13th_sherlock | Part 56

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
EPISODE 03 – A STUDY IN PINK

Author’s note: And this is where we go to AU country again. However, there are a few lines of dialogue borrowed from the unaired pilot and the first episode, respectively, which belong exclusively to Steven Moffat, may his muse never abandon him.

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PART 56 – IT'S A WRAP!

Sherlock and John, in the meantime, were walking up to 221B again, grinning in newfound understanding like two naughty schoolboys.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked causally and John nodded enthusiastically.

“Starving. What about dim sum?”

“Doable,” Sherlock replied. “There’s a good Chinese at the end of the road, stays open ‘til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.”

John gave him a look full of disbelief. “Yeah, sure.”

“And I can always predict the fortune cookies,” Sherlock added.

At that John laughed right into his face. “No you can’t.”

“Yes, I can,” Sherlock insisted. “Well… most of the time….”

John’s only answer was a snort. They reached the police tape strung across the road and Sherlock lifted it so they could walk underneath it.

“So: ran after a cab,” he then said. “Told you that limp was psychosomatic.”

John rolled his eyes. “I knew it was. That wasn’t the problem. Getting rid of it was.”

“You did get shot, though,” Sherlock tried again. “In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.”

John nodded. “Oh, yeah. In the shoulder.”

“Shoulder!” Sherlock exclaimed triumphantly I” thought so.”

“No you didn’t,” John replied good-naturedly.

Sherlock gave him his deducing look. “The left one,” he decided

John nodded again. “Lucky guess.”

“I never guess,” Sherlock declared with as much dignity as he could master – which wasn’t much, to tell the truth.

John gave him a flat look. “Yes you do.”

For a moment they stared at each other in a clash of wills – then they burst out in simultaneous giggles.

They were still giggling when a cab pulled up right outside the police tape and Mrs Hudson got out of it, apparently just arriving from wherever she had spent the afternoon. She took a look around her, taking in the whole mess, then she turned to Sherlock angrily.

“Sherlock! What have you done to my house?”

Sherlock gave her one of his winning smiles. “Nothing wrong with your house, Mrs Hudson, which is more than can be said for the dead serial killer on the first floor.”

Mrs Hudson wasn’t a woman who’d get easily shocked, not after the things she’d already survived, but that was too much, even for her.

“Dead what?!” she repeated in utter disbelief. Sherlock kept smiling at her amiably.

“Good news for London; bad news for your carpet. But you can send the bill to that infuriating brother of mine once you’ve got it dry-cleaned. Good night, Mrs Hudson,” he touched John’s elbow to steer him away. “We might be late tonight. Might need a cuppa.”

“I’m not your housekeeper!” she protested, clearly put off with the whole situation.

“Night, Mrs Hudson!” John called over his shoulder, still giggling like a fool.

They continued down the road, leaving a fuming Mrs Hudson behind. She turned to the police officer managing the tape, her eyes blazing.

“I’m going in now,” she told him in a voice that brooked no argument, and the officer had enough sense of self-preservation to simply wave her through.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Detective Inspector Lestrade was still deep in thought when another police car pulled up, bringing the detective lady from Cardiff who had been waiting in his office with remarkable patience.

“So, it’s over I understand,” she said, visibly relieved. “I’m glad to hear it. It’s a shame for poor Maggie, though. She was a nice woman; she didn’t deserve to be murdered by a madman just cos she dared to get over her personal tragedy and managed to begin her life anew.”

Lestrade nodded. She’d informed him about the last victim’s background and about the motivation she and Sherlock had figured out, but there were still certain details that he could not understand.

“And you still haven’t told me why Sherlock chose to contact you of all people,” he said. “Why not Detective Inspector Henderson? Wouldn’t he be the more logical choice?”

Swanson shrugged. “All he said was that somebody told him I might help with the identification of the last victim. He never said who it was; he probably didn’t know, either.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Lestrade said slowly. “There are few things Sherlock doesn’t know; and what he doesn’t, that pompous, annoying brother of his certainly does.”

“He’s got a brother?” Swanson asked in surprise. “Somebody like him?”

“Worse,” Lestrade replied darkly. “Somebody rich, meddling, insufferable – and working for the government in some nebulous capacity, so punching him in the face would be disadvantageous for one’s career.”

“A connection like that could be useful, though,” Swanson pointed out.

“It is,” Lestrade admitted, “but it doesn’t mean I have to like him. Or his perpetual meddling. Well, Detective Swanson, now that the cause is solved what do you thing about dinner? There is that Italian place Sherlock favours. The food is excellent and the owner thinks I’m Sherlock’s friend, so he likes me.”

“All right,” Swanson laughed, “but only if we drop the formalities. We’re both off-duty now, and my name’s Kathy.”

“And mine’s Greg,” Lestrade opened the car door on the passenger side for her. “After you.”

~The End – for now~

A rather dark Interlude is coming up next.