Chapter Text
Sherlock hovered on the doorstep, fingers twitching toward and away from the doorbell as his teeth bit white over his lip. There was no point, really; he might as well leave right now. It wasn’t as if he planned to stay long, and people tend to be more forgiving of you just not coming than they are of you leaving early. Irene would understand. Probably. Possibly.
He huffed, glaring at the doorbell of Irene’s manor, unaccountably furious at it for being so difficult to ring, and then leapt back, startled as the heavy oak swung away from him.
“I thought that was your shadow lurking in the window,” Irene said, smiling as she folded her arms, leaning against the doorjamb.
Sherlock’s eyes scanned down her, stunned, and Irene tilted her head, pushing off the doorframe to shrug at him.
“What?” she asked, lifting her gloved hands as she looked down her dress. “Did you forget about the theme?”
“Theme!?” Sherlock spluttered as he entered, and Irene rolled her eyes, turning and moving back into the foyer to expose the pleats draping down the back of her dress, practically exploding from the corseted bodice pulled tight to her hips.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said with a flick of a black glove. “I didn’t tell you. Figured you wouldn’t come.”
“Well, you figured right,” he snapped, folding his arms, eyes narrowing on the intricate beading and ruffled cap sleeves of Irene’s bodice. “What is the theme, anyway?”
Irene beamed, throwing her arms wide, her deep red dress sparkling in the light. “Late Victorian Era!” she grandly announced, swinging at the folds of her dress.
Sherlock raised a brow. “Why?” he asked, and Irene smirked.
“Because I look fabulous in a corset,” she replied, and Sherlock laughed as she snatched him by the wrist, dragging him toward the stairs. “Now, come on, everyone else will be arriving soon.”
“Wait, what?” Sherlock blustered, craning his neck to catch sight of the hall clock before they rounded the corner. “But you said it started at 9:00.”
“I lied,” Irene clipped with a shrug. “You’re always late, and I needed time to convince you to put on a costume-”
“A what!?”
“-so I told you 9:00, but it’s actually 9:30. And currently”—she paused, pushing open the door of her bedroom and towing Sherlock in behind her as she glanced at her alarm clock—“9:15, so we’ve gotta hurry up.”
“Hurry up? Irene, I am not-”
“Yes, you are,” Irene snapped, and Sherlock clapped his lips shut, glaring at her. She plucked an envelope off her desk, passing it across to him before bustling off toward her closet.
“What’s this?” Sherlock asked, turning the card over in his hands.
“Open it,” the woman answered, waving a hand back at him as she stretched up toward the top shelf.
Warily, Sherlock flipped open the envelope, pulling out a small card. “Oh, for the love of- Really?” he spluttered, and Irene beamed, a cardboard box in her hands and she crossed back to the bed. “A murder mystery party?”
“Mhmm!” Irene chirped, beginning to pull out clothes that Sherlock wasn’t getting close to if she paid him. “Cool, isn’t it? Like live action Cluedo!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, reading back over his card. “Character bio?” he read, frowning down at the writing. “What-”
“Well, we can’t very well be ourselves, can we?” Irene explained, exasperated, and Sherlock gave her a flat look. The woman chuckled, drawing up to his side as she pointed down at the card. “The names are the same, obviously, but everybody gets different descriptions of who they’re supposed to be from Victorian times.”
“So, we’re all…suspects?” Sherlock supposed, and Irene nodded, striding back to the box and continuing to unload the contents.
“Yep. Everyone gets put into pairs-”
“Pairs?”
“Pairs,” Irene reiterated, eyes sparking as she whipped back to him, and Sherlock let that one go for the time being. “And then they go around—find clues, interview one another, etc.—and try to figure out who the murderer is.”
“And one of the guests is the murderer,” he surmised, and, once again, Irene nodded. “Who’s been murdered?” he asked.
“The Lady Boddy,” Irene replied, and Sherlock snorted. “I couldn’t come up with anything else, alright!?” she defended, and Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head down at his card. “There’s another page in the envelope explaining the murder and everything. I even made up pictures, just for you.”
Sherlock smiled, giving the page a cursory glance. “So, who am I?” he asked, turning over the smaller card again.
“You,” Irene chirped, plucking a few articles from the pile, “are a genius detective who frequently consults with Scotland Yard on the most puzzling and grisly of cases.”
