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

by S. K. Lloyds

  Less than five minutes later, Sherlock sat at a bench in the police museum. It was a large, lecture-theatre-like affair with death masks staring down. Macabre, but neither of the geniuses seemed to mind. Reese paced back and forth in front of the bench. After a few minutes of this, Sherlock shifted to lay out flat on the thin padding and stare at the ceiling.

  Neither of them spoke.

  John stood close to the door and remained as inconspicuous as he could manage. He thought about Sarah, who had been dropped at the Islington clinic by officers. He should be there, except she refused to take him from this case. It did nothing to assuage his guilt, or the pang of loneliness he felt as he thought of her closing up the clinic for the night. Would she sit in the break room overlooking traffic, alone? How many nights had she done that before they’d met?

  But she wanted him to solve the case, and protect Sherlock. Increasingly, she found Holmes to be reckless. He wondered how long it would be before she began having terrible misgivings about John’s association with Sherlock. He’d had a few. But he’d also quickly dismissed them. Then what? If it came down to a choice… how would he choose? His potential partner, or his partner in crime?

  Finally, Reese sat down with her back to the bench.

  “John,” Lestrade said quietly.

  John stepped around the corner into the second room of the Crime museum and greeted the harrowed-looking Detective Inspector. “Smoothed it over?”

  “They’re up to something,” Lestrade’s brow wrinkled. “I’m not sure what it is. I’d bet they want to get Sherlock back to Langley, but I don’t know for sure. That’s neither here nor there. Young wants to restrict Sherlock’s access to Reese. He’s a ‘corrupting influence’.”

  After a moment of consideration, John shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

  “She’s not an adult, so it’s not my call. What’s going on with them?”

  Seconds ticked. “Something. I don’t know.” John shook his head. “If… if you’d never met anyone who could speak your language, you’d get as good at another language as you could grasp. What would you do if you bumped into another native in the crowd?”

  Lestrade looked into the room beyond him. From his vantage, he couldn’t see Holmes, just the edge of Reese’s slender arm as she shifted. “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised if he’s annoyed they’re shouting at her then. Cuts a bit close, don’t it?”

  John shook his head. “Lestrade, honestly… I don’t know. I mean, being the only person to understand the things he does is maddening, particularly since – you can trust me, I live with him – he can’t dial it back.”

  “Must be a nightmare.” Lestrade considered.

  “We get along fine,” but after the Sofia debacle, John couldn’t exactly deny Sherlock had issues. He shrugged instead, “But don’t you think Sherlock’s skills are exclusive? It’s like being in a private club. He doesn’t trust Reese, that’s plain, but that doesn’t stop her being in his club.”

  “Well get his head together. Delov is getting patched up as we speak. We’ll have access to him again in about an hour, so we’re leaving in 15.” Lestrade pointed into the room. “I need him to do what he does.”

  “In that case, Young and her bullies need to stay away from them. I mean the both of them.” John hid the beginnings of his own frustration. “Let him cool off. He’s got to be sore after that fight, he’s pumped full of adrenaline, and he won’t take pain pills.” When it came to Sherlock and Reese, neither the CIA nor the Yard quite saw beyond the utility.

  “It’s fine,” Lestrade walked backwards a few steps, “It’s all fine, as long as it works. I should tell you that a letter was dropped off for him though. The name Charlie Heath ring bells?”

  “Yes,” John nodded. “You have it?”

  “Do not show this to the CIA before I have a chance to look at it, John.” Lestrade handed it over turned and headed out of the museum.

  “You have my word. I can’t give you his.”

  “No offence, John. Yours is probably better than his.”

  Inside the room lined with death masks, the soft resonances of Sherlock and Reese talking didn’t sound like English at all. Perhaps they had returned to Latin, or moved on to some other dead language. John smiled at the thought. He’d resolved to give them a few minutes alone before he intruded on their conversation. He was burning with curiosity though. What was in the letter? What was going on with the two geniuses? Was it just that Sherlock and Reese could speak at the same level? Or was there no more need for setups like with Sofia? Reese was young, certainly. Could Sherlock look past it? John thought about it for a minute and decided he was being foolish. Hope availed nothing. There was no predicting Sherlock Holmes.

