New Fic: Texting The Runes (Sherlock BBC)
Title: Texting The Runes
Author: PsychGirl (snycock)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Category: Gen
Rating: R
Word count: 13,768
Warnings: swearing, violence, some gore, creepy (I hope!)
Summary: A bloody and impossible murder sends Sherlock and John on the trail of a very strange killer.
A/N: Many, many thanks go to rhianne and suemc for their invaluable betaing and Brit-picking. This is a far better story for their input. I can't help picking at things, though, so all mistakes herein are mine. This is the first time I've written something long and plotty that's not set in the US, and let me just say that I have a whole new level of admiration for people who write outside their language and/or culture. Google can only get you so far.
This was intended to be my entry for the spook_me ficathon on LJ (ugh, only five months past the deadline; well done). My creature was demon, and the pulp covers I got had demons on them as well. So what came to mind was a pastiche of - homage to? - the classic horror movie "Curse of the Demon" ("Night of the Demon" for those of you in the UK), which was itself based on the Victorian horror story "Casting The Runes" by M.R. James. Because one update of a classic deserves another.
Done for love, not profit. Most of the characters and settings in this story belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC, as well as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. John Holden belongs to Charles Bennett and Hal E. Chester, as do the inspirations for Charles Simpson, Robert Cavanaugh, and Joanna Farrier. I've shamlessly nicked some dialogue from Mark Gatiss; Charles Bennett and Hal E. Chester; and Michael Robert Johnson, Anthony Peckham, and Simon Kinburg. And the image of the runes was taken from the movie as well (not sure who to credit for that).
The room was an abattoir. There was no other word for it. The walls were spattered with blood; the carpet soaked in it, and the mangled body on the rug in front of the fireplace was barely recognizable as human. The smell was heavy and cloying, and all too familiar, and for just a moment John heard the bark of sub-machine guns and felt the heat of sun and the grit of sand before he was able to push the memory away.
He was glad for the protective suit they’d made him don, even if it was only paper. Sherlock, of course, strode in unsuited, pulling off his gloves as if he was at a garden party. Eyes gleaming, a smile quirking one corner of his mouth, he turned on his heel in a slow circle, surveying the carnage. “Excellent,” he murmured under his breath. “John - time of death?”
John knelt at the side of the body and carefully tried to move what was left of an arm. Cool to the touch and very rigid. He leaned down and pressed a finger to the flesh resting on the floor. No change in the color. “A day, maybe two,” he said.
Sherlock frowned. “Not very precise.”
“Bit difficult to be precise when there’s this much damage. The chaps at the morgue will be able to tell you more.”
“Lestrade?”
“We think the victim was one Harry Williamson, a barrister with Firth and Macklin downtown,” the DI replied, leaning against the door frame. “Last anyone saw him was Friday night - he’d reportedly said he was going home after having a pint with his co-workers.” He flipped through a few pages in his notepad. “No signs of forced entry. Doors locked - yes, and windows, too, Sherlock. From the inside. I read Dimmock’s write-up of that case with the Chinese acrobats.”
John had been examining the body while they talked. “These wounds,” he said slowly, uncertain, “there’s something… odd about them.”
In a flash Sherlock was down on one knee next to him, his pocket magnifying glass out, leaning over the corpse.
“Odd how?” asked Lestrade.
“They… don’t look like knife wounds - too ragged for that. And yet they’re clearly gashes, not crush wounds from a blunt instrument or holes from a bullet.”
“They’re claw marks,” Sherlock said, snapping his glass closed.
“Claw marks? What, from an animal?” This from Lestrade, sounding shocked.
Sherlock didn’t respond, but swept into the kitchen instead, and from the sound of things John surmised that he was going through all the cupboards. Animal? Lestrade mouthed at him, and he shrugged.
Lestrade tried again. “So, we’re not looking at a homicide, then?”
“No, of course we are,” Sherlock said irritably, coming back into the lounge. “Someone had to get it in here, and out again.”
“Maybe it was a pet?”
“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “He didn’t have any pet supplies - plus, he’s allergic.”
“How did you - never mind.”
“Hand vacuums, one in here and one in the kitchen. But dirty dishes in the sink, at least several days old. So - not a neat freak, but someone who needs to hoover frequently. Why? Allergic - dust and pet hair being the most common ones.”
Despite his resolve not to feed Sherlock’s ego any more than was absolutely necessary, John couldn’t resist flashing a look of admiration at his friend. But there was something about Sherlock’s analysis that was bothering him. “I’m not an expert on animal attacks,” he said, rising to his feet, “but… to make wounds of that size, Sherlock, wouldn’t the animal have to be….”
“Eight to nine feet tall,” Sherlock agreed.
Lestrade gaped at the two of them in astonishment. “That’s… that’s impossible. A creature of that size would barely fit in here.”
“Just,” Sherlock agreed, nodding, as he gazed around the room.
“I mean… what are we talking about here? A bear? Some kind of giant hound? Something that escaped from a zoo?”
“Not sure yet,” Sherlock said slowly, tapping his fingers against his chin.
“Listen.” Lestrade moved in close to both of them and lowered his voice. “We’re trying to keep this quiet, but if news of this gets out, there’s going to be a lot of questions and no little amount of panic. I need answers, quickly, and I need them to not be ‘Huge wild animal running amok through London’.”
“Mobile,” Sherlock said, pulling a pair of latex gloves from his pocket.
“What?”
“Phone. Do you have his phone?”
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, and, with an irritable exhale, marched over to the door into the flat. “Donovan!” he shouted.
“What?” came from downstairs.
“Did the vic have a mobile?”
She brought it upstairs and handed it over, shooting a glare at Sherlock, which he ignored completely as he turned it on and scrolled through the display. “Ah, here we go,” he said, his tone satisfied. “Last call, probably not too long before death, given the broad estimate,” he gave John a look at this, and John rolled his eyes in response, “to a John Holden.”
Sherlock paged through the contacts, then handed the phone back to Lestrade. “Psychologist; has an office near the middle of London. We’ll follow up on that. Have them take samples of everything and send them to the lab at Bart’s.” He swept out of the room and down the stairs.
John gave Lestrade an apologetic glance. “Thanks, we’ll be in touch,” he said, and followed Sherlock out into the street.
***
They’d been in the taxi for several minutes when John grew impatient at the silence. “So?” he asked.
“What?”
“What’s your theory? I know you’ve got one.”
“Haven’t yet,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head. “Don’t have enough data.” He glanced sideways at John. “Only amateurs theorize before there’s enough data. Theories distort the way you see. Invariably you come to only see things that fit with the theory, instead of observing what’s really there.”
“But you can’t really think… I mean, seriously, Sherlock - a wild animal?”
“Lestrade said that, not me.”
“But-”
“John.” Sherlock interrupted him. “Have I mentioned that one of the things I find most valuable about you as a flatmate is your gift of being silent when it’s needed?” The amused glint in his eyes took the sting out of his words, though, and John sat back, smiling a little, and resigned himself to being quiet. Not that he’d ever taken much offense at what Sherlock said.
There’d been times, he had to admit, when he’d wondered why Sherlock tolerated him, wondered exactly what skills he brought to this partnership. But since their trial by fire - and water - at Moriarty’s hands, he didn’t find himself wondering that much anymore.
The taxi pulled up outside a small, fashionable block of offices; new, but built to look old, with a stately stone facade. Within moments they had found Holden’s name on the directory and were standing in front of his receptionist.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, flashing Lestrade’s badge, “and this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. We need to speak to Dr. Holden immediately. Police business.”
They were shown into a small office, furnished plainly but comfortably with a desk, a sofa, and a few chairs. There was a table in front of the sofa that held a carafe of water and glasses, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. Holden was seated at the desk when they entered; middle-aged but handsome, dark-haired, dressed conservatively in a grey suit and dark blue tie. He rose and came around to greet them, hand extended. “Gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“Do you know a barrister by the name of Harry Williamson?” Sherlock asked.