Sherlock raised a brow as the woman moved toward him, a long tweed something draped over her arm. “I already do that,” he muttered, and Irene chuckled.
“Well, yes,” she admitted with a nod, “but now you do it in a deerstalker!”
“A what?” Sherlock questioned, but it was promptly answered, Irene whipping a hat up from her arm and wriggling it down atop his head. Sherlock lifted a hand, touching at the brim, and then met the woman’s grin with his own terrified gaze. “No,” he contested, but she just smirked, unfurling a cape in front of her.
“Come on, Mr. Holmes,” she cajoled, sweeping the cloak around his shoulders, and, instinctively, he caught it at his shoulder. “The game is ON!” she shouted, sweeping past him toward the door.
Sherlock gaped after her, hands gripping into the cape. “What does that even-”
“ON!” Irene bellowed, punching a finger into the air, and Sherlock had no choice but to follow her, though he made sure to grumble loud enough to carry.
---
“I hate you,” Sherlock growled, fidgeting with the panels of his cape as he stood beside Irene in the living room, the rest of the guest milling around them in similarly ridiculous garb, their invitations clearly having included the theme and characters.
“No, you don’t,” Irene crooned, slipping her arm through his even as he glared. “You appreciate my efforts to expand your comfort zone.”
“With tweed?” Sherlock snapped, flicking at the cape, and Irene laughed. “So, what’s your character?” he asked, looking out at the other women in the room, all dressed much less elaborately than Irene.
“The madam of a London brothel,” she replied, and Sherlock choked. “What?” the woman quipped innocently, smirking up at him. “It’s the world’s oldest profession.”
Sherlock shook his head, incredulous, and then his attention was drawn away as Irene whipped her face toward the door.
“Oh, thank god,” she breathed, her grip tightening around Sherlock’s arm. “I was beginning to think they weren’t gonna make it. Harry! John!”
“John?” Sherlock questioned, stomach leaping, and he tried to tug away from Irene, but it was no use, her hold steel as she dragged him to the foyer. “Let me go!” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth as they made their way toward the pair currently taking their coats off and hanging them on the nearby rack.
“No!” Irene snapped back, though her face was a broad smile directed at the guests. “It’s your own fault for refusing to come to coffee. And the movie and the study session at the library.”
“That’s because I knew they were all setups!” Sherlock snarled, trying yet again to yank himself free.
“Honestly,” Irene huffed, holding him even tighter, “so ungrateful. You spend that whole rugby game drooling over him-”
“I was not!”
“-and then I try and get you a hand-”
“Irene!”
“-and you don’t show up!”
“Does he-” Sherlock started, frantic, but Irene cut him off with a shake of her head.
“No, he doesn’t know you stood him up. As far as he knows, you’re just that guy he spoke to once after a rugby game.”
“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, the knot in his stomach loosening a little. “Okay. Okay, that’s-that’s good.”
“And I might have mentioned a few other things.”
“Like what!?”
“Irene!”
They snapped their heads up to Harry, Irene breaking into a brilliant smile while Sherlock just tried not to make his fury obvious.
“Harry, so glad you could make it!” Irene said, finally releasing Sherlock to give the girl a hug. “I wasn’t sure if you were too good for us kids now that you’ve graduated.”
Harry laughed, brushing at what appeared to be a period maid’s uniform as she broke away from Irene. “I figured I could stoop to your level just this once. And I’m pretty sure you’ve met my brother, John,” she added, waving a hand to the boy behind her, who stepped forward after hanging his brown overcoat.
“Yeah,” the blond confirmed, nodding at Irene as he smiled. “We’ve hung out a few times, actually. How’d your psych midterm go?”
“Oh, how sweet of you to remember!” Irene crooned, and, even though she didn’t look at him, Sherlock could feel that comment was especially for him. “It went well. Better than I expected, at any rate. Though that’s not saying much.” She laughed, the others joining in, and Sherlock took the moment no one was paying attention to reassess John Watson.
The last time he’d seen him, he had been streaked with mud and sweat, his uniform spotted with grass stains and blood he had assured them wasn’t his—something Sherlock tried very hard not to find stupidly attractive. That had, understandably, been a difficult look for Sherlock to endure, but he wasn’t sure the boy’s present appearance was any better. John was wearing a slate grey suit, a matching vest buttoned underneath with a white collar and black tie protruding from the top. His shoes were worn brown leather, and atop his head rested a black bowler hat that shadowed his eyes somewhat in the light, making them twinkle out like stars caught within the night sky.
