Murder with Lens: A Sherlock Holmes Case (221B Baker Street Series) (3 page)

“I’m not.”

John rubbed his short hair and gazed out at the darkened kitchen. The ‘fridge of horrors’ made its low click and began to whirr to life. “And I don’t understand that.”

“I’m happy.”

“You could be happier.” John said.

“You said it was all… all right.” Sherlock told him. “Why has that changed?”

He had John there. John turned to look up at Holmes’ face and felt lighter. “It hasn’t.”

Holmes still didn’t look at him. He took out his phone and fiddled with it for a moment before speaking again. His voice sounded oddly defenceless. “I’m not like you. I don’t want to be like you.”

“I know. That’s fine.” John nodded in reply. He had no idea why, right at that moment, he would have preferred to have his cane with him. His hands felt for it.

“But if you were to go, John,” Sherlock glanced up fractionally, to the level of John’s hand on the arm of the couch. He sucked a stabilising breath and exhaled slowly, “I would no longer be happy.”

John sat absorbing this. It sounded childish on the surface of things. But to Sherlock, this was much deeper consideration than he’d given his feelings in some time, possibly in years. John shrugged, “Yes, well friends will disagree from time to time, and we all make mistakes.”

Sherlock’s lips tugged back. “Aren’t you chivalrous? This was Sarah’s mistake.”

“Yes-well, she wants to help you.”

“Then have her find out why Sofia was crying.” Sherlock said abruptly. “There are signs of ongoing stress written all over her: a small tremor in her hands when I held them; brittle emotions that are very close to the surface; a cringe when I got close to her, where most people would simply withdraw. But she felt threatened.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” John got to his feet. Sherlock hopped from the couch and picked up his long coat.

“I did. Are you coming to the Yard?”

“I am.” John caught up his coat. “And I’ll text Sarah. She’s miserable she’s hurt your feelings.”

“My what? Oh bother. Maybe I should do it. You’ll take all year.” Sherlock grinned. “And speak to her, please. No more setting me up with 20 year old girls, for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, you two looked handsome sitting over there,” John told him. “Her big buttery curls, and your green eyes. Really stunning.”

“Don’t you think she’d be a bit young for me?” Sherlock only half joked.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not that old yourself. And, except for that last bit, you had her eating out of your hand.” John told him. “I mean, let’s be honest, Sherlock, if you were 20 and someone kicked your puppy, you’d cry too.”

Sherlock was still chuckling about that one, on and off, by the time the cab pulled up to the Yard. They stepped out into a light rain chill enough that John shuddered and huddled on the way in. Rain made his shoulder ache. He glanced curiously at Holmes. Apart from a slight tightening of waves and curls of hair – which was annoyingly dashing – he was impervious.

They were met at the door by an officer who led them up to Lestrade’s office. Only Lestrade himself wasn’t in the glass box. All the blinds to the Detective Inspector’s office were open, so it was impossible to miss.

Sherlock detoured and went to Melody Doyle’s desk. It was cleared now, as were the desks of her killers, Robert Reid and Alec Fisher. But Sherlock touched the desk with his gloved hands and heaved a disconsolate sigh. It was almost as if he’d hoped to come up here and find Melody herself waiting to discuss the case. “Perhaps it was a waste.”

“She was smart and… fascinating.” John agreed.

“She was.” Holmes tucked his hands back into his coat and went into Lestrade’s office. He scanned the desk, poked at this and that, and finally gave up. “He’s become scrupulous.”

“Well, he works with you.” John replied as he settled in a comfortable chair and sighed.

Holmes leaned on the desk and stretched his long legs. “Did I tell you I had a text from our escaped conspirator? You know, Wendy Harris from the Ninth Muse murders?”

John might have fallen over if he hadn’t been sitting. “You’re kidding.”

“She’s in South Africa with relatives.” Sherlock showed him the phone. “She got my number on my site, and sent me this rambling little letter. It wasn’t my fault; I didn’t know – blah-blah-blah.” He scrolled the screen.

