《Events after The Great Game》vernon

4、第 4 章 "Hell

　　"Hello, freak."

　　Lestrade opened his mouth, clearly meaning to reprimand Sally, but John caught the older man's eye and shook his head; Sherlock was smiling.

　　"Good morning, Sally," the detective replied, turning towards her, as she walked into the office where the three men were standing. "How lovely to hear your dulcet tones again, it's been too long."

　　Sally smiled, a little sadly, at John, who nodded at her as she gave the file she carried to Lestrade, before moving to the seat in the corner. That couldn't have been easy for her, John realised. Most people were tiptoeing around Sherlock, which he hated, but she had clearly decided to treat him as normal, even knowing it left her open to criticism in the circumstances. John had never really had much time for Sally, but he appreciated her consistency.

　　Lestrade spoke up, from his position leaning against his desk. "You're sure about this, Sherlock?" he checked again. Sherlock ignored him.

　　"We're sure," replied John, flexing his right arm to squeeze Sherlock's fingers in reproof. Considering how eager his friend had been to come in to The Yard today,you'd think he could put a bit more effort into being pleasant. Then again, that didn't sound terribly like Sherlock.

　　"OK," Lestrade began. "We're looking for a missing Au Pair."

　　Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Well," he drawled. "Thank goodness you haven't called me in here for anything trivial."

　　"Ha, ha," retorted the D.I., seeming to relax a little as Sherlock proved that his character, at least, was unaffected by his injury– he was just as irascible as ever. "This particular Au Pair went to a job interview, gave the home owner a fatal blow to the skull, then disappeared with a substantial amount of jewellery and cash. So far we've tracked her as far as the railway station, but that's it. We can't turn up any leads, we've got virtually nothing to go on and we're-"

　　"Out of your depth?" interrupted Sherlock.

　　John noticed Sally rolling her eyes in the corner, but she was smiling. She saw him looking and shrugged.

　　"A fresh perspective would certainly be welcome," admitted Lestrade. He passed a few photographs to John. "These are from the crime scene – the body was discovered two days ago, so there's nothing to see there now." He froze for a moment at his own terminology, but then just smiled apologetically and carried on. "I can tell you about the case, the steps we've taken, etc…"

　　Sherlock held up his hand to stop the flow. "John?" he said, turning to face the man whose arm he hadn't released since they left their flat.

　　John took a deep breath and studied the first photo. "OK, average sized sitting room, pair of armchairs at right angles to each other set back from the fireplace. Victim is lying face down on the rug, in front of the chairs. Evidence of blunt force trauma to the back of the head, impossible to determine the weapon from this photo. Position of the body and angle of wound suggests that she was sitting down when the blow was struck from behind, but it must have been quite forcible as the victim is some distance from the chair, with arms out-flung and her shoes have come off."

　　He paused and Sherlock squeezed his arm encouragingly. "Victim has shoulder length blond hair, average height and build, smartly dressed. Skin, physique and apparel would indicate fairlyyoung, possibly in her 20s."

　　John paused, and looked up at Lestrade. "What makes you so sure the Au Pair did it? Surely the husband is usually the first to be suspected?"

　　Lestrade smiled. "Looks like you've picked up a thing or two, John," he replied.

　　John noticed Sherlock's half smile from the corner of his eye, before Lestrade carried on, glancing at the file as he recited.

　　"Mr Harbrook, quite a bit older than his wife, has a young daughter from previous marriage – hence the need for an Au Pair. Was a widower until three months ago, when he married the deceased, whirlwind romance, apparently, he was certainly in a right state when he had to identify the body."

　　The D.I. was usually more sympathetic than that, John thought. Clearly, he hadn't liked the husband.

　　Lestrade carried on. "He left for work at 8 am, dropping his daughter off at nursery en route, and was in constant company from 9 o'clock until his wife's body was discovered by the woman who turned up to be interviewed at 2 pm. We've already spoken to the 10 and 11 o'clock appointments, so Mrs Harbrook was definitely alive when he left."

　　John glanced through the other photos. "There are a few close-ups," he told Sherlock. "Nothing much to add, minimal jewellery, but it all looks clean – just a gold necklace and bracelet, and her wedding ring." He peered at the photo more closely. "It looks a bit tight and there's an inscription, but I can't read it..."

　　"It says, 'Now and Forever' with their names and the date," chipped in Sally. "Is that important?" she asked, looking hopeful.