‘Stars caught within the night sky’, what the hell was wrong with him!?
“Oh, and you remember my friend,” Irene said, grabbing at Sherlock’s arm again, and Sherlock reconstructed his face into something less smitten as John’s eyes shifted to him. “He was at that rugby game with me. Sh-”
“Sherlock,” John interjected, beaming at him, and Sherlock’s stomach spun in downright undignified joy. “Yeah, I remember. Chemistry, right?” he asked, smiling when Sherlock nodded.
“And you’re medicine,” Sherlock replied, not one to be outdone. “Fourth year, wasn’t it?”
Irene snorted, likely fully aware Sherlock didn’t need to ask, but he didn’t want to look like too much of a freak before they even got out of the foyer.
“Yeah, that’s right,” John said jovially. “Wow, I can’t believe you remembered that.”
“Oh, Sherlock remembers all kinds of things,” Irene interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. “Except my birthday, of course. That one always seems to slip his mind.”
“Well, I have to delete something,” Sherlock muttered, and the group laughed as Irene stuck her tongue out at him.
“Let’s head on inside,” the woman said, waving the group to follow her into the living room. “Get this show on the road.”
They all chuckled, but followed her into the room, where Irene led them toward the fireplace.
“If I can have everyone’s attention!?” she called, stepping up beside the mantel before turning to face the room. “I think we’re all here now, so we’re gonna get started. First off, thank you all for coming. I know you’d rather be getting drunk at a campus party right now, but I’m glad you chose to come here and keep me company on Halloween instead.”
The room laughed, and then clapped for some strange reason, causing Sherlock to look around with a quirk of his brow, at which point he noticed John doing the same thing.
Their eyes met, and John shot him a hint of a smile, shrugging, and Sherlock returned the smirk before looking back to Irene.
“Alright, now, down to business,” she said, clapping her hands together in front of her. “You’ve all been given a character, and you’ve all done spectacularly with your costumes”—another round of self-congratulatory applause—“so now it’s time to put you into pairs and send you off to discover our killer! Oh, and just so you know!” she added, lifting a finger to add to the theatrics. “The murderer already knows who they are, so don’t trust anyone, or they might try to stop you from revealing their secret!”
The room laughed again, and Sherlock shook his head, flummoxed by the idiocy.
“Okay, now, your pairs,” Irene said, winking at them as she produced a folded sheet of paper from her bust, and even Sherlock had to laugh at that one. “First up,” she said, unfurling the sheet, “is myself and Harry.”
“Of course,” Sherlock muttered, surprised to hear it echo, and turned to find John looking at him with similar surprise, the both of them quickly darting their faces away to avoid laughing.
Irene continued down the list, people shifting this way and that as they were put into couples, and, as the end grew nigh, fewer and fewer people left standing alone, Sherlock knew there was no hope for him.
“And Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” she announced, giving Sherlock an impressively loaded glance for it being only a fleeting flick of her eyes. “There are clues hidden around the manor, but only on the bottom level,” she explained, waving around the room. “A few of the household staff will also be milling about, and they all have scripts that will help you, so make sure to interview them when you see them. Any questions?”
Someone to Sherlock’s left actually raised their hand.
“Yes?” Irene called, clearly loving it.
“Can we interview each other too?” the girl asked, and Irene nodded.
“Yes. You were all given an alibi on your character card. Any other questions you ask, however, that person can just make up whatever they feel is in character.” Irene cast another glance around the room, searching for other queries. “Everyone good?” she checked, and, after a murmur of agreement from the crowd, she grinned, clapping her hands once more. “Alright! Well…get to it!”
A rumble of chatter immediately broke out, people gathering pencils and paper from a table set up in the center of the room, but Sherlock just glared, staring down Irene as she moved beside him.
“You’re the devil,” he hissed, and she grinned.
“Sherlock, dear, you’re looking a bit pale,” she said, soft with false concern as she tapped a hand to his face. “Perhaps you should see a doctor.”