John laughed aloud. Blah-blah-blah?

“I returned text on another phone saying I couldn’t care less about this case anymore, and that if she set foot back in England she would be arrested.” He stuck his phone back in his pocket and glanced up at John. “I lied about that last part. I have no idea what will happen if she sets foot back here.”

“Arrested.” John slapped both hands on the armrests of his chair and nodded. “For sure.”

“Yes, well, she wasn’t the brains of the operation. That was Alec and Melody – to her chagrin, as it turned out,” Sherlock sounded slightly tart. “But her capture would depend on her indiscretion. It’s not as though I’m actively looking for her.”

“Of course not,” John blinked. “Why would you? You know where she is.”

“The patsy.” Sherlock sighed and looked at the ceiling. “I wonder about the HVAC in here. The Yard is 20 storeys of steel, glass, and messy human beings. Not like you can crack a window. It would mess with air regulation.”

“A few windows open would mess with this building’s air?” John glanced from the whirring air conditioning vent over his head to Holmes and smiled. “Maybe you should have a look. Should I boost you up so you can get started?”

“Oh, that worked fine when I was in school. I’m too big now.” He vaguely dismissed the offer.

Impossible not to grin.

Donovan came out of the elevator and made for them, her face stiffened the moment she laid eyes on Sherlock. The last time she’d had contact with him, it had been to help fish him out of the back of a police car, bleeding and unconscious. She’d been with him through the Ninth Muse case, assigned to safeguard her hated enemy.

“Hello John,” she nodded in greeting.

“Sergeant Donovan,” he got to his feet as she stepped into the room.

“Freak.” she greeted Sherlock.

“Where is Lestrade? What’s happening here?”

She shook her head. Under the unforgiving fluorescents, her curling hair caught strange colours that made her look almost ginger. “Oh, you’re going to love this one, Freak. Guess who’s in the upstairs with us?”

He scanned her, quickly. “Not enough information. Just someone official, as you’re looking sharp, even for you.”

She smoothed her outfit and scowled. “Button it and follow me.”

She brought them up a pair of floors and then toward the front of the building. Sherlock didn’t say a word to her. They didn’t get along, and he seemed to prefer not agitating police who despised him unless he had good cause. Lestrade bustled around the corner of an office and headed their way. The relief on his face was obvious. “Sherlock,” he exhaled. “Where’ve you been?”

“Supper,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade hesitated and then jerked himself back around. Of course he ate. He wasn’t robotic.

“I assume someone’s dead.” Sherlock opened his hands. “Honestly, Lestrade. I don’t do social calls, and I have things to attend to.”

“Quiet down,” Lestrade set his hands on his hips. “We’ll get to the crime scene in just a minute. Right now, there someone you need to meet.” He caught Sherlock’s forearm. Sherlock watched the action closely, but didn’t resist it. Lestrade laid a folded leather badge holder into Holmes’ hand.

Sherlock opened it and handed it back as if it had burnt him.

“Keep it.” Lestrade said. “It took a lot of string pulling, but it’s yours. For now.”

Sherlock said flatly. “Yes, in fact, I believe I’m developing a rash as we speak.”

John rolled his eyes and took it. It was a badge and paperwork for Sherlock. This was nothing short of shocking. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“The CIA showed up here this morning,” Lestrade lowered his voice. “There’s been a murder on one of their international cases. They wanted our best people.”

“So, naturally, you called Sherlock,” John said without hesitation.

Holmes glanced his way and half smiled.

“Thing is, they’ve brought a special agent-”

“Oh, and not to be outdone, the Yard had to have their own. I suppose Commander Snow isn’t above vanity.” John sighed at the stupidity of it all.

“No. This came down from above Snow,” Lestrade said quietly. “He’s been told to put up and shut up, is what I’ve heard, that’s why you’re both back in the building right now.”

“What?” John gaped. “I was banned too?”