　　"Unlikely," Sherlock told her, dismissively, before turning back to Lestrade. "We need to see the crime scene," he stated. There was silence and he shook his head. "Oh, don't be so pedantic. Fine, we need to go to the crime scene so that John can see it and I can visualise it. Is that better?"

　　"I'll take you," Sally volunteered, quite possibly to the surprise of everyone in the room. "What?" she demanded. "I'm not a total bitch,you know!"

　　Sherlock sat in the taxi, pondering his current situation. There was no point thinking further about the case until he had more data, and he was certainly capable of maintaining several trains of thought anyway. He found his mind kept circling back to John, and the way their relationship had changed since the previous evening.

　　The massage had been… well, almost overwhelming really. Unlike anything else in his experience. It seemed clear that the whole area of physical relations was worthy of further study. He felt sure that extensive experimentation would be required.

　　One of the first areas to be investigated were the differences between John's body and his own, Sherlock decided. He had never really taken much notice of his physical self, other than to be annoyed when it let him down and insisted on food or sleep at inconvenient times. Now he realised that he would need to pay closer attention to his body's reactions, in order to better understand John's. He thought back, remembering the moment when he woke face down on the bed that morning and realised that his left hand was resting on John's belly…

　　Very low on John's belly. It was interesting, when one considered that John's 'pro-cushion' argument had largely been based on his fear of molesting Sherlock in his sleep; because it would initially seem that the opposite scenario was much more likely. John still lay flat on his back, on his own side of the bed, just exactly as normal. It was Sherlock who had thrown out a possessive arm, which was now laying claim to his friend in a most decided manner.

　　John seemed to be asleep and Sherlock stayed very still, concentrating on the sensations in his hand. It occurred to him that the experiment in touch had been exceedingly one-sided thus far, which struck him as unbalanced and unacceptable.

　　He could feel a thin sliver of skin along the line of his middle finger and he used his thumb to very delicately nudge the bottom edge of John's T-Shirt up a little more, until he could feel bare skin beneath the top half of his hand and his thumb was dipping into his friend's belly button. John slept on and Sherlock gradually moved his hand up, then slipped his little finger under the waistband of John's pyjama bottoms, making way for his fourth finger also, until his hand was resting in the exact position he had woken up in, but this time under John's clothes instead of on top of them. That was better.

　　Focusing again, Sherlock could feel the line of hair which was widening the lower his hand reached. It felt different to that on his own abdomen, surely? Carefully, so as not to wake John, he slid his right hand underneath his own body until it mirrored the position of his left. Interesting.

　　John's hair was thicker and felt more… furry? The lack of visual information was extremely annoying. Encouraged by John's continued slumber, he flexed his hand gently, concentrating his attention on the information gathered by his finger tips. John's skin was surprisingly soft, and very, very warm.

　　Both of his hands had slipped slightly lower, just for comparative purposes, obviously, when something grazed the back of the knuckles on his left hand. Sherlock froze, mentally chiding himself.

　　Although they rarely troubled him personally, he was aware of the phenomenon of morning erections – it should have occurred to him that John might be in this condition.

　　Two things then divided his attention, the first being the surprisingly strong urge to turn his hand over and wrap it around John. Sherlock resisted this impulse, part of his brain warning that to take such an action towards a sleeping man, with whom one was not yet intimately involved, could be considered a little overly familiar. The second distraction was the unexpected fact that his own body seemed to be reacting to mirror his partner's, which was somewhat uncomfortable in his current position.

　　He was still debating the best course of action, when John mumbled something in his sleep and then stretched, spine arching slightly off the bed as he did so. Sherlock took the opportunity to slip his hand up to a less controversial area and turned on to his side.

　　"Good morning, Sherlock," John muttered, clearly still half asleep. Sherlock was startled to realise that, for the first time since leaving the hospital, the fear of the aphasia returning hadn't even crossed his mind, although John automatically spoke immediately on waking, in order to reassure him. He opened his eyes, trying to make less of an issue of it, but everything was still black.

　　John rolled towards him, then stopped abruptly. "Oh," he said, obviously surprised to see Sherlock's eyes already open. "You OK?"

　　"You're very distracting," the detective accused. "I want to know things about you."

　　John chuckled. "I'm distracting?" he queried. "You're the one with his hand up my T-Shirt, thank you very much." He paused, reaching out his own hand to smooth over Sherlock's skin, duplicating the movement of the palm which had slid around his body when he rolled and was now resting on his lower back. "Anyway, what do you want to know?"