Holden’s brows drew together in confusion. “Yes. Why?”
“He was murdered last night.”
The colour drained from Holden’s face and he collapsed weakly onto the couch. “What?” he gasped.
John grabbed the water and poured some into one of the glasses, then sat on the couch next to Holden and pressed it into his hands, surreptitiously taking Holden’s pulse as he did so. Fast, but strong and steady.
“Murdered,” Sherlock said, evenly. “In his flat. Last night. Apparently shortly after he called you.”
“Dear God, how?”
Sherlock said nothing. John looked over at him; his gaze was fixed on Holden. “Ah… we’re not sure, yet,” he jumped in, covering for Sherlock’s lapse. “What did he call you about?”
Holden gulped some water and loosened his tie. “I… I thought he was drunk. He was wild, ranting about… I thought he was just being paranoid… you see, it’s this case we’ve been working on….”
Sherlock sat in one of the chairs and leaned forward, eyeing Holden intently. “Tell me everything.”
“He’s defending this kid, Robert Cavanaugh-”
“The one who’s accused of murdering that young girl, Katie Parrish,” John broke in. “I’ve read about that in the paper.” He shook his head. “Bad business.”
“Yes. But Harry thinks the boy isn’t fully responsible.”
“So he called you in to consult,” said Sherlock. “Because he thought Cavanaugh was being brainwashed.”
Holden shot a startled look at Sherlock. “How… how did you?...”
“Never mind.” Sherlock leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Please continue.”
“Cavanaugh was living outside of London on an estate, Lufford Hall. It’s become kind of an informal group home for troubled adolescents. It’s run by a man named Charles Simpson.” He looked at Sherlock. “Harry thinks Simpson coerced Cavanaugh into committing the murder.”
“Why would Simpson do such a thing?” John asked.
Holden shook his head. “No idea. And Harry never told me exactly why he thought that. Said he wanted me to hear Cavanaugh’s story for myself. But Cavanaugh won’t talk to me. Ever since about a week ago, he’s refused to talk to me, refused to talk to Harry; refused all visitors and phone calls, even.”
There was silence for a few moments after that statement, then Sherlock spoke up. “What else?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“There’s something else you’re not telling us,” Sherlock said.
“Oh… it’s nothing, it’s ridiculous,” Holden replied.
“I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind. What is it?”
Holden glanced at John and then back to Sherlock, looking faintly embarrassed. “Well, it’s just… Simpson’s been harassing us. Fairly juvenile attempt, if you ask me. And stupid. It’s not like this isn’t going to come out in court.”
“Harassing you?” John said. “How?”
“He’s been sending us these texts.” Holden drew his phone out of his pocket and tapped it a few times, then handed it over to John. There was a text pulled up on the display, but the sender was blocked. The header read, “In memoriam: John Holden, allowed 48 hours.” Underneath that, in the body of the text, was a double string of odd figures:
“Looks like some sort of ancient writing or something,” John mused. Sherlock held his hand out imperiously and John turned the phone over to him. “How’d you know Simpson sent them?” he asked Holden. “It said the number was blocked.”
“He called us and told us. Well, he told Harry, and Harry told me. I wouldn’t answer his call. I don’t have time for these sorts of games.”
“According to the time stamp on this,” Sherlock said, looking up at Holden, “your ‘allowed’ time ends tonight.”
Holden shrugged. “It’s nonsense,” he said.
“And Williamson agreed with you about that,” Sherlock said. “Until last night....”
“He called me, raving like a lunatic, panicked, paranoid. He said he was being followed; he said he’d asked Simpson to ‘call it off’, but Simpson had refused.” Holden ran a hand through his hair. “I thought he was drunk. Thought maybe the stress of the case had gotten to him a little. I told him to drink a glass of water and try to get some rest, we’d sort it all out Monday morning.” He gave Sherlock a sharp look. “So you think Simpson had something to do with Harry’s death?”
“Yes.”
“But… but why? And how?”
“I’m not sure. But I’d be quite careful who you let into your flat tonight.” He handed Holden’s phone back to him. “Come along, John. We have a train to catch.”
***
“I think you’d better let me break the news next time,” John said, once they’d gotten a taxi and were heading for Victoria Station.
“Why?”
He sighed. “Sherlock, I know you don’t care about observing social niceties, but there are ways to tell someone bad news that don’t result in them nearly passing out from shock.”
“Is that what you think I was doing? Ignoring social niceties?”
“Knowing you, yeah.”
Sherlock smiled. “But if I had broken the news to Holden gently, I wouldn’t be convinced that he isn’t involved in Williamson’s murder.”
It took John a few moments to work that out. “You mean you shocked him on purpose?”
“And, as a result, knew that he hadn’t known anything about Williamson’s murder until we walked in. You can’t fake that kind of reaction, John.”
“But… but….” he spluttered, outraged on Holden’s behalf. “You’ve purposely frightened that man for no good reason…”
“I didn’t say that,” Sherlock said, frowning. “He has a very good reason to be afraid.”
“He does?”
“Of course. His colleague received a threatening text, and then he received one shortly afterwards. Now his colleague has been murdered. The logical conclusion is that he’ll be the next victim.”
“For God’s sake, Sherlock!” It had been a while since he’d felt this annoyed by Sherlock’s lack of empathy. “You’ve got to call Lestrade or something. You can’t just let that man sit in his flat and wait to be attacked!”
“Call Lestrade and tell him what?” Now it was Sherlock’s tone that was angry. “I think Holden’s in danger but I can’t explain why? Or from whom he needs protection? What good will that do? They’ll have too many questions; it’ll take too much time.”
But John wasn’t going to back down this time. “Don’t be an idiot. Lestrade will believe you, you know he will. He’ll moan and groan but he knows you’re usually right, even when you can’t give details.”
Sherlock gave an exasperated huff, but pulled his phone out of his pocket as the taxi stopped in front of the station. He was dialing as he exited the taxi; John stayed behind to pay the fare, so the only part of the conversation he heard as he caught up to Sherlock in the entryway was a clipped “thank you”. “He’s out,” Sherlock informed him, “but I’ve left a message telling him to send someone over to keep an eye on Holden.”
“Thanks,” he said, feeling somewhat surprised, as he always did when Sherlock actually listened to him. “That’s… that’s good. Where are we going, by the way?”
“Lufford Hall, of course,” Sherlock replied absently, scanning the overhead timetables.
“Wait… so we’re going to talk to Simpson? You really think he’s involved?”
“Why is it,” Sherlock asked, irritation plain on his face, “that when I use short and simple words, no one listens to me? Yes, I think Simpson’s involved.”
“But… wouldn’t that be unbelievably stupid of him to show his hand by sending those messages?”
Sherlock looked thoughtful. “Yes. Which either means he is quite stupid, he isn’t involved, or….” He paused, then grinned. “…he thinks he’s got an airtight alibi. Love those, they’re always great fun.” He strode off in the direction of the ticket machines. “Come on, John, our train leaves in twenty minutes.”
The queues at Victoria were always ridiculously long, even on a Sunday, so while Sherlock got the tickets, John grabbed a sandwich and a cup of tea at one of the shops. As the train cleared the station, he ate and read over Sherlock’s shoulder as the other man opened up his netbook and started searching for information about Charles Simpson and Lufford Hall.
“Hm,” Sherlock mused, drumming his fingers against his knee. They’d been browsing for nearly an hour. Fortunately the train was almost empty; not much traffic on Sundays, so they could discuss things in relative privacy. “There’s not much here. Seems to have come into a windfall about five years ago; he bought the place and fixed it up a bit, then started bringing in boarders two years ago. Doesn’t advertise; gets all his clients through word of mouth.”
“And his neighbors don’t seem to like him much,” John added, pointing at a forum site Sherlock had found.
