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laurajvSee master post for headers & notes
Between the Minotaur's hideout and Irene Adler's disappearance, Lestrade had had better nights. Adler and her partner, a Mr Godfrey Norton, had left the country, and the student now living in their flat seemed to think they'd be gone quite a while. "On tour," he said, shrugging, and there was no reason to believe he knew anything else; his primary interests seemed to be going back to sleep, and staring at Donovan in a way that made Lestrade want to lecture him.
Lestrade stumbled home just in time to catch his wife and daughter leaving for the morning, and gone straight to bed. Shortly after two in the afternoon, he dragged himself awake, washed, and drank three cups of coffee before he dared get in his car to drive to the office. Donovan was propped up on his doorframe, her eyes closed, when he arrived. "You look revoltingly chipper, sir," she said.
"It's a sham," he replied. "This is all caffeine."
"Brilliant," she said. "We've finished processing Irene Adler's flat. Nothing."
"As we expected, then."
She shrugged and walked away; he settled down at his desk, and looked at the envelope Adler's polite student had given him last night. He needed to decide what to do about that, and soon. He logged into his computer and began reading his email and typing in reports.
After an hour or so, he found a rhythm; Donovan texted him that she was going out to get real coffee, and he replied that he'd buy if she picked up something for him, as well. He was just putting his phone down when Holmes and Dr Watson materialized in front of his desk. "How's our killer?" Holmes asked.
Lestrade glared at the pair of them. "You could knock," he said. "And he's asking for art supplies. I don't think he means pastels and paper."
Dr Watson snorted. "Likely not."
Lestrade pushed back from his desk. "He also told Donovan that you two were going to eat him. I decided that was probably not as insane as it sounds on the face of it."
Dr Watson laughed, and Lestrade frowned at him before continuing. "Well. We've got Leon Blank dead to rights, and Dimmock managed to track down Ramona Stone. And of course your murderer."
Holmes smiled. "No name?"
"Refuses to give it," said Lestrade. "Calls himself--"
"The Minotaur," said Holmes, his smile fading. "Pity. He's so original otherwise. And Adler?"
"Gone," Lestrade said. "She flew out of Heathrow before we even knew she was Nathan." Holmes's eyebrows shot up, which was more satisfying than it had a right to be. Lestrade looked down at his desk, at his own name in Irene Adler's handwriting, on the front of the envelope she'd left for him at her flat. "She bought a burial plot for Grace, and gave me the money to get a gravestone for it."
Holmes made a dismissive movement. "How touching. There's something else, Lestrade, I can see it in your eyes."
Lestrade braced his hands on his hips and shook his head. "Adler," he said. "I don't know what her game is, but she got into -- all kinds of things. She's copied evidence on six cases, and that's just the ones we know of."
"Which six?" Holmes asked.
"All dead girls," Lestrade said. "Cold cases, going back twenty years. Why do that?"
"How do you know she copied the files?" Holmes asked; he had the line between his eyes that meant he was thinking.
"She scanned them in; didn't wipe the computer."
"Deliberate," Holmes said, through his teeth. "Easier just to take them, if she wanted them. She's sending a message."
"What is it?"
Holmes made a peculiar, unreadable face. "Send me the files and I'll let you know if I come up with anything," he said. "John?"
Dr Watson nodded goodbye, and they left; Lestrade watched them walk down the hall and hoped Donovan would come back from her coffee run soon.
* * *
In the cab, Sherlock drummed his fingers against his knee and clicked his tongue in rhythm. "You going to tell me what the message is?" John asked, and Sherlock looked at him through his eyelashes.
"What makes you think I know what it is?" he said, and John raised his eyebrows.
"I saw your face, Sherlock," he answered, because in Lestrade's office Sherlock had blinked and left his eyes closed a fraction of a second too long; inhaled with his mouth barely open. The expression had lasted barely long enough to ripple Sherlock's skin, but John hadn't spent all this time learning to read Sherlock's moods for nothing.
Sherlock smiled, his eyes crinkling up and his canines showing. "Well, then." He took a deep breath, fingers still drumming. "She wants me to solve those murders."
"You don't think she's going to solve them herself? Maybe she's trying to be like you."
Sherlock creased his face in thought. "I doubt it," he said. "She has no reason to try to be like me, John. She could; she'd be very good at it. She is exceptionally clever. I simply doubt she wants to stop being herself." His nostrils flared. "I hope she doesn't come to Mycroft's attention; he tolerates my rejections because I'm his brother. She won't be so lucky."
"So she's, what, sort of your double?" John said, and Sherlock stilled, abruptly. "Moriarty's your opposite, and she's your double?"
