The Dangerous Edge of Things aka Sherlock Holmes has a Boyfriend who lives in Canada Part 2 (2/?)
Ok, so I'm a dirty liar. Monday became next Sunday but uh...here we are! I had a manuscript to edit and some exams to study for. We're almost out of the forest though, dear friends, so please ignore the strangling vines
The moment the cab pulls up to Trafalgar Square, Sherlock thrusts a handful of notes into John’s lap and jumps out of the vehicle. John looks down. The Queen looks up.
Right.
Sherlock climbs the steps of the National Gallery, long legs taking the stone slabs three at a time.
And for every step he skips, his mind is five ahead. The girl’s rescuer works at the gallery. Their paths would cross if she had stayed to the main tourist attractions, Trafalgar Square, The National Gallery - and presumably the Underground.
Useless.
“-lock”
The chatter interferes, brings him back from his thoughts. He wants to snarl at the world, tell all the tourists to be quiet, all the shrieking children that there is No God, or No Santa Claus, or No Such Thing as A Parent Who Loves You, whatever it is they believe so that they can fall silent in horror.
“Sherlock”
Sherlock looks to his phone, but he hasn’t rung John - he doesn’t know why his voice is-
“Sherlock,” John shouts.
Ah. John is here.
Sherlock pauses, gives the shorter man time to catch his breath.
“Do you know where you’re going?”
The look he gives John is scathing. John holds his hands up in front of himself and Sherlock relents.
“We have to find the fellow who picked her up. She was brought in around seven in the evening, rather early. The person who brought her must work the eight to four shift if we are to account for her being picked up and drugged - so 6-6:30 is when our killer hunted. Most serial killers hunt by habit - they have a routine or ritual they follow.
Last night He somehow failed to calculate some aspect of his plan -either she’s more tolerant to drugs than the others or she didn’t take the full amount. Either way he’s been denied a victim and looking for another. Our chances of running into our killer are high - we just need to find out the Gallery worker’s route and station ourselves along the possible intersections.”
John shakes his head part bewildered and part admiring.
“So what happens if the killer changes his route?”
“He’s not clever enough. No, up until now he’s been lucky. In and of itself this case hardly warrants my attention.”
John pauses, then hurries again when Sherlock brushes past the door and stride into the main entrance.
“He picks up tourists and kills them. Not the work of a genius. Not worth the attention of a genius.”
“Despite the fact that six people have been killed?”
Sherlock scoffs. “Tourists are killed every day. Mostly from their own stupidity. No, there’s only one reason to even consider the case.”
John sighs and asks, “What’s that?”
Sherlock stops, his coat swinging with the momentum.
He does not look at John.
“They’re Canadian.”
Then he’s walking again, footsteps echoing off the polished floor and John staring at his back.
The interview is illuminating. It goes something like this
“Where did you find the girl?”
“when I was walking home. Some guy was dragging her along.”
“Can you remember his face?”
“Uh…dark hair..or maybe light? Tall-ish.”
“Any distinguishing features?”
“Crooked nose?”
“Where was it you were walking?”
“I just got off my shift. I’m not sure exactly where we were.”
Sherlock spins around and leaves, brushing past the revolving doors and jogging down the steps. John trails behind.
“He’s lying.”
John quirks his eyebrow.
“It’s obvious.”
Sherlock sighs when John shakes his head. “You wake up every morning at five. You could tell me a second by second recount of your day. Habit. This fellow works the same shift every day for six months. After the first week he’s had already established his short cuts. He’d know where he was, could walk home in the dark”
“So, he’s lying.”
The edges of Sherlock’s lips turn up for a second before his face smoothes.
“So he’s lying.”
Sherlock presses a hand to John’s shoulder and stops him.
“I need you to sit on those steps over there.” Sherlock points to a tall building across Trafalgar Square.
“What, but why?”
“It’s very important.”
“Me sitting on steps is important?”
“Oh yes, John.”
John shrugs and wades through the crowd. He turns in time to see Sherlock hail a cab and disappear inside. Well then.