“Yes. Just the usual complaints about teenagers, though: music too loud, kids walking about in the village at all hours, some concerns about vandalism. Nothing really interesting.” Sherlock glanced out the window and closed his computer. “Looks like we’re nearly there.”
“How did you know about Holden’s role in the Cavanaugh case, anyway?” John asked. The question had been nagging at him ever since they’d left Holden’s office.
“Books,” Sherlock said succinctly. “He had a number of books on hypnosis, as well as brainwashing and deprogramming. Middle shelf, spines well worn, so used fairly often. Not hard to deduce from that that his expertise is in alternate states of consciousness, which explains why Williamson would consult him, if he believed that his client was being coerced or was otherwise not responsible for his actions.”
John shook his head. “Amazing,” he murmured.
Sherlock chuckled. “Not really,” he said. “What’s amazing is that people don’t think about what their taste in books reveals about them.” He rose and headed for the exit door. “This is our stop, I believe.”
They caught a taxi at the station, which deposited them at the gates of an imposing brick house. Three stories tall, it stretched out in two broad wings to either side of the main entrance. The remnants of a stone wall that marched off to the left suggested that the house had once sat on a large tract of land, but time and need had whittled it down to a more moderate plot. Although John could glimpse, in the back, what looked like a fairly expansive space, framed on three sides by tall oaks. There was a group of boys playing football over in the side yard; they stopped and watched sullenly as John followed Sherlock up the path towards the front door.
A young girl was sitting on the porch; she stood as they approached, laying the book she had been reading on her chair. She was tall and slim, with blond hair pulled back into a snug ponytail and an unfriendly look on her face. “Good afternoon,” Sherlock said, putting on what John had come to call his ‘affable face’. “Is Mr. Simpson at home?”
She looked them up and down warily. “And you are?”
“Sherlock Holmes. This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. We’re here to talk to him about Robert Cavanaugh.”
John watched as her expression became smooth and bland. “Just a moment, please,” she said, then turned and entered the house.
A few minutes later the door opened, and an older man, blond and urbane, was extending his hand to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, is it? And Dr. Watson? I’m Charles Simpson. A pleasure to meet you… both.” He reached out to shake John’s hand as well. “Please come inside.”
They followed Simpson through a high, airy hall and into a small study. An ornately carved wooden desk stood in the corner, flanked by two large, high bookshelves. The wood paneling that adorned the walls was old, John noticed. Probably original, but it had been poorly cared for. There were gaps appearing between the panels due to shrinkage and warping. The carpet was worn as well, although John estimated its age at late 1970’s due to the garish colour and the shag cut.
Simpson sat down behind the desk and motioned to the two armchairs on the other side. “Have a seat, gentlemen. Now, what’s this about Robert?”
John sat down, but Sherlock stayed standing, hands clasped behind his back, perusing the spines of the books on the shelves. After a few uncomfortable moments of silence, John realized that Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything, so he cleared his throat and started. “We’re, ah, we’re consultants with the police force in London, and… and we understand that Robert Cavanaugh was living here at the time, or shortly before, the, ah, the alleged offence….”
“Yes.” Simpson looked suitably distressed. “Terrible thing, that. A complete shock. Robbie… well, he certainly wasn’t normal, but we didn’t expect anything like… that.”
“How long had he been living here?” John asked.
“About eight months - no, maybe closer to a year. He’d been living on the streets in London and got picked up for solicitation and being drunk and disorderly. After he’d spent a few days drying out in a jail cell, he opted to come out here if the police agreed not to press charges.” Simpson’s expression became solemn. “At the time I just believed that he needed some clean living and a supportive environment. I didn’t realize how disturbed he really was, that all those substances he had been using were hiding something worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“At first everything was fine,” Simpson explained. “Robbie was happy to be here, got along well with the other kids. But then he started to tell them strange things. Said he knew how to do witchcraft, said he could summon demons. He read all sorts of books about it, stayed up in his room for hours, talking to himself. When he did come downstairs, he was very distrustful of me - told the other kids he thought I was trying to trick him or hurt him.” He sighed. “It became clear to me that Robbie was mentally ill - schizophrenia, most likely. Paranoid and grandiose delusions. We tried to get him some help, but he became afraid of us and ran away. A few days later we heard about poor Miss Parrish on the news.”
“Did you call the police?” This from Sherlock, who had turned away from the bookcase and was looking at Simpson intently.
“I’m sorry?”
“When you realised he had run away. Did you call the police?”
Simpson’s expression grew sorrowful. “No. I was hoping he’d return on his own. I had some informal feelers out in London; contacts of mine in the mental health community. I was afraid if we got the police involved it would lead to something worse.”
“Worse than being charged with murder?”
“At the time, I didn’t know that was going to happen.” Simpson’s tone had grown sharper, John noticed. “I’m sorry, who did you say you’re working with?”
“We’re with the police,” John broke in, trying to defuse the confrontation he could see looming between Simpson and Sherlock. “We’re investigating a murder.”
“I’ve already spoken with the police about Miss Parrish’s death. I don’t have anything-”
“She’s not the victim,” Sherlock interrupted. “Harry Williamson is.”
“Harry Williamson? Robert’s barrister?”
“Well, not any more….”
“Sherlock,” John muttered disapprovingly under his breath.
“This… this is bizarre,” Simpson was saying, having apparently not heard Sherlock’s comment. “Harry’s been murdered? I… I can’t believe it.”
“According to John Holden, you were sending both he and Williamson threatening texts.” Sherlock, undaunted, had gone back on the attack.
“What?” Simpson looked incredulous. “That’s ridiculous. Why on earth would I do that? I contacted them quite a bit, yes - both of them - but only because I’m concerned about Robbie.”
“So… you never sent them any texts with strange figures?” John asked.
“What? No,” Simpson said, shaking his head. “I mean, yes, I sent them texts, but just asking about what was going on with Robert’s case. No runes involved.”
“Could we see Robert’s room?” Sherlock asked abruptly, suddenly affable again.
Simpson paused, and for a moment John thought he saw anger flash in his eyes. “Of course,” he said, tightly. “But there’s something I need to attend to right now. I’ll get someone to take you upstairs.”
He left the room, closing the door behind him. John moved over to Sherlock. “What do you think is going on here?” he asked, voice pitched low.
“I think we’re being lied to, John,” Sherlock replied, glee lighting his features.
The door opened and the young girl who had met them on the front porch came in. She was smiling, but John thought he could see something cold and unfriendly in her eyes. “Charles says I’m to take you to Robbie’s room,” she said. “Follow me.”
She led them across the hall and up a majestic double sweep staircase. Just before she reached the top step, however, she stopped dead and her eyes closed. “Oh,” she gasped faintly, then swayed backwards and collapsed.
Sherlock was directly behind her, and he managed to catch her, stumbling a bit and flashing a panicked glance at John. “Over there,” John directed, pointing at a bench on the landing. Sherlock lifted her up, with a bit of effort, and John noticed with concern that her head was lolling against his shoulder, her hands lax against his chest. He also noticed, with a slight touch of amusement, the profound look of discomfort on his flatmate’s face as he deposited the girl on the bench and backed away.
But then his training took over and he pushed all the unnecessary thoughts out of his head as he knelt at the girl’s side. Her pulse was strong and steady, her skin warm and dry. No fever, at least as far as he could tell with the back of his hand. Breathing was regular, and he couldn’t detect any gross signs of arrhythmia. The beds of her nails were pink. So… no apparent heart trouble, no difficulty breathing, no obvious lack of oxygen. She looked as though she were asleep.
He glanced behind him but the hall was empty. In fact, the house was eerily quiet. “Sherlock,” he hissed at his friend, who was pacing nervously up and down the landing, “see if one of these doors leads to a bathroom and find me a glass of water.”
Before Sherlock could obey, however, the girl stirred. Sighing, she put a hand to her forehead, then opened her eyes, blinking several times. She turned her head and saw John, then levered herself into a sitting position. “What happened?” she asked.
