An Age of Silver (5b/23)
"An Age of Silver" (5b/23)
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5a
----
If there was one thing that could be said about the press, it was that they were an intrepid lot. They were a collective nuisance and far more trouble than they were worth, in Sherlock’s opinion, but they were also persistent to the point of being bullheaded. Sometimes, that worked in their favour, and once in a while Sherlock was forced to grant that they had outsmarted the Met.
All it took, this time, was one journalist fresh out of university who was eager to prove himself. He desperately latched on to every non-story that the others ignored in the hopes of tracking down a lead that no one else had thought to pursue. He had spent months searching through the Met’s public database of unsolved cases, and he had by chance happened across the murders of Cheryl Landers and Katherine Jones in the same day (though they were still unnamed in the database), and so the details of those cases were fresh in his mind when he picked up a paper and read some of the continuing coverage of Jessica Thompson’s murder.
As mid-October approached, he broke the story.
“It was only a matter of time,” Sherlock reasoned when Hopkins called him with the news later that night. He had only just returned from his parents’, but already stress and worry were present in his voice again.
“I know,” Hopkins sighed, his words strained. “I just hoped we would have had more time to get ahead of the killer before the news broke. Damn.”
“We have made some progress,” Sherlock pointed out. “We have names for the earlier victims.”
“Which we can’t release because then the killer will know that he’s not been careful enough, and he will take even more care when choosing his victims and committing his crimes.” Hopkins’ voice was strained. “Fuck, Sherlock, what the hell am I supposed to do now?”
“Remain as clueless as possible,” Sherlock told him, “which shouldn’t be too difficult for you lot. Oh, don’t make that sound, you know what I mean. Look, you’re going to be forced to hold another press conference in order to appease the higher-ups and the public. Say that you have four crimes that appear to be connected. Don’t mention that you know the names of two of the earlier victims. Try not to mention the paint, if you can help it. Give as little information as possible. If he thinks the Met has completely hit a dead end, he won’t be on his guard. He won’t be too concerned, and he might end up making a mistake that we can then latch onto.”
“We have completely hit a dead end,” Hopkins said after a moment. “Christ, Sherlock, I’ve never had a case that’s left me so completely lost.”
“Just get through the press conference,” Sherlock said reasonably. “One step at a time, Hopkins.”
Hopkins sighed.
“Thanks, old man,” he said quietly. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Oh, that poor man,” Alice sighed the next day when she stopped by to drop off some food she had picked up for Sherlock from the shops. Sherlock was reading on the sofa in the main room while the television played Hopkins’ press conference in the background. “You should take him out for a drink, Sherlock. He looks like he could use one.”
“If I took him out for a drink every time it appeared as though he could use one, he’d have died of alcohol poisoning long ago,” Sherlock said dryly.
“Still…”
“No, Alice.”
But when she had gone, Sherlock found his gaze being drawn more and more often to the television rather than his book. Hopkins did look worn, and the deep pools under his eyes looked as though they had always been there, and that there was no hope of them ever fading.
Hopkins gave the press conference admirably nonetheless, and he didn’t release any details apart from the fact that the Met was looking into four crimes that appeared to be related. But the longer Sherlock watched the conference, the more he realised that Alice had been right.
Hopkins looked like hell, and he could certainly use a drink.
Hopkins wasn’t in his office that evening, and he wasn’t in the conference room. He also wasn’t down in the gym. It took Sherlock almost twenty minutes of searching, but he eventually located Hopkins down in one of the audio/visual rooms that were tucked in the back of the building.
A long row of computer screens sat before Hopkins. He had his feet propped up on the long desk and a keyboard sitting on his lap, and he was steadily clicking through images and text that popped up on the screen. Sherlock recognised the solved crimes database, having used it countless times himself.
Hopkins had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he’d removed his tie and draped it around his neck. He was sitting with his back to the door, and didn’t seem to hear Sherlock enter.
“I thought your team was supposed to be doing this,” Sherlock said. He shouldered his way into the room, as he was carrying two steaming mugs that he had fixed just moments ago in one of the break rooms.
There was no good way to announce one’s presence around Hopkins if he didn’t notice you in the first place. He had a tendency to start easily-and violently-and there was very little anyone could do about it. No matter how gently and carefully Sherlock had tried to announce himself over the years, he always ended up giving Hopkins a nasty shock. Eventually, he stopped trying altogether.
This time, Hopkins merely jumped and swiveled his head around to see who was there. He relaxed at once and turned back to the computer screens.