“John, don’t split hairs.” Sherlock said happily, and he opened his arms, “We’re back. Thank God. Learning the street map of Paris was so tedious – so much underground. Hm. Fun, underground.”

Lestrade didn’t like the sound of that so he pushed ahead. “Yes, well, it wasn’t so much that the Yard needed to one-up the CIA, it’s more like the CIA demanded to work with our Consulting Detective. Not in so many words. They don’t know who you are, or your title-”

“Oh, yeah: Consulting Detective. It’s on the badge.” John showed Sherlock with a broad grin.

“For God’s sake put that away,” Sherlock pawed at the thing John kept yanking out of his reach. He snickered, “John, really. I might burst into flame if light from that thing shines on me.”

John smiled and closed the badge into his pocket. “He’s drawing a salary, yes?”

“He is.” Lestrade said a little uncomfortably, “adjusted to the market value of his talent, in fact.”

Donovan scowled and almost turned her back on them.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, the CIA knew the cases you worked, Sherlock. I have a list right here. All of them were yours. Not one missed, even from before Dr. Watson started writing them up on his blog. We pushed the badge through so it’s good and official. You’re here in an official capacity, starting today.”

“Well, all very interesting, and, by that, I mean I don’t care,” Sherlock took off his gloves and pocketed them. “I’ve no intention of being here more than I absolutely need to be.” He glanced over Lestrade’s hands and up again.

“We’re aware of that,” Lestrade told him. “But listen to my words: you’re here in an official capacity, starting-”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock leaned in. “I heard you. Saying it again won’t fix my personality.”

The man sucked in a breath he exhaled slowly. “Okay. So we’re going to meet up with them now. You’ll be meeting their specialist. So just… please. Be good. If you can.”

Sherlock linked his hands behind his long back. They followed Lestrade to the back of the building. The Americans stood in one shuttered hallway, clad in black suits and wearing dark glasses like something out of the movies. There was one woman in their number. She wore a black skirt-suit and heels, her corn silk hair up in a stylish bun. They had that tall, lanky, over-worked look of Americans – too perfect, as though they went for a liposuction touch-up once a month, and patronised plastic surgeons that specialised in making them adhere to unwritten standards.

“Special Agent Young,” Lestrade said. The blonde looked up.

“Which one of these gentlemen is our boy, sir? Or is it both of them? We’ve had teams before, though Reese works alone.” Her voice was high with a twang to it.

Georgia.

“Shouldn’t you lot be working with MI6?” John asked them. He still had the badge in his hand and gestured with it.

She took off her glasses. Her eyes were grey-blue. “It’s you then?”

“Oh, it’s most certainly not me,” John replied and jabbed his thumb up at Sherlock. Holmes was already busily examining her shoes.

Slight limp.

Shifts weight frequently.

Faint smell of liniment.

No outward sign of injury.

Very toned.

“You should try not to overdo it in the gym,” Sherlock glanced up at her. “But then, you’re the kind for overdoing it. I shudder to imagine the bouts of bulimia in sorority.”

“My-my,” she said lightly. “How could I miss the signs?” She turned to the two men behind her and motioned at them. “This is Agent Lewis and, over here, Agent Scott, and, in reply to your question, sir, we enquired at MI6 and they suggested we come to Detective Inspector Lestrade, and ask after his specialist. Now who are you two?”

Since Sherlock said nothing, John nodded, “Doctor John Watson.”

“My assistant,” Sherlock was scanning Lewis and Scott.

“And you are?” She smiled at him prettily.

“Sherlock Holmes.” He said distractedly, because he was deeply involved in examining the men with her now. He tipped his head a little at Scott’s collar and then glanced back at the woman. “Why are they feigned like this?”

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock half-circled one of them, “They look like they came out of central casting.”

“Ah.” The woman smiled tightly and turned. “Lewis, why don’t you go and get Reese? To answer your question, it is because Reese – your American counterpart, so to speak – finds this less distracting.”