“You had a bit of a faint,” he said, smiling at her reassuringly. “Has that ever happened to you before?”
“Oh, yeah,” the girl replied, her eyes downcast, red blooming faintly across her cheeks. “It’s a blood sugar thing, I think. Sorry to freak you out.”
“Well, I couldn’t find anything wrong, but you really should get a thorough check-up from your regular doctor, especially if it’s happened before.” An impatient throat-clearing noise came from behind him, and he suppressed the impulse to turn and glare at Sherlock. “Sit here for a bit, then maybe go get something to eat. We’ll be fine on our own. Just tell us how to find Robbie’s room.”
“Go up the staircase at the back,” she said, pointing down a hall to his left, “and it’s the third door on the right. And… thank you.” She shot him a shy smile, and John decided he must have misread her unfriendliness earlier.
He stood up, patted her on the arm and motioned to Sherlock with a jerk of his head. “Come on.”
“Don’t you think she’s a little young for you?” Sherlock said, with an edge to his voice, as they headed down the hallway.
“Piss off,” John replied amiably as he climbed the narrow, steep stairs. Third one on the right… he turned the knob and opened the door.
The room was small, with a low ceiling. “Used to be servant’s quarters,” Sherlock murmured, pushing in past him. There was a narrow bed, neatly made; a small bureau with three drawers; a wardrobe; and a desk and chair. Books lined a shelf above the desk, which held a laptop computer and several open Coke cans. A few pictures sat on the bureau, amid bits and bobs for grooming and a pile of loose change.
Sherlock walked over and began examining the books above the desk. John watched him for a while, then turned and went over to the bureau to look at the pictures. They all had a smiling, blond-haired boy in them; in two he was joined by a girl, probably a few years younger, and in a third one the two children were with an older woman. The resemblance was strong between all three of them, and John surmised that the younger girl was Robert’s sister and the woman his mother. He wondered how old the pictures were, and what had happened to break up this happy family tableau.
He opened the bureau drawers. Socks and underwear in one, a messy pile of t-shirts in another, all emblazoned with various football logos. There were two pairs of worn jeans in the third, along with a pair of track suit bottoms. Next to the bureau was the wardrobe. A few shirts hung inside, neatly pressed, plus a pair of trousers and two hoodies, one grey, one navy. There was a nice pair of shoes and a ratty pair of trainers lined up together on the floor in front of the wardrobe, and there was a battered football and a cricket bat leaning against the side.
John closed the door, feeling vaguely bothered, but unable to put his finger on why. “What do you think?” Sherlock said in his ear, startling him.
“Seems like a normal teenage boy’s room,” John replied.
Sherlock looked disappointed. “As usual, John, you see but you do not observe.”
“So it’s not a normal teenage boy’s room?”
“No, it is.”
“Then… what’s the problem?”
“The problem, John, is that Robert Cavanaugh has been described to us as anything but a normal teenage boy.”
“So this is a lie.”
“Rooms don’t lie. People do.”
John frowned. “Why would they lie? You said someone was lying earlier. Why would they do that?”
“Why, indeed?” Sherlock mused, brows drawn in concentration. He glanced out the window, and John realized that it was getting dark. “It’s time we got back to London.”
As they came out on to the landing, John was surprised to see Simpson standing in the hall by the door. “I’ve taken the liberty of calling you a taxi,” he said, smiling, as they came down the stairs. The tension was gone from his face, now, replaced with an easy smugness.
“My thanks,” Sherlock said breezily as he opened the front door and headed out, John behind him. “We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes?” Simpson said, just as John passed him. “I think you might want this.”
John turned. Simpson was holding Sherlock’s phone out.
“My phone.” Sherlock sounded surprised, and John looked over to see him reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Yes. You must have dropped it.” Simpson’s smile had turned almost predatory.
“Must have.” Sherlock’s expression was blank as he took the phone. Glancing briefly at it, he slipped it back into his pocket. “Thanks, again. Come on, John.”
While they were in the taxi John managed to restrain his curiosity - small village; tongues were bound to wag - but once they were seated on the train, he couldn’t stop himself. “You didn’t drop your phone,” he said to Sherlock.
“No,” Sherlock said quietly. “That girl - she must have picked my pocket.”
He tried to think about when that could have happened, and then remembered. “The faint was a feint,” he realised.
Sherlock gave him a trenchant glare at the pun, although a corner of his mouth crooked up, almost unwillingly. “Yes. But she must have been very skilled for me not to notice.”
“But why steal your phone?”
“I’ve no idea. It doesn’t look damaged or altered - they must have wanted something off of it, but I can’t think what.” Sherlock took his phone out and examined it closely, frowning. “There’s a message.” He tapped the button for speakerphone and then the button for play.
The automated date and time stamp indicated that the message had been left while they’d been examining Cavanaugh’s room. Then Holden’s voice issued from the phone, breathy and panicked. “You… you were right, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know how, but… he’s after me. It’s after me.” A pause. “I… I can’t… I’ve got to get out of here.” Then there was panting, and the sounds of footsteps, fast, on pavement, then crunching on gravel. “Oh, my God, no!” Holden screamed, his voice sharp with terror. “It’s in the trees! It’s coming!” There was a hideous crunching sound, and the message ended.
John felt the back of his neck prickle as a shiver worked its way down his spine. “What the hell was that about?” he asked.
Sherlock’s mouth was drawn into a tense line as he punched up a number and held the phone to his ear. “Damn it,” he hissed, “straight to voicemail. Lestrade,” he snapped, “you should fire whatever idiot you put on Holden, because something’s happened. Get over there now. And see if there’s a park nearby.”
As he shut the phone off the train lurched, then gradually slowed until it came to a stop. “No, no, no, no, no,” Sherlock groaned, jumping up from his seat and crossing the aisle, peering out the windows on the other side.
John glanced out his window, but night had fallen, and it was difficult to make anything out clearly besides the embankment that ran alongside the tracks and the dark clumps of the treetops, swaying in the wind.
Bloody rail signals, John thought. He looked over at Sherlock, who was still standing in the aisle. “You might as well sit; it’s going to be a while.”
“This is intolerable,” Sherlock ground out between clenched teeth. “We need to get back to London. The case depends on it.”
“Well, it’s either wait or walk.” Sherlock eyed the door to the carriage speculatively, and John shook his head in disbelief. “Sherlock, you can’t be serious. It’ll take us far longer to walk than if we just wait it out.”
Sherlock’s phone pinged and he glanced at it, his eyes flicking up and down the screen.
“Was that Lestrade?”
“No.” Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and started pacing up and down the aisle.
“Well, then, who was it?”
“No one important.” He hunched his shoulders, pulling his coat closer around him. “Why is it always so bloody cold in these carriages?”
John frowned. “Are you cold? I think it’s rather stuffy in here, myself.”
Sherlock didn’t answer, but simply kept pacing. John sighed and opened up the netbook to see if he could get any news about what was holding up the train.
About forty minutes later, Sherlock’s phone shrilled. “It’s Lestrade,” Sherlock said, checking the display. He sat down next to John and thumbed the speaker on. “Hello?”
“I got your message.” Lestrade’s voice sounded tinny and far away.
“And?”
There was a long pause, then a weary exhale. “Holden’s dead.”
John felt sick. He looked over at Sherlock, whose expression was grim. “How?” he asked.
Another pause. “Same as Williamson,” Lestrade admitted. “Except this time he was in a park a couple of streets from his flat.” He gave Sherlock the address. “I’m trying to keep things low-key, but if the newspapers get a hold of this…”
As if on cue, the train lurched forward, then started to pick up speed.
“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” John said. He turned as his friend slid his phone back in his pocket. “Sherlock, what-”
“Shut up,” Sherlock said, brusquely. “I need quiet. I need to think.” He closed his eyes and slumped down in his chair, folding his hands under his chin like a man at prayer.
John exhaled, annoyed, but held his peace, and watched impatiently out the window as they headed towards the glowing lights of London.