Sherlock could feel a flush at his collar, but he beat it down, glowering at the woman, but Irene only giggled, darting away with a flick of her wrist. Sherlock was still glaring at her back when he felt someone come up to his side, a throat clearing at his shoulder.
“Er,” John murmured, adorably self-conscious, “I suppose we should”—he paused, making an indistinct gesture in the air with his hands—“introduce ourselves? Or something?”
“I already know who you are,” Sherlock snapped, immediately regretful, but John only chuckled, shaking his head.
“No, I mean our characters,” he said, and Sherlock flushed properly.
“Oh,” he murmured, and John smiled, ducking his face as he pulled his card from his pocket.
“Here,” he said, handing it across to Sherlock. “Probably faster this way.”
Sherlock nodded, fishing his own out before handing it to John, whose eyebrows immediately lifted.
“Detective, huh?” he quipped, tilting his head at him.
“Consulting detective,” Sherlock instinctively corrected, and then blinked, looking up to meet John’s curious expression. “I mean- I actually do that,” he murmured, pointing down at the card, really wishing he could have bought a bit more time before exposing this particular aspect of his life. “I consult with Scotland Yard on cases. They call me and-and whatnot.”
“Really?” John asked, looking back down to the card with a quirk of his brows. “That’s…wow,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s really rather incredible.” He chuckled, smiling as he handed Sherlock back his card. “I’m afraid none of mine is true,” he added, bobbing his head at his own card in Sherlock’s hand.
“Dr. John Hamish Watson. Retired Army doctor,” Sherlock read, scrolling across the black print. “Served in Afghanistan before being shot in the left shoulder and honorably discharged. Now works in private practice. And your alibi,” he added, turning the card over, “is you were meeting an old friend for dinner.”
John smiled, shrugging. “I suppose the doctor part is true, or almost anyway,” he said, taking back the card as Sherlock passed it to him. “And I did mention to Irene that I was considering joining the army after I graduate, so that might be where she got that.”
“Wait, what?” Sherlock blurted, even more taken aback than John by his reaction. “I-I mean- Why the army?” he asked, swallowing down the flutter of nervous energy batting at the sides of his throat.
John eyed him speculatively a moment before his expression eased, eyes blinking out across the room. “My grandfather served,” he answered, shrugging as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I suppose I just- I dunno,” he muttered, toeing at the carpet, “it’s on the list of options. So, should we get started?” He turned up with a smile, clearly ready to move on from the conversation, and Sherlock, though still fairly certain he might throw up, obliged.
“Sure,” he agreed, and they set off, moving out of the living room and into the foyer. “Where should we start?” he asked, looking at the various rooms and corridors leading off in different directions.
John chuckled, lifting a grin up at him. “I think I’ll defer to you on that one, Mr. Consulting Detective.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched, and he quickly looked away, feeling the tell-tale heat prickling up his neck. “Come on,” he muttered, heading toward the dining room, and John followed, still beaming for some terrifying reason.
The dining room was fairly uneventful, people scouring for clues Sherlock could tell at a cursory glance weren’t there, so they quickly moved on to the library, where they found a member of Irene’s staff—now, ostensibly, Lady Boddy’s—dressed in the period costume of a servant and dusting at the shelves.
“Er, hello,” John said, lifting his hand in a frail wave, and the woman genuinely startled, spinning back toward them.
“Oh, sorry,” she muttered, stowing the feather duster in the pocket of her apron as she approached, tucking a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“But you were dusting anyway?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head, and the woman chuckled.
“Well, yes. Practicing, I suppose you could say. Ms. Adler has been adamant we all stay in character,” she replied, brushing at the folds of her skirt, her pink nail varnish bright against the white. “Oh, speaking of which!” she spluttered, and then quickly curtsied, a bright smile on her face when her head lifted again. “Good evening, gentlemen! Is there something I can help you with?”
Sherlock simply blinked, incredulous and more than a little horrified at the twisted mind of Irene Adler, but John just bowed back, a gesture that got him a disconcertingly glowing look from the woman.
She was pretty, Sherlock supposed, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed with rouge, and, as she giggled at John, they blushed even brighter.
Something pinched at the back of Sherlock’s mind, but, before he could make the connection, John spoke.