  The letter. This would be the work of Lawrence’s flatmates, all reporting on the mystery boyfriend. Was there a lead in here?

  When he did go to get them, John found his steps flagged. It might have had to do with the lack of substantial sleep the night prior, or it might have been Sherlock. Holmes sat up with his elbows balanced on his knees, and his face was quite close to Reese’s where she sat lotus on the floor before him. Their laser-like focus had seemed to increase with proximity. Sherlock broke that connection. He turned his green eyes in John’s direction and Reese, with her colourless blues, followed suit.

  She got grumpily to her feet. “I suppose you’re here to say Delov is ready for his close-up.”

  “Sorry to,” John’s hand flicked over his mouth and chin, “to interrupt the pair of you.”

  “We were just thinking together,” she stretched on the way past him.

  John continued on to Holmes. “Didn’t look like thinking.”

  “What did it look like?” Sherlock leaned back and perused the death masks curiously.

  Maybe he’s picking a dust-cover for the skull at home. God, how garish, John! He gave himself a little shake. “Uh, yeah. Looked more intimate than thinking.” He nodded.

  “Yes, well…” Sherlock’s tone was dry. He folded to look down at the floor before him. “I’m finding it’s… not the same, sharing my thoughts with other people.”

  John blinked, “As with her?”

  Now he looked intensely uncomfortable, even cross, and then Sherlock got up, picked up his coat, and pulled it onto his tall, slim frame.

  “Perfectly natural,” John said when no reply came. “I mean, there aren’t many people who could approach your thinking, it only makes sense. My question is do we consider her friend or foe?” He extended the letter.

  Sherlock immediately looked to be certain Reese was gone.

  “Reese and I can only be adversaries, John.” He tied of his scarf with an expert hand and glanced up at the death masks. “I’ll be glad when she’s gone and my world returns to normal.” He took the letter and opened it quickly. His green eyes scanned it at astonishing speed, and he tucked it into his coat.

  John opened his arms. “Well?”

  Sherlock’s lips tightened. “We must tell Lestrade Waters was in far deeper than the CIA think.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because his flatmates report seeing different young men.”

  “He had different partners, then. You said he liked risky behaviour, there you go.” John spread his hands and noted. “It’s up to us to discover if any of them is guilty.”

  “One of them certainly had a hand in this. It might interest you to know that all of the boys he was seen with were nearly the same height and weight,” Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Lawrence was in deep. He was meeting actual Photographers. This one followed him home. Someone so adept at disguising himself that all six of the flatmates saw him on different occasions, and, even when they were relating the details to one another for this note, they didn’t grasp he’s the same person. They even describe different personalities. He’s quite good at disguise.”

  John blinked a couple of times. “Amazing.”

  “We need to get
Lestrade looking for him.” Sherlock pulled out his cell and started texting Lestrade at mad speeds. John watched, gawping a little. At any moment there would be a little vapour cone around his phone and a pop as Sherlock went supersonic.

  John gave his head a shake to clear it of foolishness. “Then what were you talking about?”

  “Mm?”

  “With Reese? What were you talking about?”

  Sherlock’s brows went up a moment. He ignored the question. “Lawrence Waters was a genius with all the bona fides. He was a recruit of the CIA, a neophyte of what Ree calls the ‘Think Tank’. He didn’t pass muster and was denied admission to the Langley facility. He never became an Asset. Like most, he was never aware of, or added to, the brain trust. Knowledge of Reese and the others is actually Classified so you know a rare thing, John.”

  “I know you. So yes.”