***
on to part two
Author: PsychGirl (snycock)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Category: Gen
Rating: R
Word count: 13,768
Warnings: swearing, violence, some gore, creepy (I hope!)
Summary: A bloody and impossible murder sends Sherlock and John on the trail of a very strange killer.
A/N: Many, many thanks go to rhianne and suemc for their invaluable betaing and Brit-picking. This is a far better story for their input. I can't help picking at things, though, so all mistakes herein are mine. This is the first time I've written something long and plotty that's not set in the US, and let me just say that I have a whole new level of admiration for people who write outside their language and/or culture. Google can only get you so far.
This was intended to be my entry for the spook_me ficathon on LJ (ugh, only five months past the deadline; well done). My creature was demon, and the pulp covers I got had demons on them as well. So what came to mind was a pastiche of - homage to? - the classic horror movie "Curse of the Demon" ("Night of the Demon" for those of you in the UK), which was itself based on the Victorian horror story "Casting The Runes" by M.R. James. Because one update of a classic deserves another.
Done for love, not profit. Most of the characters and settings in this story belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC, as well as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. John Holden belongs to Charles Bennett and Hal E. Chester, as do the inspirations for Charles Simpson, Robert Cavanaugh, and Joanna Farrier. I've shamlessly nicked some dialogue from Mark Gatiss; Charles Bennett and Hal E. Chester; and Michael Robert Johnson, Anthony Peckham, and Simon Kinburg. And the image of the runes was taken from the movie as well (not sure who to credit for that).
The room was an abattoir. There was no other word for it. The walls were spattered with blood; the carpet soaked in it, and the mangled body on the rug in front of the fireplace was barely recognizable as human. The smell was heavy and cloying, and all too familiar, and for just a moment John heard the bark of sub-machine guns and felt the heat of sun and the grit of sand before he was able to push the memory away.
He was glad for the protective suit they’d made him don, even if it was only paper. Sherlock, of course, strode in unsuited, pulling off his gloves as if he was at a garden party. Eyes gleaming, a smile quirking one corner of his mouth, he turned on his heel in a slow circle, surveying the carnage. “Excellent,” he murmured under his breath. “John - time of death?”
John knelt at the side of the body and carefully tried to move what was left of an arm. Cool to the touch and very rigid. He leaned down and pressed a finger to the flesh resting on the floor. No change in the color. “A day, maybe two,” he said.
Sherlock frowned. “Not very precise.”
“Bit difficult to be precise when there’s this much damage. The chaps at the morgue will be able to tell you more.”
“Lestrade?”
“We think the victim was one Harry Williamson, a barrister with Firth and Macklin downtown,” the DI replied, leaning against the door frame. “Last anyone saw him was Friday night - he’d reportedly said he was going home after having a pint with his co-workers.” He flipped through a few pages in his notepad. “No signs of forced entry. Doors locked - yes, and windows, too, Sherlock. From the inside. I read Dimmock’s write-up of that case with the Chinese acrobats.”
John had been examining the body while they talked. “These wounds,” he said slowly, uncertain, “there’s something… odd about them.”
In a flash Sherlock was down on one knee next to him, his pocket magnifying glass out, leaning over the corpse.
“Odd how?” asked Lestrade.
“They… don’t look like knife wounds - too ragged for that. And yet they’re clearly gashes, not crush wounds from a blunt instrument or holes from a bullet.”
“They’re claw marks,” Sherlock said, snapping his glass closed.
“Claw marks? What, from an animal?” This from Lestrade, sounding shocked.
Sherlock didn’t respond, but swept into the kitchen instead, and from the sound of things John surmised that he was going through all the cupboards. Animal? Lestrade mouthed at him, and he shrugged.
Lestrade tried again. “So, we’re not looking at a homicide, then?”
“No, of course we are,” Sherlock said irritably, coming back into the lounge. “Someone had to get it in here, and out again.”
“Maybe it was a pet?”
“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “He didn’t have any pet supplies - plus, he’s allergic.”
“How did you - never mind.”
“Hand vacuums, one in here and one in the kitchen. But dirty dishes in the sink, at least several days old. So - not a neat freak, but someone who needs to hoover frequently. Why? Allergic - dust and pet hair being the most common ones.”
Despite his resolve not to feed Sherlock’s ego any more than was absolutely necessary, John couldn’t resist flashing a look of admiration at his friend. But there was something about Sherlock’s analysis that was bothering him. “I’m not an expert on animal attacks,” he said, rising to his feet, “but… to make wounds of that size, Sherlock, wouldn’t the animal have to be….”
“Eight to nine feet tall,” Sherlock agreed.
Lestrade gaped at the two of them in astonishment. “That’s… that’s impossible. A creature of that size would barely fit in here.”
“Just,” Sherlock agreed, nodding, as he gazed around the room.
“I mean… what are we talking about here? A bear? Some kind of giant hound? Something that escaped from a zoo?”
“Not sure yet,” Sherlock said slowly, tapping his fingers against his chin.
“Listen.” Lestrade moved in close to both of them and lowered his voice. “We’re trying to keep this quiet, but if news of this gets out, there’s going to be a lot of questions and no little amount of panic. I need answers, quickly, and I need them to not be ‘Huge wild animal running amok through London’.”
“Mobile,” Sherlock said, pulling a pair of latex gloves from his pocket.
“What?”
“Phone. Do you have his phone?”
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, and, with an irritable exhale, marched over to the door into the flat. “Donovan!” he shouted.
“What?” came from downstairs.
“Did the vic have a mobile?”
She brought it upstairs and handed it over, shooting a glare at Sherlock, which he ignored completely as he turned it on and scrolled through the display. “Ah, here we go,” he said, his tone satisfied. “Last call, probably not too long before death, given the broad estimate,” he gave John a look at this, and John rolled his eyes in response, “to a John Holden.”
Sherlock paged through the contacts, then handed the phone back to Lestrade. “Psychologist; has an office near the middle of London. We’ll follow up on that. Have them take samples of everything and send them to the lab at Bart’s.” He swept out of the room and down the stairs.
John gave Lestrade an apologetic glance. “Thanks, we’ll be in touch,” he said, and followed Sherlock out into the street.
***
They’d been in the taxi for several minutes when John grew impatient at the silence. “So?” he asked.
“What?”
“What’s your theory? I know you’ve got one.”
“Haven’t yet,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head. “Don’t have enough data.” He glanced sideways at John. “Only amateurs theorize before there’s enough data. Theories distort the way you see. Invariably you come to only see things that fit with the theory, instead of observing what’s really there.”
“But you can’t really think… I mean, seriously, Sherlock - a wild animal?”
“Lestrade said that, not me.”
“But-”
“John.” Sherlock interrupted him. “Have I mentioned that one of the things I find most valuable about you as a flatmate is your gift of being silent when it’s needed?” The amused glint in his eyes took the sting out of his words, though, and John sat back, smiling a little, and resigned himself to being quiet. Not that he’d ever taken much offense at what Sherlock said.
There’d been times, he had to admit, when he’d wondered why Sherlock tolerated him, wondered exactly what skills he brought to this partnership. But since their trial by fire - and water - at Moriarty’s hands, he didn’t find himself wondering that much anymore.
The taxi pulled up outside a small, fashionable block of offices; new, but built to look old, with a stately stone facade. Within moments they had found Holden’s name on the directory and were standing in front of his receptionist.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, flashing Lestrade’s badge, “and this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. We need to speak to Dr. Holden immediately. Police business.”
They were shown into a small office, furnished plainly but comfortably with a desk, a sofa, and a few chairs. There was a table in front of the sofa that held a carafe of water and glasses, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. Holden was seated at the desk when they entered; middle-aged but handsome, dark-haired, dressed conservatively in a grey suit and dark blue tie. He rose and came around to greet them, hand extended. “Gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“Do you know a barrister by the name of Harry Williamson?” Sherlock asked.