“Good evening, madam,” he bade, removing his hat, and Sherlock promptly forgot what he had just realized, distracted by the shades of John’s tousled hair. “I was wondering if we could ask you a few questions. I understand you worked for Lady Boddy?”
“Oh, yes, dreadful business,” she replied, shaking her head with a frown, and John flicked a glance up at him, apparently impressed at the acting ability, and then got stuck, head tilting curiously at Sherlock bewitched expression. “She was such a good mistress. Always made sure we were well taken care of. Don’t know what we’re all going to do without her.”
“All?” Sherlock interjected, snapping back to attention, and the woman’s expression faltered, eyes narrowing in momentary assessment.
“Yes,” she said, sliding quickly back into nonchalance. “There are nine of us altogether.”
“Nine?” Sherlock parroted, and the woman nodded. “All women?” he pressed, and she nodded again.
“Yes, sir. It’s an entirely female staff.”
Sherlock closed his mouth, a smile playing at it as the woman watched him wonderingly. “Thank you for your time,” he said, dipping his head quickly before he turned, John sputtering behind him.
“I- Er, yes, thank you,” he muttered, and Sherlock heard a giggle behind his turned back before hurried footsteps raced to catch up with him. “What was-”
“I need to find the calling cards,” Sherlock interjected, heading back toward the foyer, past the larger group heading toward the library.
“The what?” John hissed, leaning in so as to avoid being overheard, and Sherlock smiled reflexively, happy to not be alone in his competitiveness.
“Calling cards,” he murmured back, looking side-to-side to ensure they were alone before he began searching over the tables in the foyer, opening the narrow drawers. “In Victorian times, when people would visit one another’s houses, they would leave-”
“Yes, I know what a calling card is, Sherlock; I’m English,” John snapped, and Sherlock turned to him, eyebrows raised. John rolled his eyes, and Sherlock chuckled, turning back to his task as the blond spoke again. “I’m asking why you need to find them.”
“So I can know who visited,” he replied, moving onto the next table, John shuffling along in his wake.
“You really think Irene’ll have something like that?” he asked, shifting to block Sherlock from view as a pair drifted past the doorway of the dining room. “I mean, this is all pretty detailed, I’ll admit, but why would she-”
“Because the maid was wearing nail varnish,” Sherlock replied, and John stalled, blinking down at him as his forehead creased.
“Nail varnish?” he parroted, head shaking lightly. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It was pristine,” Sherlock elaborated, riffling through what appeared to be old mail, a downright absurd amount of M&S flyers scattered about inside. “Not chipped or anything. No maid would even bother with nail varnish, let alone be able to keep it intact.”
“She probably just forgot to take it off,” John suggested, leaning forward to peer down into the drawer. “I doubt it has anything to do with the case. They probably didn’t even have nail varnish back then.”
“Actually, some version of nail varnish has been around since ancient times, henna originally being used to paint the nails of mummies in ancient Egypt, but the modern variety has been around for some time as well,” Sherlock rattled off, closing the current drawer before moving onto the next. “It was very popular in the Victorian Era—shades of pink and red being the only options available—but manicure salons wouldn’t become commonplace until the 20th century.”
John froze, and, as Sherlock looked up at him, he found wide blue eyes staring at him from over a gaping mouth. “How do you know that?” he urged, and Sherlock paused, frowning.
“I have no idea,” he muttered, and then rattled his head, filing that away for future consideration. “The point is, they had it, and you heard her, Irene is being a harpy about the details.”
“I don’t think those were her exact-”
“Plus, she knew I was going to be here,” Sherlock continued, stopping in his search a moment to grin devilishly up at John, “and I never miss the details.”
John blinked, evidently caught-off-guard, and then smiled tremulously back, head shaking resignedly. “Okay, I’ll bite,” he said, stepping closer as Sherlock resumed his search. “What does it mean that she was wearing nail varnish?”
“And rouge,” Sherlock added, hand hitting something hard at the back of the drawer. “Highly inappropriate for someone of her status, and rather frowned upon in general, seeing as makeup was, at this time, still widely associated with actresses and prostitutes.”
“Prostitutes,” John mused, face thoughtful as he turned it back toward the library, as if he could see through the stairs. “Nine,” he breathed, looking to Sherlock, eyes wide and bright. “There are nine maids.”