“They are, when they have time. But I won’t give them work that I’m not willing to do myself,” Hopkins said. Sherlock sat down next to him and handed him one of the mugs. Hopkins accepted it with a grunt, not taking his eyes off the screen, but he pulled a face once he took a sip of the liquid. “That’s not coffee.”
“It’s tea,” Sherlock said, mildly amused. Hopkins grunted.
“Fat lot of good that does me right now.”
“It’s not just tea,” Sherlock added. He smirked at Hopkins. “Just wait a moment, you’ll taste it. Or you’ll feel it, one of the two.”
It took a moment for Hopkins to realise what Sherlock had done.
“You’re going to get us both in trouble, you know,” he said, amused, but he took another sip of the alcohol-laced tea anyway.
“Alice told me you needed a stiff drink. Who am I to argue with her?” Sherlock leaned back in his seat, turning his attention to the computer screens. “Found anything?”
Hopkins shook his head.
“How long have you been here?”
“Are you my mother, now?” Hopkins asked waspishly. Sherlock removed the keyboard from his grip and set it aside. Hopkins glowered at him.
“How long have you been here?” Sherlock repeated. “Since dinner, I’d wager.”
“Since the end of the press conference,” Hopkins said, lifting his chin. “What of it?”
But Hopkins wasn’t going to appreciate what he saw as meddling on Sherlock’s part, and he had a tendency to close off if he felt as though someone was coddling him. Sherlock switched tracks.
“How did it go?” he asked, feigning ignorance. Hopkins snorted.
“Don’t give me that. I know very well that you watched it.” He sighed and cracked his neck. “How’d I do?”
“As well as you could have,” Sherlock said. It was true. Hopkins had done just as Sherlock had suggested, and gave the bare minimum of details necessary to appease the public. The journalists in the room spent half an hour trying to wring more information from him, but Hopkins was very good at stonewalling.
“Well, that’s high praise,” Hopkins muttered.
“It is,” Sherlock assured him. “Look, Hopkins, there is only -”
He cut off mid-sentence as the computer started to trill, and Hopkins spun around in his seat. He dropped his feet to the floor and grabbed the keyboard, quickly pausing the computer’s search through the database as the image of a young man blinked on the screen.
Hopkins clicked on the blinking image, and a wall of text appeared next to the man’s face.
“Daniel Jenkins,” Hopkins read off quietly. “His body was found in Regent’s Park six years ago. He had been - Christ. He’d been sexually assaulted, beaten, strangled, and then dumped naked in the park.”
“That’s almost a perfect match to your killer,” Sherlock said, sitting forward. He was intrigued despite himself. “How many of these matches have you found?”
“This is the first one in two hours,” Hopkins said. He was clicking through folders and entering a variety of passwords, trying to access the official crime scene photographs. “We’ve had a few other close matches recently, but this is the first one we’ve come across that matches the killer’s methods perfectly.”
He finally found the photographs that he had been seeking and opened them up. He pulled up the first one he could find that showed a full view of the body and zoomed in on the victim’s right hand, which was laying palm-up on the grass.
“Nothing,” Hopkins muttered, and he sounded torn between disappointed and relieved. The victim’s left hand was partially obscured, and Hopkins had to zoom in to get a proper look at it.
There was a smudge of grey paint on his palm.
“Christ.” Hopkins sat back in his seat and rubbed his forehead. “Jesus Christ.”
Sherlock leaned forward so that he could better read the screen.
“Daniel Jenkins,” he repeated. “Murdered in March of 2021. His landlord was convicted of the killing and sent to prison, which is where he’s been ever since.”
“And we’re sure this killer now isn’t just a copy-cat?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No. The crimes are too identical. That landlord was wrongly convicted. This killer who’s murdering women now is the same one who killed Jenkins, and he’s been free ever since. I suspect the landlord’s conviction shocked him, though. He must have slipped up, made a mistake, and the landlord took the fall. It was lucky for him, but he was sure never to do the same thing again. It pushed him even deeper underground.”
“And maybe that’s why he’s selective about his victims now. He won’t abduct them if there’s a chance they can be identified,” Hopkins said. “Jenkins appears to have been an ordinary chap - had a job, a girlfriend, people who noticed when he went missing and who cared about finding his killer.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again.
“I need to send out a press release,” he said finally, quietly. “Amend the conference I gave this afternoon. We’ve got a serial killer who has been active for at least six years, and he has no preference as to the gender of his victims.”
Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what was expected of him at this juncture, but deep lines of abject sorrow had etched themselves into Hopkins’ face. Middle age had already given him permanent lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, but now temporary ones creased his forehead and the ones that framed his mouth deepened. Sherlock reached out a hand and placed it on Hopkins’ shoulder. Hopkins turned to look at him, first in confusion and then in understanding, and something softened in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said quietly. They were John’s words, a sentiment he had often told others on Sherlock’s behalf or one he shared with patients after delivering difficult news. They felt strange and foreign on Sherlock’s tongue, but something eased in Hopkins’ face anyway and Sherlock immediately was glad that he’d said them.
“Yeah, so’m I. Thanks, Sherlock,” he said sincerely. He clapped Sherlock on the knee and leaned forward to peck at the keyboard. Sherlock dropped his hand, though the brief touch of Hopkins’ hand on his knee lingered. “I’m going to stay for a while longer. See if there are any other victims in this database that can be linked to the killer.”
“Send all of the relevant information regarding Daniel Jenkins to the interface at Baker Street,” Sherlock told him. “I’ll take a closer look at it in the morning.”
“Got big plans tonight, old man?” Hopkins teased lightly. He sent the information to Baker Street and then resumed the computer’s search of the vast database. “What’s more important to you than working on a case?”
You, Sherlock almost said, and that response was so automatic that it took him by surprise.
“I’m staying here,” he said, settling back in his seat and propping his feet on the desk. Hopkins glanced at him, surprised.
“For how long?” he asked. Sherlock shrugged, and took a sip of his now-cold tea.
“For as long as you are.”
Undisguised surprise showed in Hopkins’ face, followed by deep gratitude.
“Thank you, Sherlock,” he said in a low voice. “I - well. You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. I’m doing it anyway.” Sherlock leaned over and opened a nearby drawer. He pulled out another keyboard and tapped a key, bringing a computer screen on the end to life. “You keep working on 2021. I’ll move on to 2020.”
It was a gruesome, sobering business, and at one point Hopkins, looking dangerously pale, had needed to excuse himself.
But Sherlock couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be but here, at Hopkins’ side.
----
Chapter 6
----
Chapter Notes: A mezuzah is a piece of parchment inscribed with a prayer that is affixed to the doorframes of Jewish homes. Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, and it occurs in the autumn. Shanah Tovah (or L’shanah tovah) is a greeting typically given on Rosh Hashanah, and loosely translated it means, “Have a good year.” Hopkins, for reasons stated in this chapter, for the most part is not compliant with Jewish custom. If that’s going to be an issue, I suggest not reading further (though this is the only chapter with overt religious overtones).
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5a
----
If there was one thing that could be said about the press, it was that they were an intrepid lot. They were a collective nuisance and far more trouble than they were worth, in Sherlock’s opinion, but they were also persistent to the point of being bullheaded. Sometimes, that worked in their favour, and once in a while Sherlock was forced to grant that they had outsmarted the Met.
All it took, this time, was one journalist fresh out of university who was eager to prove himself. He desperately latched on to every non-story that the others ignored in the hopes of tracking down a lead that no one else had thought to pursue. He had spent months searching through the Met’s public database of unsolved cases, and he had by chance happened across the murders of Cheryl Landers and Katherine Jones in the same day (though they were still unnamed in the database), and so the details of those cases were fresh in his mind when he picked up a paper and read some of the continuing coverage of Jessica Thompson’s murder.
As mid-October approached, he broke the story.
“It was only a matter of time,” Sherlock reasoned when Hopkins called him with the news later that night. He had only just returned from his parents’, but already stress and worry were present in his voice again.
“I know,” Hopkins sighed, his words strained. “I just hoped we would have had more time to get ahead of the killer before the news broke. Damn.”
“We have made some progress,” Sherlock pointed out. “We have names for the earlier victims.”
“Which we can’t release because then the killer will know that he’s not been careful enough, and he will take even more care when choosing his victims and committing his crimes.” Hopkins’ voice was strained. “Fuck, Sherlock, what the hell am I supposed to do now?”
“Remain as clueless as possible,” Sherlock told him, “which shouldn’t be too difficult for you lot. Oh, don’t make that sound, you know what I mean. Look, you’re going to be forced to hold another press conference in order to appease the higher-ups and the public. Say that you have four crimes that appear to be connected. Don’t mention that you know the names of two of the earlier victims. Try not to mention the paint, if you can help it. Give as little information as possible. If he thinks the Met has completely hit a dead end, he won’t be on his guard. He won’t be too concerned, and he might end up making a mistake that we can then latch onto.”
“We have completely hit a dead end,” Hopkins said after a moment. “Christ, Sherlock, I’ve never had a case that’s left me so completely lost.”
“Just get through the press conference,” Sherlock said reasonably. “One step at a time, Hopkins.”
Hopkins sighed.