Holden’s brows drew together in confusion. “Yes. Why?”
“He was murdered last night.”
The colour drained from Holden’s face and he collapsed weakly onto the couch. “What?” he gasped.
John grabbed the water and poured some into one of the glasses, then sat on the couch next to Holden and pressed it into his hands, surreptitiously taking Holden’s pulse as he did so. Fast, but strong and steady.
“Murdered,” Sherlock said, evenly. “In his flat. Last night. Apparently shortly after he called you.”
“Dear God, how?”
Sherlock said nothing. John looked over at him; his gaze was fixed on Holden. “Ah… we’re not sure, yet,” he jumped in, covering for Sherlock’s lapse. “What did he call you about?”
Holden gulped some water and loosened his tie. “I… I thought he was drunk. He was wild, ranting about… I thought he was just being paranoid… you see, it’s this case we’ve been working on….”
Sherlock sat in one of the chairs and leaned forward, eyeing Holden intently. “Tell me everything.”
“He’s defending this kid, Robert Cavanaugh-”
“The one who’s accused of murdering that young girl, Katie Parrish,” John broke in. “I’ve read about that in the paper.” He shook his head. “Bad business.”
“Yes. But Harry thinks the boy isn’t fully responsible.”
“So he called you in to consult,” said Sherlock. “Because he thought Cavanaugh was being brainwashed.”
Holden shot a startled look at Sherlock. “How… how did you?...”
“Never mind.” Sherlock leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Please continue.”
“Cavanaugh was living outside of London on an estate, Lufford Hall. It’s become kind of an informal group home for troubled adolescents. It’s run by a man named Charles Simpson.” He looked at Sherlock. “Harry thinks Simpson coerced Cavanaugh into committing the murder.”
“Why would Simpson do such a thing?” John asked.
Holden shook his head. “No idea. And Harry never told me exactly why he thought that. Said he wanted me to hear Cavanaugh’s story for myself. But Cavanaugh won’t talk to me. Ever since about a week ago, he’s refused to talk to me, refused to talk to Harry; refused all visitors and phone calls, even.”
There was silence for a few moments after that statement, then Sherlock spoke up. “What else?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“There’s something else you’re not telling us,” Sherlock said.
“Oh… it’s nothing, it’s ridiculous,” Holden replied.
“I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind. What is it?”
Holden glanced at John and then back to Sherlock, looking faintly embarrassed. “Well, it’s just… Simpson’s been harassing us. Fairly juvenile attempt, if you ask me. And stupid. It’s not like this isn’t going to come out in court.”
“Harassing you?” John said. “How?”
“He’s been sending us these texts.” Holden drew his phone out of his pocket and tapped it a few times, then handed it over to John. There was a text pulled up on the display, but the sender was blocked. The header read, “In memoriam: John Holden, allowed 48 hours.” Underneath that, in the body of the text, was a double string of odd figures:
“Looks like some sort of ancient writing or something,” John mused. Sherlock held his hand out imperiously and John turned the phone over to him. “How’d you know Simpson sent them?” he asked Holden. “It said the number was blocked.”
“He called us and told us. Well, he told Harry, and Harry told me. I wouldn’t answer his call. I don’t have time for these sorts of games.”
“According to the time stamp on this,” Sherlock said, looking up at Holden, “your ‘allowed’ time ends tonight.”
Holden shrugged. “It’s nonsense,” he said.
“And Williamson agreed with you about that,” Sherlock said. “Until last night....”
“He called me, raving like a lunatic, panicked, paranoid. He said he was being followed; he said he’d asked Simpson to ‘call it off’, but Simpson had refused.” Holden ran a hand through his hair. “I thought he was drunk. Thought maybe the stress of the case had gotten to him a little. I told him to drink a glass of water and try to get some rest, we’d sort it all out Monday morning.” He gave Sherlock a sharp look. “So you think Simpson had something to do with Harry’s death?”
“Yes.”
“But… but why? And how?”
“I’m not sure. But I’d be quite careful who you let into your flat tonight.” He handed Holden’s phone back to him. “Come along, John. We have a train to catch.”
***
“I think you’d better let me break the news next time,” John said, once they’d gotten a taxi and were heading for Victoria Station.
“Why?”
He sighed. “Sherlock, I know you don’t care about observing social niceties, but there are ways to tell someone bad news that don’t result in them nearly passing out from shock.”
“Is that what you think I was doing? Ignoring social niceties?”
“Knowing you, yeah.”
Sherlock smiled. “But if I had broken the news to Holden gently, I wouldn’t be convinced that he isn’t involved in Williamson’s murder.”
It took John a few moments to work that out. “You mean you shocked him on purpose?”
“And, as a result, knew that he hadn’t known anything about Williamson’s murder until we walked in. You can’t fake that kind of reaction, John.”
“But… but….” he spluttered, outraged on Holden’s behalf. “You’ve purposely frightened that man for no good reason…”
“I didn’t say that,” Sherlock said, frowning. “He has a very good reason to be afraid.”
“He does?”
“Of course. His colleague received a threatening text, and then he received one shortly afterwards. Now his colleague has been murdered. The logical conclusion is that he’ll be the next victim.”
“For God’s sake, Sherlock!” It had been a while since he’d felt this annoyed by Sherlock’s lack of empathy. “You’ve got to call Lestrade or something. You can’t just let that man sit in his flat and wait to be attacked!”
“Call Lestrade and tell him what?” Now it was Sherlock’s tone that was angry. “I think Holden’s in danger but I can’t explain why? Or from whom he needs protection? What good will that do? They’ll have too many questions; it’ll take too much time.”
But John wasn’t going to back down this time. “Don’t be an idiot. Lestrade will believe you, you know he will. He’ll moan and groan but he knows you’re usually right, even when you can’t give details.”
Sherlock gave an exasperated huff, but pulled his phone out of his pocket as the taxi stopped in front of the station. He was dialing as he exited the taxi; John stayed behind to pay the fare, so the only part of the conversation he heard as he caught up to Sherlock in the entryway was a clipped “thank you”. “He’s out,” Sherlock informed him, “but I’ve left a message telling him to send someone over to keep an eye on Holden.”
“Thanks,” he said, feeling somewhat surprised, as he always did when Sherlock actually listened to him. “That’s… that’s good. Where are we going, by the way?”
“Lufford Hall, of course,” Sherlock replied absently, scanning the overhead timetables.
“Wait… so we’re going to talk to Simpson? You really think he’s involved?”
“Why is it,” Sherlock asked, irritation plain on his face, “that when I use short and simple words, no one listens to me? Yes, I think Simpson’s involved.”
“But… wouldn’t that be unbelievably stupid of him to show his hand by sending those messages?”
Sherlock looked thoughtful. “Yes. Which either means he is quite stupid, he isn’t involved, or….” He paused, then grinned. “…he thinks he’s got an airtight alibi. Love those, they’re always great fun.” He strode off in the direction of the ticket machines. “Come on, John, our train leaves in twenty minutes.”
The queues at Victoria were always ridiculously long, even on a Sunday, so while Sherlock got the tickets, John grabbed a sandwich and a cup of tea at one of the shops. As the train cleared the station, he ate and read over Sherlock’s shoulder as the other man opened up his netbook and started searching for information about Charles Simpson and Lufford Hall.
“Hm,” Sherlock mused, drumming his fingers against his knee. They’d been browsing for nearly an hour. Fortunately the train was almost empty; not much traffic on Sundays, so they could discuss things in relative privacy. “There’s not much here. Seems to have come into a windfall about five years ago; he bought the place and fixed it up a bit, then started bringing in boarders two years ago. Doesn’t advertise; gets all his clients through word of mouth.”
“And his neighbors don’t seem to like him much,” John added, pointing at a forum site Sherlock had found.
“Yes. Just the usual complaints about teenagers, though: music too loud, kids walking about in the village at all hours, some concerns about vandalism. Nothing really interesting.” Sherlock glanced out the window and closed his computer. “Looks like we’re nearly there.”