“Mhmm,” Sherlock hummed triumphantly, hand gripping onto what felt like a small wooden box, which he quickly removed to confirm it as such. “An all-female staff,” he added with a flick of his brows, and a slow smile bloomed on John’s awestruck face.
“A brothel,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Lady Boddy was the madam of a brothel. And the calling cards-”
“Will tell us who her favorite customers were,” Sherlock concluded, rattling the box, and John beamed, coming around to his side as he opened it.
“Would people really have left calling cards at a brothel?” he asked, tilting his head up to Sherlock as the detective sifted through the slips of paper.
“Possibly. It was all about manners back then. But, regardless,” he added with a shrug, “I’m willing to suspend my disbelief if it means solving this faster.”
“I hear ya,” John murmured, shaking his head gravely. “But, I’ll admit, I was all for it until the costumes part.”
“I didn’t even know there was a theme,” Sherlock muttered bitterly. “Irene had me get here a half hour early, and then ambushed me with a deerstalker.”
“You poor dear,” John soothed, frowning in mock sympathy, and then quickly broke into a smirk as Sherlock glared at him. “So,” he clipped, leaning close to Sherlock’s shoulder, the woodsy scent of him wafting distractingly up over Sherlock’s face, “whadda we got?”
“Um,” Sherlock stammered, swallowing hard, “there are a lot of names, but a Mr. James called eight times in the past two weeks.”
John’s eyebrows flicked. “Well, that’s a tad excessive,” he muttered. “You think that’s meant to be one of us? I don’t think anyone is named James.”
“No, no one is,” Sherlock confirmed, shaking his head as he frowned down at the card. “Must be a pseudonym.”
“Well, naturally,” John scoffed, and Sherlock tilted his head at him, curious. “Would you use your real name if you had to sign in at a brothel?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever considered it,” Sherlock muttered, shrugging a shoulder, and John laughed, soft and breathy.
“Neither have I,” he chuckled, “but, now that I am…” He trailed off, rolling his hands in the air, and Sherlock nodded.
“Yes, I suppose it makes sense. Still, not much to go on. Anyone can make up a fake name.”
“Well, I’m sure there are other clues,” John assured, eyes roving back out to the foyer. “Feel a bit weird now, though,” he added in a murmur. “I mean, I know it’s not really a brothel, but-”
“Irene,” Sherlock said, and John stopped, turning back to him, head tilted. “Irene’s character is a madam at a brothel,” he added, and John blinked, lips popping apart in comprehension. “Maybe- Maybe Lady Boddy was taking her customers, running too much competition.”
“You really think Irene would cast herself as the killer?” John asked, and Sherlock gave him a flat look. “Yeah, alright, fair enough,” he muttered, waving a hand as Sherlock delved into his pocket, pulling out the invitation envelope.
Taking out the folded slip of paper, he unfurled it on top of the nearest table, pulling at the cord of a nearby lamp to illuminate the diagram of the body.
“Lady Boddy’s…body,” Sherlock murmured, John snorting briefly beside him, “was found in two different trunks in the Thames, entirely dismembered.”
“I worry about that girl,” John mused, shaking his head down at the picture, and Sherlock turned up to him, expression wrinkled with inquiry. “Irene,” John clarified, bobbing a nod down at the page. “She came up with all of this, right? Little bit disturbing she spent time plotting out the dismemberment of an imaginary woman.”
“Let us hope it’s not a plan she intends to put into practice,” Sherlock said, and John’s eyes widened as he nodded deeply.
“From your lips to God’s ears,” he replied, and Sherlock huffed a laugh before returning to the diagram.
“There was bruising around what was left of the neck,” he continued, pointing down at the close up of the neck, marks indicated with shaded patches. “It appears to be manual strangulation; the perpetrator most likely being right-handed.”
“How can you tell?” John asked, tilting his head down at the picture.
“The bruising is more pronounced on the right side,” he explained, tapping a finger at the darker half, and John nodded, though a sort of hesitant confusion still lingered in his face. “There’s the thumbs there, see?” he clarified, sliding his finger to hover just beneath a particularly pronounced patch of shading over the trachea. “And then the rest of the fingers were about here.” He gestured to a different spot further along the diagram, and John nodded again, much more definitive. “Lady Boddy’s measurements are even smaller than Irene’s, so she wouldn’t’ve had any trouble overpowering her.”