　　"Everything," said Sherlock, deciding to follow John's lead and just ignore the odd erection situation. "I want to know whyyou are different to everybody else and if you always will be. I want to know whyyou want me, and if you also want anybody else and if you've ever wanted anybody else the wayyou want me and how long this is going to last. I want to know why the hair on your belly feels different to mine and what other differences there are and how they feel. I want to know what your face looks like when you're aroused and I want you to kiss me and I want to know whyyou wouldn't."

　　"Bloody hell," said John. "It's a bit early for the Spanish Inquisition."

　　Sherlock huffed. "I'm not asking you questions," his tone clearly adding the word 'idiot' to the end of his sentence. "I'm just giving you an indication of the course my investigation is likely to follow." Surely John could not think him so obvious? "I will deduce the answers," he added, imperiously.

　　"Well, good luck with that," said John, good-naturedly. "Let me know if you get stuck on anything."

　　Sherlock was snapped out of his reverie by a question from Sally, who was sitting on the flip-down seat across from the two men.

　　"So, how are things going?" she asked.

　　"It's a bit early for a conclusion, isn't it?" Sherlock replied, his eyebrows rising. "Surely even a consulting detective needs a little more to go on?"

　　Sally sighed. "I meant with you," she clarified. "How are you getting on with... everything? Have you been going to classes, that kind of thing?"

　　"Classes?" echoed Sherlock. What on earth was the woman going on about now?

　　"You know," Sally tried to explain. "How to cope with blindness, getting your independence back, learning to manage on your own, etc. You know, classes?" She sounded as if she regretted asking at all.

　　"Why would I want to do that?" Sherlock asked her. Really, it was no wonder the police force was in such a sorry state. "I have John," he added, just in case she still didn't understand.

　　There was silence. Sherlock slightly tightened his grip on John, who returned the pressure as usual. He assumed the line of enquiry was finished with, but it seemed Sally was merely getting her breath back.

　　"But..." she was apparently experiencing some word blindness of her own. "But...you can't expect John to be available to you 24/7," she protested. "He has his own life to lead. He's a doctor, for God's sake!"

　　"He's my doctor," pointed out Sherlock.

　　"He's your doctor, so he's not allowed to have any other patients and has to be on call every hour of the day and night?" demanded Sally. "Does that seem reasonable?"

　　"How do you put up with him?" The last question was presumably directed towards John.

　　Sherlock turned his head towards his friend also, interested to hear how he would explain their situation.

　　"I think we're here," said John.

　　The apartment they had pulled up at seemed affluent, and John took the opportunity to quiz Sally further about the case, moving thankfully on from the awkward conversation in the cab.

　　She seemed happy enough to answer his questions as they walked towards the building, John muttering directions and warnings of steps under his breath.

　　"Mr Harbrook had some money from his first marriage, but this place was paid for by the deceased – she had a sizeable trust fund, although they couldn't touch the capital. The income alone was enough to pay for all this." She waved her arm around to indicate the general splendour, as she put the key in the lock. "They're still living here, Mr Harbrook and his daughter, although they're out at the moment, but the living room is taped off as a crime scene," she explained.

　　"What happens to all the money now?" asked John, still thinking that the husband was a far more likely contender than some mysterious disappearing Au Pair.

　　"Oh, he gets it," Sally told him. "Various charitable donations, but then it's his, free and clear." They exchanged looks. "Believe me, if I could pin this on him, I'd do it in a flash, but his alibi is rock solid and there's no evidence that he had anything to do with the job applicants – his wife advertised the position, made the appointments, all the diary notes are in her hand-writing and she's the only one the others spoke to. There doesn't seem to be anything to tie him in at all."

　　"Also, the missing woman did get away with around half a million pounds worth of jewellery plus an unspecified amount of cash – Mr Harbrook wasn't sure how much was stolen," she added.

　　By this time they had reached the room and Sally lifted the tape, John putting his hand on the back of Sherlock's head to guide him as they ducked under it.

　　Sherlock wanted to stand exactly where the victim had been found, while John described the room in meticulous detail, from the furnishings – posh, the décor – cold, the artwork – modern, the photographs – all of the little girl, who looked around three years old on the more recent snaps, the layout of the room, the open desk diary, which just showed 'Miss J', 'Miss B' etc written under appointments, with a pot of pens to the left and the CVs of the job applicants to the right – all present apart from the mysterious 'Miss S', who was noted down as the 12 noon interview.

　　He then positioned himself in the chair in which the victim was supposedly sitting at the time of the attack, while John read out the autopsy report from the file Sally had with her.

