go anywhere virtually unseen, or more correctly ignored by the public in general.
A determined glint appeared in his eyes, as he nodded to himself. ‘Yes! This could actually work.’
It had taken Sherlock longer than he’d anticipated, due in part to his not having developed the level of trust and respect that those living rough had for Old Harry.
But once it got around that Sherlock was actively investigating Harry’s case, a number of homeless offered their assistance.
As with any criminal investigation, there was a set of procedures that were rigorously followed and adhered to.
Harry’s movements 24 hours before his death were reconstructed in detail.
Anyone who had seen him during that period was interviewed, with any relevant information carefully noted down.
As information was accumulated it was discovered that the circumstances of Harry’s death strongly resembled those of several other homeless people who had passed away in questionable circumstances over the previous eight weeks.
Sherlock, confident that he now possessed enough information to get a formal police investigation underway, was left frustrated and angry when he efforts were still dismissed.
Only Detective Inspector Lestrade showed any interest and empathy with his efforts, proving himself a trusted ally by allowing Sherlock access to the autopsy reports. Unfortunately whoever had written the report was completely incompetent, with only a cursory investigation into the cause of death. In conclusion the report agreed with the police finding, and simply verified death by suicide.
Sherlock refused to be defeated, he knew there was more to these deaths than met the eye.
As his investigation continued, three people continued to pop up as persons of interest. Sherlock was certain it couldn’t be a coincidence. And if they were involved, were they working separately, or together?
221B BAKER STREET – THE PRESENT
“So your suspects were a preacher, a social worker and a evangelistic homeless man,” John clarified.
“And they came up on your radar why?”
“It’s difficult to put into words,” Sherlock freely admitted. “You just got the feeling that something was off when you were around them, like they had an agenda…”
“A higher calling perhaps,” John suggested.
“Yes, that’s it! That’s it precisely,” Sherlock exclaimed excitedly.
John nodded with growing understanding. He’d heard of similar cases within the medical profession. Rogue doctors performing unethical, and in many cases illegal procedures, under the belief that because of who they were that they had the right.
“Were you not able to get any information into their backgrounds?”
Sherlock shook his head. “As helpful as Lestrade was, he wasn’t prepared to order a background check purely based on the word of a homeless, junkie tosser like me.”
As he spoke Sherlock collected his belstaff and put it on.
John noted the spring was back in his step, and when the consulting detective turned back to him, there was a definite twinkle in his eye.
“It’s a good thing my word carries more weight these days,” Sherlock remarked before he turned and headed out the door with Billy Wiggins trailing after him.
John shook his head in rueful resignation as he got up from the chair and made his way down the stairs.
The game was once again on.
Chapter 8: Justice For All
SCOTLAND YARD – THE PRESENT
By the time Sherlock, John and Wiggins arrived at his office Lestrade had requested the background checks Sherlock had wanted, but they had not as yet arrived. In the meanwhile he had retrieved the files relating to Old Harry’s death and the others from eight years ago.
Reading through each file it didn’t take Sherlock long to find exactly what he was expecting to see.
“Look here,” he pointed out to the others. “And here, and here, and here.”
All the victims had been found with a note, with a quote from the Bible. All the notes had been handwritten, and even to the untrained eye, now that they were all together, it was clear to see that they were written in the same hand.
So if they’d been written in the same hand? That meant only one thing. “None of these deaths were caused by natural causes or the result of suicide.”
John was now reading through the medical examination. “There were no signs of violence on any of the bodies,” he noted.
“These deaths were planned. And the victims were more than likely poisoned by someone they knew, and trusted.”
“But surely if they’d been poisoned, it would have shown up in the autopsy reports?” Lestrade argued.
“Depends on the type of poison used, and how it was administered.”
At that moment Sherlock’s mobile pinged. It was a text from Molly.
“Send those reports I asked for to Barts Morgue,” Sherlock instructed as he John and Wiggins headed out the door.
Sherlock swept in and immediately made his way over to where Molly stood.
“You’ve found something,” he correctly surmised, indicating the body she’d completed the autopsy on.
“Yes,” Molly responded. “And based on what I’ve read in the autopsy reports on the other victims, they were all killed the same way.”