“How did you know about Holden’s role in the Cavanaugh case, anyway?” John asked. The question had been nagging at him ever since they’d left Holden’s office.
“Books,” Sherlock said succinctly. “He had a number of books on hypnosis, as well as brainwashing and deprogramming. Middle shelf, spines well worn, so used fairly often. Not hard to deduce from that that his expertise is in alternate states of consciousness, which explains why Williamson would consult him, if he believed that his client was being coerced or was otherwise not responsible for his actions.”
John shook his head. “Amazing,” he murmured.
Sherlock chuckled. “Not really,” he said. “What’s amazing is that people don’t think about what their taste in books reveals about them.” He rose and headed for the exit door. “This is our stop, I believe.”
They caught a taxi at the station, which deposited them at the gates of an imposing brick house. Three stories tall, it stretched out in two broad wings to either side of the main entrance. The remnants of a stone wall that marched off to the left suggested that the house had once sat on a large tract of land, but time and need had whittled it down to a more moderate plot. Although John could glimpse, in the back, what looked like a fairly expansive space, framed on three sides by tall oaks. There was a group of boys playing football over in the side yard; they stopped and watched sullenly as John followed Sherlock up the path towards the front door.
A young girl was sitting on the porch; she stood as they approached, laying the book she had been reading on her chair. She was tall and slim, with blond hair pulled back into a snug ponytail and an unfriendly look on her face. “Good afternoon,” Sherlock said, putting on what John had come to call his ‘affable face’. “Is Mr. Simpson at home?”
She looked them up and down warily. “And you are?”
“Sherlock Holmes. This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. We’re here to talk to him about Robert Cavanaugh.”
John watched as her expression became smooth and bland. “Just a moment, please,” she said, then turned and entered the house.
A few minutes later the door opened, and an older man, blond and urbane, was extending his hand to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, is it? And Dr. Watson? I’m Charles Simpson. A pleasure to meet you… both.” He reached out to shake John’s hand as well. “Please come inside.”
They followed Simpson through a high, airy hall and into a small study. An ornately carved wooden desk stood in the corner, flanked by two large, high bookshelves. The wood paneling that adorned the walls was old, John noticed. Probably original, but it had been poorly cared for. There were gaps appearing between the panels due to shrinkage and warping. The carpet was worn as well, although John estimated its age at late 1970’s due to the garish colour and the shag cut.
Simpson sat down behind the desk and motioned to the two armchairs on the other side. “Have a seat, gentlemen. Now, what’s this about Robert?”
John sat down, but Sherlock stayed standing, hands clasped behind his back, perusing the spines of the books on the shelves. After a few uncomfortable moments of silence, John realized that Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything, so he cleared his throat and started. “We’re, ah, we’re consultants with the police force in London, and… and we understand that Robert Cavanaugh was living here at the time, or shortly before, the, ah, the alleged offence….”
“Yes.” Simpson looked suitably distressed. “Terrible thing, that. A complete shock. Robbie… well, he certainly wasn’t normal, but we didn’t expect anything like… that.”
“How long had he been living here?” John asked.
“About eight months - no, maybe closer to a year. He’d been living on the streets in London and got picked up for solicitation and being drunk and disorderly. After he’d spent a few days drying out in a jail cell, he opted to come out here if the police agreed not to press charges.” Simpson’s expression became solemn. “At the time I just believed that he needed some clean living and a supportive environment. I didn’t realize how disturbed he really was, that all those substances he had been using were hiding something worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“At first everything was fine,” Simpson explained. “Robbie was happy to be here, got along well with the other kids. But then he started to tell them strange things. Said he knew how to do witchcraft, said he could summon demons. He read all sorts of books about it, stayed up in his room for hours, talking to himself. When he did come downstairs, he was very distrustful of me - told the other kids he thought I was trying to trick him or hurt him.” He sighed. “It became clear to me that Robbie was mentally ill - schizophrenia, most likely. Paranoid and grandiose delusions. We tried to get him some help, but he became afraid of us and ran away. A few days later we heard about poor Miss Parrish on the news.”
“Did you call the police?” This from Sherlock, who had turned away from the bookcase and was looking at Simpson intently.
“I’m sorry?”
“When you realised he had run away. Did you call the police?”
Simpson’s expression grew sorrowful. “No. I was hoping he’d return on his own. I had some informal feelers out in London; contacts of mine in the mental health community. I was afraid if we got the police involved it would lead to something worse.”
“Worse than being charged with murder?”
“At the time, I didn’t know that was going to happen.” Simpson’s tone had grown sharper, John noticed. “I’m sorry, who did you say you’re working with?”
“We’re with the police,” John broke in, trying to defuse the confrontation he could see looming between Simpson and Sherlock. “We’re investigating a murder.”
“I’ve already spoken with the police about Miss Parrish’s death. I don’t have anything-”
“She’s not the victim,” Sherlock interrupted. “Harry Williamson is.”
“Harry Williamson? Robert’s barrister?”
“Well, not any more….”
“Sherlock,” John muttered disapprovingly under his breath.
“This… this is bizarre,” Simpson was saying, having apparently not heard Sherlock’s comment. “Harry’s been murdered? I… I can’t believe it.”
“According to John Holden, you were sending both he and Williamson threatening texts.” Sherlock, undaunted, had gone back on the attack.
“What?” Simpson looked incredulous. “That’s ridiculous. Why on earth would I do that? I contacted them quite a bit, yes - both of them - but only because I’m concerned about Robbie.”
“So… you never sent them any texts with strange figures?” John asked.
“What? No,” Simpson said, shaking his head. “I mean, yes, I sent them texts, but just asking about what was going on with Robert’s case. No runes involved.”
“Could we see Robert’s room?” Sherlock asked abruptly, suddenly affable again.
Simpson paused, and for a moment John thought he saw anger flash in his eyes. “Of course,” he said, tightly. “But there’s something I need to attend to right now. I’ll get someone to take you upstairs.”
He left the room, closing the door behind him. John moved over to Sherlock. “What do you think is going on here?” he asked, voice pitched low.
“I think we’re being lied to, John,” Sherlock replied, glee lighting his features.
The door opened and the young girl who had met them on the front porch came in. She was smiling, but John thought he could see something cold and unfriendly in her eyes. “Charles says I’m to take you to Robbie’s room,” she said. “Follow me.”
She led them across the hall and up a majestic double sweep staircase. Just before she reached the top step, however, she stopped dead and her eyes closed. “Oh,” she gasped faintly, then swayed backwards and collapsed.
Sherlock was directly behind her, and he managed to catch her, stumbling a bit and flashing a panicked glance at John. “Over there,” John directed, pointing at a bench on the landing. Sherlock lifted her up, with a bit of effort, and John noticed with concern that her head was lolling against his shoulder, her hands lax against his chest. He also noticed, with a slight touch of amusement, the profound look of discomfort on his flatmate’s face as he deposited the girl on the bench and backed away.
But then his training took over and he pushed all the unnecessary thoughts out of his head as he knelt at the girl’s side. Her pulse was strong and steady, her skin warm and dry. No fever, at least as far as he could tell with the back of his hand. Breathing was regular, and he couldn’t detect any gross signs of arrhythmia. The beds of her nails were pink. So… no apparent heart trouble, no difficulty breathing, no obvious lack of oxygen. She looked as though she were asleep.
He glanced behind him but the hall was empty. In fact, the house was eerily quiet. “Sherlock,” he hissed at his friend, who was pacing nervously up and down the landing, “see if one of these doors leads to a bathroom and find me a glass of water.”
Before Sherlock could obey, however, the girl stirred. Sighing, she put a hand to her forehead, then opened her eyes, blinking several times. She turned her head and saw John, then levered herself into a sitting position. “What happened?” she asked.
“You had a bit of a faint,” he said, smiling at her reassuringly. “Has that ever happened to you before?”