"Moriarty I hate," Sherlock said. "Irene Adler I admire. She's not my double, John; she's my counterpart."
John studied his hands for a moment. "And what am I?"
Sherlock stilled his fingers. "You're my colleague," he said. "My left hand."
"Is that all?"
Sherlock searched his face. "John, I have called you my friend almost since we met. You know what you are to me." His voice was soft and rough at the same time.
"Do I?" John said. "Sometimes I wonder." He leaned his head against the back of the seat and gazed out the window. London shivered and shimmered outside the chilly glass; his shoulder ached, but the rest of his body felt relaxed and well-used. He thought about the flash of Sherlock's teeth, last night in the tunnel; about the quiver and jerk of the killer on the dusty floor and the warm grip of his gun when he pulled it from his waistband. He closed his eyes, so that Sherlock could not read his thoughts in them.
The cab pulled up in front of the flat, and Sherlock left him behind to pay the fare.
Inside, Sherlock threw his coat over the arm of the sofa and began rosining his bow. "John," he said. "Tea. If you will."
For Sherlock, that was very nearly polite. John hung up his jacket and filled the kettle; behind him, he could hear Sherlock plucking strings. He busied himself finding teabags and clean mugs, and then Sherlock whispered "Irene Adler." John looked up at him. Sherlock shook his head, and smiled, a long slow smile. "What a fantastic woman."
John folded his hands on the table and looked at his skinned knuckles, waiting for the water to boil. "You almost sound like a man in love."
Sherlock slouched, tucking his chin close to the violin, smiling more deeply. "Don't be ridiculous. If I ever fall in love it won't be with a woman."
"Are you gay?" John asked, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, then grinned, widely enough to show his eyeteeth.
"Married to my work, John, I told you."
John grinned back, because Sherlock's tone was inviting, rather than quelling. "Is your work male or female?"
"Oh, no, I can't tell you that," Sherlock answered, replacing Grace's music with a funny little air that John vaguely recognized. "You love my work; you want to have an affair with it and steal its affections, and if I tell you it's female -- oh, I've done it now, I've slipped up. You're going to seduce her away from me."
"Right," said John. The kettle clicked off behind him. "I'll just make your work a nice cuppa, then, shall I?"
"She'd like that," Sherlock said, and John went to fix Sherlock's work some tea, just the way Sherlock liked it.
Epilogue: Toll the bell
A small plot of land
Between the Minotaur's hideout and Irene Adler's disappearance, Lestrade had had better nights. Adler and her partner, a Mr Godfrey Norton, had left the country, and the student now living in their flat seemed to think they'd be gone quite a while. "On tour," he said, shrugging, and there was no reason to believe he knew anything else; his primary interests seemed to be going back to sleep, and staring at Donovan in a way that made Lestrade want to lecture him.
Lestrade stumbled home just in time to catch his wife and daughter leaving for the morning, and gone straight to bed. Shortly after two in the afternoon, he dragged himself awake, washed, and drank three cups of coffee before he dared get in his car to drive to the office. Donovan was propped up on his doorframe, her eyes closed, when he arrived. "You look revoltingly chipper, sir," she said.
"It's a sham," he replied. "This is all caffeine."
"Brilliant," she said. "We've finished processing Irene Adler's flat. Nothing."
"As we expected, then."
She shrugged and walked away; he settled down at his desk, and looked at the envelope Adler's polite student had given him last night. He needed to decide what to do about that, and soon. He logged into his computer and began reading his email and typing in reports.
After an hour or so, he found a rhythm; Donovan texted him that she was going out to get real coffee, and he replied that he'd buy if she picked up something for him, as well. He was just putting his phone down when Holmes and Dr Watson materialized in front of his desk. "How's our killer?" Holmes asked.
Lestrade glared at the pair of them. "You could knock," he said. "And he's asking for art supplies. I don't think he means pastels and paper."
Dr Watson snorted. "Likely not."
Lestrade pushed back from his desk. "He also told Donovan that you two were going to eat him. I decided that was probably not as insane as it sounds on the face of it."
Dr Watson laughed, and Lestrade frowned at him before continuing. "Well. We've got Leon Blank dead to rights, and Dimmock managed to track down Ramona Stone. And of course your murderer."
Holmes smiled. "No name?"
"Refuses to give it," said Lestrade. "Calls himself--"
"The Minotaur," said Holmes, his smile fading. "Pity. He's so original otherwise. And Adler?"
"Gone," Lestrade said. "She flew out of Heathrow before we even knew she was Nathan." Holmes's eyebrows shot up, which was more satisfying than it had a right to be. Lestrade looked down at his desk, at his own name in Irene Adler's handwriting, on the front of the envelope she'd left for him at her flat. "She bought a burial plot for Grace, and gave me the money to get a gravestone for it."