Sherlock felt vindicated, and relieved. Here was proof that he had been right, Old Harry and the others had been the victims of murder.
Sherlock’s eyebrow shot up in surprise.
“Or to be more specific,” Molly continued. “Tellurium was used first, before a minuscule dose of sodium-tellurite was introduced into their systems. Over a period of time the toxins built up, leading to internal bleeding and ultimately respiratory failure.”
Sherlock nodded his head thoughtfully. “Clever,” he noted softly.
“Obviously,” Sherlock replied. When John continued to look slightly perplexed, Sherlock shook his head demanding with some irritation. “You’re a doctor are you not?”
Before John could retaliate at the jibe, Sherlock went into full deductive mode.
“Tellurium in its elemental form at least is not particularly toxic. But the impact from consuming it leads to certain side effects, most notably bad breath and body odour. As the homeless and poor hygiene have become fairly synonymous to the general public, any homeless person showing these symptoms wouldn’t be regarded as cause for concern.”
“Okay,” John readily acknowledged.
“So it would then be easy to now up the ante and change to sodium tellurite which is far more dangerous, yet the effects from its poisoning could be put down to alcoholic poisoning or a drug overdose.”
John nodded in understanding. “So how come it wasn’t picked up in the original autopsy reports eight years ago?”
“Incompetence,” was the detective’s bitter response.
“Testing for a wider range of poisons has advanced considerably over the last eight years,” Molly pointed out feeling a need to defend a former fellow colleague, though she couldn’t quite meet Sherlock’s eye as she said it.
At that moment Lestrade entered the morgue with the background checks Sherlock wanted.
“You didn’t have to bring them yourself Lestrade.”
“Yeah well, decided I might as well,” the inspector said. “On the off chance you found something in here that could lead to an immediate arrest.”
Sherlock took the files. Glancing through them he immediately dismissed Father Francis O’Leary and Capt. Harold Elliott of the Salvation Army as likely suspects.
But the file relating to Dennis Murray, an evangelistic homeless man caught his attention.
Murray had worked for a company that manufactured DVD-Rs and Blurays. After losing his job, he’d had a few run-ins with the police: drunkenness, involved in fights and stalking...
“Well this looks suggestive,” Sherlock remarked. “He’s had access to tellurium, and has an interesting rap sheet. If nothing else it will be enough to bring him in for questioning.”
“But just because he worked in an industry that uses tellurium doesn’t explain how he was able to purchase it. It’s not like you can just buy it at the local supermarket?” Molly pointed out.
“He may still have contacts within the company,” Sherlock noted. “Or he got it through the black market, or possibly the dark web.”
He handed the report back to Lestrade. “The only way we’ll know for certain is to find him. The network still has eyes on him?” he confirmed as he turned to Wiggins.
Wiggins nodded in the affirmative.
“Then I think it’s time for a little chat with Mr Murray.”
CHURCH GRAVEYARD – SEVERAL HOURS LATER
She found him standing before the unmarked grave where Old Harry had been buried. He turned as she approached, and she marvelled at the soft look that came into his eyes, a special expression reserved solely for her.
Sherlock nodded. “Murray became fanatically religious after the death of his girlfriend, hoping that religion would give him the answers he sought.”
“He was looking for a way to punish whoever killed her, refusing to believe the courts finding of accidental death. He became so obsessed with the notion that he ended up losing his job.”
“And that was how he ended up homeless?”
“No I think that was a deliberate decision. His girlfriend worked at a soup kitchen that helped feed the homeless. He got it into his head that it must have been a homeless person who killed her. By becoming one, he hoped to learn who was responsible,” he paused briefly. “But somewhere along the way, the need to find a potential murderer was overridden by a need to kill those that wouldn’t be missed.”
“So what happens now?” Molly asked, drawing him away from thoughts of a thoroughly disturbed individual.
Sherlock smiled softly. “Now I intend to have Harry’s remains moved and to be buried properly with a decent headstone.”
Molly looked at where Harry currently rested, and she gave silent thanks to the man who had befriended Sherlock all those years ago, certain that if he hadn’t taken him under his wing, Sherlock would not be where he was today.
As they exited the cemetery Molly noted that something about the case still troubled Sherlock.