  It made Sherlock blink up from his phone. “Yes. Well… Lawrence was very useful, the natural choice to deploy as a sleeper on this assignment. He was sent abroad from America and landed up in Goldsmith’s International Programme studying politics. Ree’s Think Tank activated him to infiltrate the Photography Club when a small number started to gather in London. He was responsible for sorting through the intelligence the Photographers gave him as they tested him for membership. They would have fed him a mixed bag, of course. He sorted it out with Reese and her team. He’d acquitted himself well enough to get a face-to-face with one or more members, but he didn’t report this back to Reese. That ‘boyfriend’ of Lawrence’s is our first actual Photographer.”

  “So why not report? Do you think he became some kind of a double agent? You think after he started working with Reese that he was angry about the rejection from Think Tank?” John shrugged.

  “I think absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Sherlock raised his chin, his lips a soft smirk, “That’s because it absolutely rules.” He turned and made his way out of the museum.

  John’s lips compressed in a line, but he made no comment. He followed Sherlock from one room of the Crime Museum to the next. “Okay. But they tested him, right? He saw one of them. Now, is he dead because they found him out, because he saw a face, or because he failed?”

  “Excellent!” Sherlock’s voice echoed. He turned and walked backward to look at John. “You see. We haven’t enough information to make that determination yet, but it would change the face of the Photography Club, would it not?”

  “A club for gods, where you get in, or die trying,” John nodded in agreement. “But that would mean they don’t hold their own kind in particularly high regard.”

  “Which inclines me against the theory at this point, particularly given the message they left for Ree. Lawrence wasn’t one of their kind – simplicity to dispose of him.”

  John couldn’t help but recoil.

  Sherlock continued, “But Reese is like them. They used Lawrence to find out more about her, ‘the Abyss also looks into you’, after all. It may be Reese they’re really courting, they’re really testing. They could deduce Waters was a CIA puppet of hers. They frequently use a layer of obfuscation, their cronies. I believe the message is more complex than it seems. If Waters represents the involvement of the CIA, then they’ve moved to cut the head off the snake. I asked Ree what made her come here in person. She filed the request herself. In other words, the Club summoned her and she came.”

  “She’s their prospective candidate, then?” John pulled up short and scanned Holmes’ face. “Are you saying she’s playing into their hands, or… are you saying she’s about to defect?”

  “Not one or the other. Both. She may be the true mole. The Club only moves to capture the best. Getting brought in would confirm her status, and she wouldn’t necessarily need to leave the CIA.” Sherlock confirmed for John, and added, “Plus she wants revenge for Lawrence, which is something they’ve factored in. It may be they don’t entirely understand the emotion behind the symbolic action they took. Or they may be using his murder like the flip side of a coin, if the elite status doesn’t bring her aboard, how about a shot at revenge? Either way, if the CIA continues to push Reese, she will see no better option and change sides. It’s the most direct route to her revenge and her freedom. The Club is a society she can thrive in and understand.”

  “A society without apes.” John used her term with some distaste. But he also snuck a look at Holmes, because if it was a fit for Reese, wasn’t it a fit for him? For that matter, why would they bring Reese here with Sherlock walking around the city? Sherlock’s brain was miraculous.

  Sherlock smiled softly. “And without the need for great apes. There are great apes too. People who try to learn proper thinking methods, like you.”

  “Oh that’s wonderful,” John blew air out of his cheeks. “What do we do about this? I mean, who do we tell about it?”

  “Nothing. No one,” Sherlock pulled on his gloves. “It’s enough that I know.”

  “Well are you trying to influence her at least?” John asked. Sherlock had considerable status in Reese’s eyes.

  Sherlock linked his fingers and stretched his arms before him, palms out. He grimaced a little and gave his left hand a shake as he dropped it to his side. “The nature of reality changes under observation, John, so in that sense… but it’s not my life. Plus if I pushed her one way or the other, I’d never know what she would do.”

  John couldn’t fathom how Holmes could speak about Reese with such remove. But there was no time to chastise him over his lack of ethics.