Holmes made a dismissive movement. "How touching. There's something else, Lestrade, I can see it in your eyes."
Lestrade braced his hands on his hips and shook his head. "Adler," he said. "I don't know what her game is, but she got into -- all kinds of things. She's copied evidence on six cases, and that's just the ones we know of."
"Which six?" Holmes asked.
"All dead girls," Lestrade said. "Cold cases, going back twenty years. Why do that?"
"How do you know she copied the files?" Holmes asked; he had the line between his eyes that meant he was thinking.
"She scanned them in; didn't wipe the computer."
"Deliberate," Holmes said, through his teeth. "Easier just to take them, if she wanted them. She's sending a message."
"What is it?"
Holmes made a peculiar, unreadable face. "Send me the files and I'll let you know if I come up with anything," he said. "John?"
Dr Watson nodded goodbye, and they left; Lestrade watched them walk down the hall and hoped Donovan would come back from her coffee run soon.
* * *
In the cab, Sherlock drummed his fingers against his knee and clicked his tongue in rhythm. "You going to tell me what the message is?" John asked, and Sherlock looked at him through his eyelashes.
"What makes you think I know what it is?" he said, and John raised his eyebrows.
"I saw your face, Sherlock," he answered, because in Lestrade's office Sherlock had blinked and left his eyes closed a fraction of a second too long; inhaled with his mouth barely open. The expression had lasted barely long enough to ripple Sherlock's skin, but John hadn't spent all this time learning to read Sherlock's moods for nothing.
Sherlock smiled, his eyes crinkling up and his canines showing. "Well, then." He took a deep breath, fingers still drumming. "She wants me to solve those murders."
"You don't think she's going to solve them herself? Maybe she's trying to be like you."
Sherlock creased his face in thought. "I doubt it," he said. "She has no reason to try to be like me, John. She could; she'd be very good at it. She is exceptionally clever. I simply doubt she wants to stop being herself." His nostrils flared. "I hope she doesn't come to Mycroft's attention; he tolerates my rejections because I'm his brother. She won't be so lucky."
"So she's, what, sort of your double?" John said, and Sherlock stilled, abruptly. "Moriarty's your opposite, and she's your double?"
"Moriarty I hate," Sherlock said. "Irene Adler I admire. She's not my double, John; she's my counterpart."
John studied his hands for a moment. "And what am I?"
Sherlock stilled his fingers. "You're my colleague," he said. "My left hand."
"Is that all?"
Sherlock searched his face. "John, I have called you my friend almost since we met. You know what you are to me." His voice was soft and rough at the same time.
"Do I?" John said. "Sometimes I wonder." He leaned his head against the back of the seat and gazed out the window. London shivered and shimmered outside the chilly glass; his shoulder ached, but the rest of his body felt relaxed and well-used. He thought about the flash of Sherlock's teeth, last night in the tunnel; about the quiver and jerk of the killer on the dusty floor and the warm grip of his gun when he pulled it from his waistband. He closed his eyes, so that Sherlock could not read his thoughts in them.
The cab pulled up in front of the flat, and Sherlock left him behind to pay the fare.
Inside, Sherlock threw his coat over the arm of the sofa and began rosining his bow. "John," he said. "Tea. If you will."
For Sherlock, that was very nearly polite. John hung up his jacket and filled the kettle; behind him, he could hear Sherlock plucking strings. He busied himself finding teabags and clean mugs, and then Sherlock whispered "Irene Adler." John looked up at him. Sherlock shook his head, and smiled, a long slow smile. "What a fantastic woman."
John folded his hands on the table and looked at his skinned knuckles, waiting for the water to boil. "You almost sound like a man in love."
Sherlock slouched, tucking his chin close to the violin, smiling more deeply. "Don't be ridiculous. If I ever fall in love it won't be with a woman."
"Are you gay?" John asked, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, then grinned, widely enough to show his eyeteeth.
"Married to my work, John, I told you."
John grinned back, because Sherlock's tone was inviting, rather than quelling. "Is your work male or female?"
"Oh, no, I can't tell you that," Sherlock answered, replacing Grace's music with a funny little air that John vaguely recognized. "You love my work; you want to have an affair with it and steal its affections, and if I tell you it's female -- oh, I've done it now, I've slipped up. You're going to seduce her away from me."
"Right," said John. The kettle clicked off behind him. "I'll just make your work a nice cuppa, then, shall I?"
"She'd like that," Sherlock said, and John went to fix Sherlock's work some tea, just the way Sherlock liked it.
Epilogue: Toll the bell