　　It turned out the murder weapon had already been identified as a heavy statue which usually sat on the corner of the desk; it was of two hands holding up a globe. "Looks a bit like the World Cup," John explained, but Sherlock didn't seem to find that information at all helpful, so he returned to the strictly factual.

　　"Injuries consistent with a single blow from the murder weapon. Not a massive amount of strength required if the victim was sitting at the time. Angle of blow suggests assailant was probably left handed, death virtually instantaneous."

　　"Describe the body, John," requested Sherlock, who had his hands steepled together under his chin. "Ignore what you know, or think you know, and just give me the facts."

　　John glanced through the report again, examining the photos more closely. "OK, white female, mid to late twenties, 5'5" tall, approx.130 lbs. Fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes. C.O.D.: massive blunt force trauma to the head. Some abrasions to both knees, scraping evident on knuckle of fourth finger of left hand, calluses on the pads of the fingers of the left hand and the nails are bitten short, but the nails on the right hand are long." He looked up. "Is this helping?"

　　"Oh, I think so," replied Sherlock, smiling. "I think things are becoming very clear, don't you?"

　　John and Sally looked at each other. John shrugged, Sally rolled her eyes. "Do you want to go to the railway station?" she asked. "There's some film of the Au Pair heading into the cloakrooms, we tracked her that far looking at CCTV footage from the street, but we haven't been able to spot her coming out – maybe you'll have some ideas?"

　　"I think that would be entirely pointless," said Sherlock. "Morgue next, please. And Sally, could you bring the victim's personal effects? And possibly Lestrade, also?"

　　Sally looked taken aback and glanced questioningly at John, who shrugged his shoulders again. It would seem that Sherlock was on to something, but what it was, John had absolutely no idea.

　　"So why do you want D.I. Lestrade?" she asked. "Going to explain the whole thing to him, are you?"

　　"Oh no," replied Sherlock, smiling smugly as he stood up and held out his hand for John. "I'm not going to tell him anything." He turned as he grasped John's hand, and pulled the smaller man towards him. "John's going to show him."

　　Sherlock could feel John's frustration as the two men got into the taxi, leaving Sally to make her own way back to Scotland Yard. It was a strange sort of awareness and didn't seem to have any practical basis, but he took John's hand anyway, pulling the doctor in against his side until he could wrap an arm around him.

　　John huffed. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" he asked. "Or are you just going to wait for me to make a prat of myself in front of Lestrade?"

　　Sherlock shrugged. "I only know what you told me," he pointed out. "I could be wrong."

　　"Yeah, like that's going to happen," muttered his friend.

　　Sherlock smiled to himself; John always had such confidence in him. It was completely justified, of course, but nice all the same. The case was almost certainly solved and Sherlock started to consider what Sally had been saying in the taxi earlier. After a while, he spoke again. "Do I take you for granted, John?" he asked.

　　"Yes," said John, immediately. Perhaps a little bit too immediately, Sherlock thought. He let his arm fall, and John sighed, leaning his weight back against Sherlock until the arm was replaced.

　　"It's not a new thing,you've always done it," John explained, taking Sherlock's other hand in his own. "Good grief,you dragged me half way across London to send a text for you the night after we met."

　　"And you shot a man to save me that same night," Sherlock observed, quietly.

　　"I did." John thought for a while, then seemed to come to a decision. "So, it's OK. Yes,you do take me for granted, but only because I let you." He squeezed the hand he was holding and turned to face his friend. "You can't take advantage of someone without their permission. It's my choice."

　　Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond, but he sensed that this was important to John, so he just waited, his thumb rubbing circles into his friend's back.

　　"I could have wounded that cabbie when I shot him, but I didn't," John continued, his voice low. "He threatened you and I killed him." He paused for a moment, before admitting, "I would have killed a hundred cabbies, to save you."

　　"Even back then?" Sherlock was surprised.

　　"Almost straight away," John told him. "I couldn't have even told you why, at first." He shrugged. "I mean, I knew I was attracted to you; that was immediate."

　　"And obvious," Sherlock chipped in, feeling slightly smug.

　　"Yes, OK, thank you," John carried on. "But I felt connected to you, way beyond that. I'm not going to call it 'love at first sight', because I think that's ridiculous, I didn't know you at all. It was more like..."

　　"Recognition." Sherlock agreed.

　　By the time Lestrade and Sally got to the morgue, John was getting worried.

　　He didn't know what Sherlock expected him to do, or how to go about it, and Molly had wheeled in the trolley, then burst into tears and disappeared, leaving them with the body. The situation, John felt, was significantly less than ideal.