  At the end of the hallway, Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, and several other officers congregated. Sherlock swept along with John beside him. He passed Young and her two CIA without a glance in their direction, save for the look he gave Ree. The girl didn’t speak a word, and fell into step at his shoulder. John glanced at her curiously, but there was no hint of the turning gears within her. If she was frantic with her desire to avenge her friend, or increasingly desperate for a modicum of freedom, it didn’t show. That didn’t make it any less real. However, the repeated glances she stole at Holmes confirmed he was indelible in her psyche. John thought he could stop her defection with a few well-placed words. Maybe the mere example of him would be enough.

  “Trace evidence on the axe-” Lestrade looked up from his conversation with Anderson and his gaze locked with Sherlock’s. He’d gotten the text. Sherlock had shown something approaching loyalty.

  Anderson gave Sherlock a wilting glare. “Delov cleaned the hatchet, but the porous wood handle still gave him up. Blood found there is a match to Lawrence Waters’. I suppose he should have gone with synthetic.”

  Sherlock actually smiled and made an amused huff, “No it has to be wood. Wood used to be alive. Let’s hurry, Lestrade. The Photography Club must have heard we have Delov by now. They might not want a loose end.”

  It was a mass exodus to King’s College. Sherlock found it horribly irritating.

  Reese insisted they park near Ruskin Park, and, because she was riding with Lestrade, who saw no harm in the request, she got her way. She gave the Detective Inspector an appreciative smile and shared her time in walking beside him, and walking with Holmes on the way to the hospital. It was like having an excited puppy along.

  There was a considerable amount of waiting to be done while in the hospital. Delov had difficulties holding consciousness. It seemed Sherlock had been too thorough. It was later in the day than expected when Sherlock and Ree were able to stop pacing the hospital halls, and finally gained access to the assassin.

  “I’ve never talked to a killer before,” Ree looked a little green in the cheeks.

  “Sherlock has experience with it,” John told her quietly. “You might want to learn his methods.”

  She scowled, seeing as Reese disliked the idea that she had a lot of learn from anyone, let alone from Sherlock Holmes, ‘rogue Asset’. But she wasn’t stupid. She hung back from the assassin and watched Holmes.

  Both Delov’s arms were in elevated casts. His legs were sec
ured to the bed. His face was swollen from the terrific punch Sherlock had delivered. His eye had swollen shut. There was nothing left of the ear John had shot off. The man was in wretched condition and well drugged by the time Sherlock paced over to read his charts. John gave his tall friend a speculative look and snatched the charts away. It was official: they’d beaten the piss out of an assassin.

  John winced and put the chart down before walking over to check the IV drip. “So he should be pretty ‘softened up’.”

  Sherlock reached around John and cranked back the painkiller. “This should help things along.”

  John actually jumped. When he reached to correct the drip, Sherlock caught him around the shoulders and pivoted. John wound up at the end of the bed before Holmes released him and dusted his long pale hands. “Marvellous.”

  “Sherlock, what did you do?” Lestrade asked with a slight undertone of dread.

  “He’s just making it so the guy can think straight,” Ree said uneasily. This was a lie, John thought immediately. Sherlock was turning up the heat, making it so that the pain would begin to wear away at Delov again. Sherlock’s adrenaline had fractured the man’s sinuses and the orbit of his eye. It would take a relatively short amount of time for him to start feeling that injury.

  “Ah, the clouds are clearing. I can see sense coming back in your eyes, Delov,” Sherlock looked down at the man. “Would you like Russian, or would you like English?”

  “I would like for you to die in any language,” the man said.

  Sherlock reached out a hand and flicked Delov in his shockingly swollen eyelid. The man actually whimpered. “Well,” Holmes said. “Instead of annoying me, why don’t you do something productive, like roll over on the people who paid you to kill Lawrence Waters? I see they didn’t send you a card now you’re captured.” Sherlock flicked him in the cheek again and Delov made a pathetic squall. The sound wasn’t human.

  “Ohmigod,” Reese stepped back and clung to Lestrade. This didn’t seem to be feigned. Young noticed the behaviour curiously and said something, sotto voce, to Scott. Lewis hadn’t yet recovered enough from his dosing to join them on this outing.