“What’s wrong?” she queried softly. “You’ve finally been able to prove that the deaths were murder, and have caught the person responsible.”
“When I found Harry’s body, I detected a scent, but couldn’t place it. Now that we know what killed him and the others, and the signs. How was it possible that I couldn’t identify what it was?”
Taking his arm as they walked along, Molly pointed out. “To be fair Sherlock, you were, as I understand it, using heavily at that time with a variety of drugs.”
“Drugs have helped in the past to heighten my thought processes...” Sherlock began.
But Molly had not finished her explanation. “By all means tell yourself that all you want. But I’m not talking about deductive reasoning. I’m talking about your sense of smell that can be affected depending on the type of drug you’re on.”
To this Sherlock had to concede that it was a possibility.
As they reached the main road, Sherlock hailed a passing taxi.
“Where to guv?” the taxi driver asked.
Sherlock was about to respond when Molly got in before him, “221B Baker Street, please.”
Chapter 9: Moving Forward
221B BAKER ST – SHERLOCK’S BEDROOM
A fine sheen of sweat coated the two naked bodies that lay intimately entwined on the bed.
Molly’s hips surged up, her hands grasping Sherlock’s taut buttocks, as Sherlock’s kisses grew desperate, hips now pumped wildly as he thrust in and out in an increasingly frantic rhythm, before he reared up abruptly, his arms taking his full weight. The new angle drove his cock deeper into her welcoming warmth, causing them to moan at the exquisite sensation.
But just as they were about to reach completion, Sherlock paused to savour the incredible feeling of Molly’s body as it clamped possessively around his rigidly hard penis, he marvelled at how her lips felt on his, the softness of her skin, her intoxicatingly musky scent as he’d plied her sensitive clit with his tongue...
A well-aimed slap to his buttocks abruptly snapped him from his musings.
“Catalogue and update your Mind Palace later,” Molly panted impatiently, though Sherlock noted the hint of an endearingly impish grin as she wrapped her legs around his waist, before pulling his head down so she could plant a sinfully passionate kiss upon his willing lips.
Back and forth, then side to side, Sherlock’s hips kept up their determined and relentless rhythm. He was a man possessed.
“Yes, yes right there,” Molly cried encouragingly, and then “Oh my God, Sherlock!”
Molly came, her head thrown back as she screamed in ecstasy. Moments later Sherlock found his own release, coming with a guttural growl. The tension in his body immediately giving way to euphoric lethargy, before collapsing on top of an equally boneless Molly, his body totally spent.
They lay where they were, catching their breath. Then Sherlock rolled off Molly, pulling her close, wrapping his arms securely around her as she happily snuggled into him.
Several minutes later with still not a word spoken Molly grew concerned. Sitting up, she turned to Sherlock, and what she saw had her pulling him into her arms, his head coming to rest in the crook of her shoulder.
“Bit overwhelming isn’t it,” she said softly, as tears flowed freely down his cheeks.
Sherlock nodded, initially unable to find the words to accurately describe what he was feeling. And then “Understatement,” he mumbled. The embarrassment he felt at his uncharacteristic show on emotion all too clear.
Molly knew Sherlock had not been a virgin, yet their coupling had clearly had a profound effect on him. Brushing his sweat slicked curls out of his eyes, she queried gently. “And this was different.”
Sherlock sat up, and pulled Molly onto his lap. He threaded his fingers through her hair before taking her face in his hands, his thumbs gently caressing her cheeks, resting his forehead against hers as he looked her directly in the eyes. “So different,” he murmured, a luminous glow appearing in his storm-tossed eyes. “This was the first time my heart was fully involved. This wasn’t about getting laid. This was all about love, making love, and loving the woman who will always matter the most to me. “
Molly could feel tears beginning to well up in her own eyes.
“Not good?” Sherlock asked, becoming more than a little worried.
Molly laughed, whipping her tears away. “On the contrary,” she assured him. “It’s the very best actually.”
Sherlock visibly relaxed.
“So, what do you suggest we do now?” his innocent expression totally at odds with the way he was dragging Molly back under the covers.
Molly’s laughter was filled with pure joy as she playfully pushed Sherlock onto his back and straddled him. “I’m sure we can come up with something,” she responded playfully.
Sherlock wholeheartedly agreed.