“Oh, yeah,” the girl replied, her eyes downcast, red blooming faintly across her cheeks. “It’s a blood sugar thing, I think. Sorry to freak you out.”
“Well, I couldn’t find anything wrong, but you really should get a thorough check-up from your regular doctor, especially if it’s happened before.” An impatient throat-clearing noise came from behind him, and he suppressed the impulse to turn and glare at Sherlock. “Sit here for a bit, then maybe go get something to eat. We’ll be fine on our own. Just tell us how to find Robbie’s room.”
“Go up the staircase at the back,” she said, pointing down a hall to his left, “and it’s the third door on the right. And… thank you.” She shot him a shy smile, and John decided he must have misread her unfriendliness earlier.
He stood up, patted her on the arm and motioned to Sherlock with a jerk of his head. “Come on.”
“Don’t you think she’s a little young for you?” Sherlock said, with an edge to his voice, as they headed down the hallway.
“Piss off,” John replied amiably as he climbed the narrow, steep stairs. Third one on the right… he turned the knob and opened the door.
The room was small, with a low ceiling. “Used to be servant’s quarters,” Sherlock murmured, pushing in past him. There was a narrow bed, neatly made; a small bureau with three drawers; a wardrobe; and a desk and chair. Books lined a shelf above the desk, which held a laptop computer and several open Coke cans. A few pictures sat on the bureau, amid bits and bobs for grooming and a pile of loose change.
Sherlock walked over and began examining the books above the desk. John watched him for a while, then turned and went over to the bureau to look at the pictures. They all had a smiling, blond-haired boy in them; in two he was joined by a girl, probably a few years younger, and in a third one the two children were with an older woman. The resemblance was strong between all three of them, and John surmised that the younger girl was Robert’s sister and the woman his mother. He wondered how old the pictures were, and what had happened to break up this happy family tableau.
He opened the bureau drawers. Socks and underwear in one, a messy pile of t-shirts in another, all emblazoned with various football logos. There were two pairs of worn jeans in the third, along with a pair of track suit bottoms. Next to the bureau was the wardrobe. A few shirts hung inside, neatly pressed, plus a pair of trousers and two hoodies, one grey, one navy. There was a nice pair of shoes and a ratty pair of trainers lined up together on the floor in front of the wardrobe, and there was a battered football and a cricket bat leaning against the side.
John closed the door, feeling vaguely bothered, but unable to put his finger on why. “What do you think?” Sherlock said in his ear, startling him.
“Seems like a normal teenage boy’s room,” John replied.
Sherlock looked disappointed. “As usual, John, you see but you do not observe.”
“So it’s not a normal teenage boy’s room?”
“No, it is.”
“Then… what’s the problem?”
“The problem, John, is that Robert Cavanaugh has been described to us as anything but a normal teenage boy.”
“So this is a lie.”
“Rooms don’t lie. People do.”
John frowned. “Why would they lie? You said someone was lying earlier. Why would they do that?”
“Why, indeed?” Sherlock mused, brows drawn in concentration. He glanced out the window, and John realized that it was getting dark. “It’s time we got back to London.”
As they came out on to the landing, John was surprised to see Simpson standing in the hall by the door. “I’ve taken the liberty of calling you a taxi,” he said, smiling, as they came down the stairs. The tension was gone from his face, now, replaced with an easy smugness.
“My thanks,” Sherlock said breezily as he opened the front door and headed out, John behind him. “We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes?” Simpson said, just as John passed him. “I think you might want this.”
John turned. Simpson was holding Sherlock’s phone out.
“My phone.” Sherlock sounded surprised, and John looked over to see him reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Yes. You must have dropped it.” Simpson’s smile had turned almost predatory.
“Must have.” Sherlock’s expression was blank as he took the phone. Glancing briefly at it, he slipped it back into his pocket. “Thanks, again. Come on, John.”
While they were in the taxi John managed to restrain his curiosity - small village; tongues were bound to wag - but once they were seated on the train, he couldn’t stop himself. “You didn’t drop your phone,” he said to Sherlock.
“No,” Sherlock said quietly. “That girl - she must have picked my pocket.”
He tried to think about when that could have happened, and then remembered. “The faint was a feint,” he realised.
Sherlock gave him a trenchant glare at the pun, although a corner of his mouth crooked up, almost unwillingly. “Yes. But she must have been very skilled for me not to notice.”
“But why steal your phone?”
“I’ve no idea. It doesn’t look damaged or altered - they must have wanted something off of it, but I can’t think what.” Sherlock took his phone out and examined it closely, frowning. “There’s a message.” He tapped the button for speakerphone and then the button for play.
The automated date and time stamp indicated that the message had been left while they’d been examining Cavanaugh’s room. Then Holden’s voice issued from the phone, breathy and panicked. “You… you were right, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know how, but… he’s after me. It’s after me.” A pause. “I… I can’t… I’ve got to get out of here.” Then there was panting, and the sounds of footsteps, fast, on pavement, then crunching on gravel. “Oh, my God, no!” Holden screamed, his voice sharp with terror. “It’s in the trees! It’s coming!” There was a hideous crunching sound, and the message ended.
John felt the back of his neck prickle as a shiver worked its way down his spine. “What the hell was that about?” he asked.
Sherlock’s mouth was drawn into a tense line as he punched up a number and held the phone to his ear. “Damn it,” he hissed, “straight to voicemail. Lestrade,” he snapped, “you should fire whatever idiot you put on Holden, because something’s happened. Get over there now. And see if there’s a park nearby.”
As he shut the phone off the train lurched, then gradually slowed until it came to a stop. “No, no, no, no, no,” Sherlock groaned, jumping up from his seat and crossing the aisle, peering out the windows on the other side.
John glanced out his window, but night had fallen, and it was difficult to make anything out clearly besides the embankment that ran alongside the tracks and the dark clumps of the treetops, swaying in the wind.
Bloody rail signals, John thought. He looked over at Sherlock, who was still standing in the aisle. “You might as well sit; it’s going to be a while.”
“This is intolerable,” Sherlock ground out between clenched teeth. “We need to get back to London. The case depends on it.”
“Well, it’s either wait or walk.” Sherlock eyed the door to the carriage speculatively, and John shook his head in disbelief. “Sherlock, you can’t be serious. It’ll take us far longer to walk than if we just wait it out.”
Sherlock’s phone pinged and he glanced at it, his eyes flicking up and down the screen.
“Was that Lestrade?”
“No.” Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and started pacing up and down the aisle.
“Well, then, who was it?”
“No one important.” He hunched his shoulders, pulling his coat closer around him. “Why is it always so bloody cold in these carriages?”
John frowned. “Are you cold? I think it’s rather stuffy in here, myself.”
Sherlock didn’t answer, but simply kept pacing. John sighed and opened up the netbook to see if he could get any news about what was holding up the train.
About forty minutes later, Sherlock’s phone shrilled. “It’s Lestrade,” Sherlock said, checking the display. He sat down next to John and thumbed the speaker on. “Hello?”
“I got your message.” Lestrade’s voice sounded tinny and far away.
“And?”
There was a long pause, then a weary exhale. “Holden’s dead.”
John felt sick. He looked over at Sherlock, whose expression was grim. “How?” he asked.
Another pause. “Same as Williamson,” Lestrade admitted. “Except this time he was in a park a couple of streets from his flat.” He gave Sherlock the address. “I’m trying to keep things low-key, but if the newspapers get a hold of this…”
As if on cue, the train lurched forward, then started to pick up speed.
“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” John said. He turned as his friend slid his phone back in his pocket. “Sherlock, what-”
“Shut up,” Sherlock said, brusquely. “I need quiet. I need to think.” He closed his eyes and slumped down in his chair, folding his hands under his chin like a man at prayer.
John exhaled, annoyed, but held his peace, and watched impatiently out the window as they headed towards the glowing lights of London.
***
on to part two