“Thanks, old man,” he said quietly. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Oh, that poor man,” Alice sighed the next day when she stopped by to drop off some food she had picked up for Sherlock from the shops. Sherlock was reading on the sofa in the main room while the television played Hopkins’ press conference in the background. “You should take him out for a drink, Sherlock. He looks like he could use one.”
“If I took him out for a drink every time it appeared as though he could use one, he’d have died of alcohol poisoning long ago,” Sherlock said dryly.
“Still…”
“No, Alice.”
But when she had gone, Sherlock found his gaze being drawn more and more often to the television rather than his book. Hopkins did look worn, and the deep pools under his eyes looked as though they had always been there, and that there was no hope of them ever fading.
Hopkins gave the press conference admirably nonetheless, and he didn’t release any details apart from the fact that the Met was looking into four crimes that appeared to be related. But the longer Sherlock watched the conference, the more he realised that Alice had been right.
Hopkins looked like hell, and he could certainly use a drink.
Hopkins wasn’t in his office that evening, and he wasn’t in the conference room. He also wasn’t down in the gym. It took Sherlock almost twenty minutes of searching, but he eventually located Hopkins down in one of the audio/visual rooms that were tucked in the back of the building.
A long row of computer screens sat before Hopkins. He had his feet propped up on the long desk and a keyboard sitting on his lap, and he was steadily clicking through images and text that popped up on the screen. Sherlock recognised the solved crimes database, having used it countless times himself.
Hopkins had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he’d removed his tie and draped it around his neck. He was sitting with his back to the door, and didn’t seem to hear Sherlock enter.
“I thought your team was supposed to be doing this,” Sherlock said. He shouldered his way into the room, as he was carrying two steaming mugs that he had fixed just moments ago in one of the break rooms.
There was no good way to announce one’s presence around Hopkins if he didn’t notice you in the first place. He had a tendency to start easily-and violently-and there was very little anyone could do about it. No matter how gently and carefully Sherlock had tried to announce himself over the years, he always ended up giving Hopkins a nasty shock. Eventually, he stopped trying altogether.
This time, Hopkins merely jumped and swiveled his head around to see who was there. He relaxed at once and turned back to the computer screens.
“They are, when they have time. But I won’t give them work that I’m not willing to do myself,” Hopkins said. Sherlock sat down next to him and handed him one of the mugs. Hopkins accepted it with a grunt, not taking his eyes off the screen, but he pulled a face once he took a sip of the liquid. “That’s not coffee.”
“It’s tea,” Sherlock said, mildly amused. Hopkins grunted.
“Fat lot of good that does me right now.”
“It’s not just tea,” Sherlock added. He smirked at Hopkins. “Just wait a moment, you’ll taste it. Or you’ll feel it, one of the two.”
It took a moment for Hopkins to realise what Sherlock had done.
“You’re going to get us both in trouble, you know,” he said, amused, but he took another sip of the alcohol-laced tea anyway.
“Alice told me you needed a stiff drink. Who am I to argue with her?” Sherlock leaned back in his seat, turning his attention to the computer screens. “Found anything?”
Hopkins shook his head.
“How long have you been here?”
“Are you my mother, now?” Hopkins asked waspishly. Sherlock removed the keyboard from his grip and set it aside. Hopkins glowered at him.
“How long have you been here?” Sherlock repeated. “Since dinner, I’d wager.”
“Since the end of the press conference,” Hopkins said, lifting his chin. “What of it?”
But Hopkins wasn’t going to appreciate what he saw as meddling on Sherlock’s part, and he had a tendency to close off if he felt as though someone was coddling him. Sherlock switched tracks.
“How did it go?” he asked, feigning ignorance. Hopkins snorted.
“Don’t give me that. I know very well that you watched it.” He sighed and cracked his neck. “How’d I do?”
“As well as you could have,” Sherlock said. It was true. Hopkins had done just as Sherlock had suggested, and gave the bare minimum of details necessary to appease the public. The journalists in the room spent half an hour trying to wring more information from him, but Hopkins was very good at stonewalling.
“Well, that’s high praise,” Hopkins muttered.
“It is,” Sherlock assured him. “Look, Hopkins, there is only -”
He cut off mid-sentence as the computer started to trill, and Hopkins spun around in his seat. He dropped his feet to the floor and grabbed the keyboard, quickly pausing the computer’s search through the database as the image of a young man blinked on the screen.
Hopkins clicked on the blinking image, and a wall of text appeared next to the man’s face.
“Daniel Jenkins,” Hopkins read off quietly. “His body was found in Regent’s Park six years ago. He had been - Christ. He’d been sexually assaulted, beaten, strangled, and then dumped naked in the park.”