　　Sherlock had no such qualms. "Come on, John," he prompted. "I want to see the body. Well," he added, "the hands, at least."

　　John was just leading him to the table when the door banged as Lestrade and Sally arrived, Sally carrying a bag which presumably contained the effects Sherlock had asked for.

　　They looked towards the table, where Sherlock was using his fingers to examine the victim's left hand. "John, what do you make of this?" he demanded.

　　Lestrade spoke up. "You'd better have something solid for me Sherlock," he warned. "If I've just trailed all the way down here for some speculation, I'm not going to be happy."

　　"You called us, remember?" Sherlock pointed out. "John," he spoke again. "Look at this hand."

　　Raising his arms in a gesture of defeat towards Lestrade, John moved to the body and examined the appendage in question.

　　"OK,yes," he confirmed. "The knuckle on the fourth finger is badly abraded, more so than was evident from the photograph."

　　"But what of the hand all together?" asked Sherlock. "Does anything strike you, doctor?"

　　John looked at it again. It looked like a hand. "Well, there are the calluses on the ends of the fingers – perhaps she played a stringed instrument?" he ventured.

　　"Good," said Sherlock. "Go on..."

　　John was thinking about playing instruments. "She'd have an advantage there because she has big hands," he said. "Well, big in proportion to her size."

　　"Excellent," said Sherlock, as Lestrade shuffled his feet impatiently. "Big hands and..."

　　John glanced down the trolley. "Yes, big feet too," he confirmed. "Wait,you haven't touched her feet and I haven't mentioned them. How did you know that?"

　　"What size would you say, doctor?" Sherlock asked, clasping his hands together.

　　Sally was rummaging through the evidence bag. "Size 6," she said, pulling out a black court shoe.

　　Everyone looked doubtfully at the feet on the trolley.

　　"Go on then," invited Sherlock. "You might as well try it."

　　Sally passed the shoe to John, who did just that, but it was immediately obvious that the shoe was much too small.

　　"No Cinderella, this girl," said Sherlock. "Allow me to introduce the absent Au Pair."

　　Lestrade was open-mouthed. "So, if this is the Au Pair, where's the wife?" he demanded. "And how..." he trailed off.

　　"Why don't you take us through it, Sherlock?" prompted John.

　　Sherlock grinned. "The first crime scene photo showed the victim wasn't wearing her shoes – shoes don't just fall off that easily, especially not both of them, so there had to be a reason. Also, the wedding ring was tight – she's only been married for 3 months, her ring should fit perfectly, so – clearly something wrong with the body."

　　He was enjoying this, realised John. This was Sherlock in his element, and he was a sight to behold.

　　"Next, we have the crime scene," he continued. "There are photographs in the room, but none of the wife, not even a wedding photo? Seems a bit odd. The pens on the left of the diary indicate Mrs Harbrook was left-handed, but the victim was clearly right-handed..."

　　"Er..." Lestrade started to interrupt

　　"Look at her fingers," Sherlock demanded. "She plays the guitar: long nails on the right hand for plucking, short nails and calluses on the left hand from sliding along the strings. Therefore: right handed."

　　"So," he continued. "If the facts don't fit your solution, then your solution is wrong. Autopsy report suggests the assailant is left-handed – the wife is left-handed. Go from there... Mrs Harbrook interviews Au Pairs, having first seen CV's and selected applicants of a similar physical type to herself. She picks the best candidate, bops them over the head and switches clothes. But, she hit a snag – the victim she chose may be of a similar height and appearance, but she has big hands and feet. The shoes won't fit and have to be left by the body. The ring, however, the engraved ring – that has got to be in place, so she forces it on, hence abrasions on the knuckle of that finger."

　　"Amazing," said Sally. Everyone turned to her and she coughed. "Er, I mean, why would she do that? And how are we going to find her?"

　　"I would suggest following the husband," Sherlock replied. "He identified the body, they're obviously in it together – you said her money was in trust, they couldn't touch the capital?"

　　"That's right," said Lestrade. "If they'd staged a fake suicide with no body, they'd have to wait years for the money. With murder, they get it straight away." He thought for a moment. "I couldn't take to that man at all, what a cold-blooded bastard."

　　"That poor little girl," said Sally.

　　John had been thinking. He knew that this was usually a waste of time around Sherlock, as he was almost inevitably wrong when it came to deductions, but this time he couldn't help wondering.

　　He turned to the Detective Inspector. "What happened to the first wife?" he asked.

　　"Bloody hell!" said Lestrade.