He concedes that he might be there for a bit longer than five minutes. He stretches out his legs, leans back and takes a breath on the steps of Canada House.
The moment the cab pulls up to Trafalgar Square, Sherlock thrusts a handful of notes into John’s lap and jumps out of the vehicle. John looks down. The Queen looks up.
Right.
Sherlock climbs the steps of the National Gallery, long legs taking the stone slabs three at a time.
And for every step he skips, his mind is five ahead. The girl’s rescuer works at the gallery. Their paths would cross if she had stayed to the main tourist attractions, Trafalgar Square, The National Gallery - and presumably the Underground.
Useless.
“-lock”
The chatter interferes, brings him back from his thoughts. He wants to snarl at the world, tell all the tourists to be quiet, all the shrieking children that there is No God, or No Santa Claus, or No Such Thing as A Parent Who Loves You, whatever it is they believe so that they can fall silent in horror.
“Sherlock”
Sherlock looks to his phone, but he hasn’t rung John - he doesn’t know why his voice is-
“Sherlock,” John shouts.
Ah. John is here.
Sherlock pauses, gives the shorter man time to catch his breath.
“Do you know where you’re going?”
The look he gives John is scathing. John holds his hands up in front of himself and Sherlock relents.
“We have to find the fellow who picked her up. She was brought in around seven in the evening, rather early. The person who brought her must work the eight to four shift if we are to account for her being picked up and drugged - so 6-6:30 is when our killer hunted. Most serial killers hunt by habit - they have a routine or ritual they follow.
Last night He somehow failed to calculate some aspect of his plan -either she’s more tolerant to drugs than the others or she didn’t take the full amount. Either way he’s been denied a victim and looking for another. Our chances of running into our killer are high - we just need to find out the Gallery worker’s route and station ourselves along the possible intersections.”
John shakes his head part bewildered and part admiring.
“So what happens if the killer changes his route?”
“He’s not clever enough. No, up until now he’s been lucky. In and of itself this case hardly warrants my attention.”
John pauses, then hurries again when Sherlock brushes past the door and stride into the main entrance.
“He picks up tourists and kills them. Not the work of a genius. Not worth the attention of a genius.”
“Despite the fact that six people have been killed?”
Sherlock scoffs. “Tourists are killed every day. Mostly from their own stupidity. No, there’s only one reason to even consider the case.”
John sighs and asks, “What’s that?”
Sherlock stops, his coat swinging with the momentum.
He does not look at John.
“They’re Canadian.”
Then he’s walking again, footsteps echoing off the polished floor and John staring at his back.
The interview is illuminating. It goes something like this
“Where did you find the girl?”
“when I was walking home. Some guy was dragging her along.”
“Can you remember his face?”
“Uh…dark hair..or maybe light? Tall-ish.”
“Any distinguishing features?”
“Crooked nose?”
“Where was it you were walking?”
“I just got off my shift. I’m not sure exactly where we were.”
Sherlock spins around and leaves, brushing past the revolving doors and jogging down the steps. John trails behind.
“He’s lying.”
John quirks his eyebrow.
“It’s obvious.”
Sherlock sighs when John shakes his head. “You wake up every morning at five. You could tell me a second by second recount of your day. Habit. This fellow works the same shift every day for six months. After the first week he’s had already established his short cuts. He’d know where he was, could walk home in the dark”
“So, he’s lying.”
The edges of Sherlock’s lips turn up for a second before his face smoothes.
“So he’s lying.”
Sherlock presses a hand to John’s shoulder and stops him.
“I need you to sit on those steps over there.” Sherlock points to a tall building across Trafalgar Square.
“What, but why?”
“It’s very important.”
“Me sitting on steps is important?”
“Oh yes, John.”
John shrugs and wades through the crowd. He turns in time to see Sherlock hail a cab and disappear inside. Well then.
He concedes that he might be there for a bit longer than five minutes. He stretches out his legs, leans back and takes a breath on the steps of Canada House.