“That’s almost a perfect match to your killer,” Sherlock said, sitting forward. He was intrigued despite himself. “How many of these matches have you found?”
“This is the first one in two hours,” Hopkins said. He was clicking through folders and entering a variety of passwords, trying to access the official crime scene photographs. “We’ve had a few other close matches recently, but this is the first one we’ve come across that matches the killer’s methods perfectly.”
He finally found the photographs that he had been seeking and opened them up. He pulled up the first one he could find that showed a full view of the body and zoomed in on the victim’s right hand, which was laying palm-up on the grass.
“Nothing,” Hopkins muttered, and he sounded torn between disappointed and relieved. The victim’s left hand was partially obscured, and Hopkins had to zoom in to get a proper look at it.
There was a smudge of grey paint on his palm.
“Christ.” Hopkins sat back in his seat and rubbed his forehead. “Jesus Christ.”
Sherlock leaned forward so that he could better read the screen.
“Daniel Jenkins,” he repeated. “Murdered in March of 2021. His landlord was convicted of the killing and sent to prison, which is where he’s been ever since.”
“And we’re sure this killer now isn’t just a copy-cat?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No. The crimes are too identical. That landlord was wrongly convicted. This killer who’s murdering women now is the same one who killed Jenkins, and he’s been free ever since. I suspect the landlord’s conviction shocked him, though. He must have slipped up, made a mistake, and the landlord took the fall. It was lucky for him, but he was sure never to do the same thing again. It pushed him even deeper underground.”
“And maybe that’s why he’s selective about his victims now. He won’t abduct them if there’s a chance they can be identified,” Hopkins said. “Jenkins appears to have been an ordinary chap - had a job, a girlfriend, people who noticed when he went missing and who cared about finding his killer.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again.
“I need to send out a press release,” he said finally, quietly. “Amend the conference I gave this afternoon. We’ve got a serial killer who has been active for at least six years, and he has no preference as to the gender of his victims.”
Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what was expected of him at this juncture, but deep lines of abject sorrow had etched themselves into Hopkins’ face. Middle age had already given him permanent lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, but now temporary ones creased his forehead and the ones that framed his mouth deepened. Sherlock reached out a hand and placed it on Hopkins’ shoulder. Hopkins turned to look at him, first in confusion and then in understanding, and something softened in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said quietly. They were John’s words, a sentiment he had often told others on Sherlock’s behalf or one he shared with patients after delivering difficult news. They felt strange and foreign on Sherlock’s tongue, but something eased in Hopkins’ face anyway and Sherlock immediately was glad that he’d said them.
“Yeah, so’m I. Thanks, Sherlock,” he said sincerely. He clapped Sherlock on the knee and leaned forward to peck at the keyboard. Sherlock dropped his hand, though the brief touch of Hopkins’ hand on his knee lingered. “I’m going to stay for a while longer. See if there are any other victims in this database that can be linked to the killer.”
“Send all of the relevant information regarding Daniel Jenkins to the interface at Baker Street,” Sherlock told him. “I’ll take a closer look at it in the morning.”
“Got big plans tonight, old man?” Hopkins teased lightly. He sent the information to Baker Street and then resumed the computer’s search of the vast database. “What’s more important to you than working on a case?”
You, Sherlock almost said, and that response was so automatic that it took him by surprise.
“I’m staying here,” he said, settling back in his seat and propping his feet on the desk. Hopkins glanced at him, surprised.
“For how long?” he asked. Sherlock shrugged, and took a sip of his now-cold tea.
“For as long as you are.”
Undisguised surprise showed in Hopkins’ face, followed by deep gratitude.
“Thank you, Sherlock,” he said in a low voice. “I - well. You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. I’m doing it anyway.” Sherlock leaned over and opened a nearby drawer. He pulled out another keyboard and tapped a key, bringing a computer screen on the end to life. “You keep working on 2021. I’ll move on to 2020.”
It was a gruesome, sobering business, and at one point Hopkins, looking dangerously pale, had needed to excuse himself.
But Sherlock couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be but here, at Hopkins’ side.
----
Chapter 6
----
Chapter Notes: A mezuzah is a piece of parchment inscribed with a prayer that is affixed to the doorframes of Jewish homes. Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, and it occurs in the autumn. Shanah Tovah (or L’shanah tovah) is a greeting typically given on Rosh Hashanah, and loosely translated it means, “Have a good year.” Hopkins, for reasons stated in this chapter, for the most part is not compliant with Jewish custom. If that’s going to be an issue, I suggest not reading further (though this is the only chapter with overt religious overtones).