“But why the dismembering?” John asked, frowning, and Sherlock shrugged.
“Any number of reasons,” he replied, folding the paper back up and slipping it into his pocket. “Easier transport, perhaps. The body was found in two separate trunks. Maybe one would’ve been too heavy.”
“Or she didn’t think they’d both be found,” John offered, and Sherlock nodded, that also a good point.
Wait…had John just been…helpful?
John seemed to be having a similar epiphany, shaking his head dazedly up at Sherlock with glittering eyes. “Is this-Is this what you do all the time?” he asked, a touch breathless. “For the Yard?”
Hesitantly, Sherlock nodded, and John, far from looking repulsed and running away, only puffed out a breath, a faint smile on his face.
“Wow,” he murmured, smile broadening as he dropped his gaze. “That’s- Wow! That’s incredible, how do you- How did you even get into something like that?”
Sherlock blinked at him, brain grinding to a halt, and his mouth was left on its own, flapping over words he couldn’t control. “You-You don’t think it’s…weird?”
“Well, yeah, I guess,” John conceded with a shrug, “but somebody’s gotta do it, right? And you’re obviously good at it. I’d definitely want you on the case if I ever- And I’m just gonna leave that sentence unfinished so as not to jinx anything,” he muttered briskly, tossing in a grin, and Sherlock was startled into a laugh.
“I-I don’t- I just…called,” he answered, twitching a shoulder. “I was constantly bothering them with tips, and, eventually, they started calling me.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, shuffling his feet embarrassedly on the tile. “I mostly work with this one D.I., Lestrade. He’s the only one who calls me. Everyone else thinks I’m a bit of a freak.” He chuckled, scratching at the back of his neck, but John didn’t laugh, his expression turning to quite the opposite of amused.
“Do people really think that?” he asked, and, hesitantly, Sherlock nodded. John turned his eyes away, glowering at the wall as his jaw twitched. “Well, you’re not a freak,” he answered fiercely, like he could wipe away every contrary word with his own, “and I’m sure they know that. They’re probably just bitter you can do their jobs better than they can.”
Sherlock chuckled, dropping his face as he felt it flush. “That’s what my mum says,” he murmured, and John smiled, suddenly soft as he tilted his head.
“Well, you know what they say about great minds,” he quipped, and Sherlock laughed, but the both of them quickly fell silent as footsteps could be heard crossing the foyer.
“Where could they have gone?” Harry said, and, in perfectly silent sync, Sherlock and John moved to press themselves against the side of the stairs, as far out of reach of the lamplight as they could manage.
“I don’t know!” Irene snapped, hands on her hips as she stepped into view. “Marisa said she talked to them in the library, and then no one’s seen them since.”
John turned from where he was crouched in front of him, a question in the tilt of his head as he waved a hand in gesture between them, and Sherlock nodded, confirming they were the topic of conversation.
“You think they bailed?” Harry asked, looking toward the door.
“Doubt it,” Irene replied, but she walked to the door regardless, cupping a hand to the window as she peered out into the dark. “Sherlock can never leave a puzzle unsolved, and, believe me, the whole of London will know when he solves it.”
John’s shoulders jerked with a stifled laugh, and Sherlock glared at the back of his head.
“Well, then where could they be?” Harry asked again, peering into the living room, her brow furrowed.
“Not a clue,” Irene shrugged, arms flipping out before wilting to her sides. “Ya think we should start checking closets?”
Harry’s laugh rang high and shrill in his ears as his stomach fell through the floor, John’s shoulders stiffening in front of him.
“I’m pretty sure they’re no longer-”
“Harry!”
“Irene!”
Sherlock startled, looking to where John had jumped up beside him, both of them interrupting the conversation at the exact same moment, leaping forward to intervene.
John blinked at him curiously, and then they both looked back to where the girls had yelped, clutching at their chests.
“Jesus!” Harry gasped, running a hand back through her hair. “What the hell, John!?”
“Sorry,” John muttered, moving up to meet her, Sherlock following in his wake. “I- You were looking for us?”
“Yes,” Irene snapped, pushing past Harry to glare at Sherlock, and, even as his chest constricted in a fear he’d never admit to, he scowled back. “We came to get your alibis.”
“Our alibis?” John asked as Sherlock snorted.
“What are you asking us for?” he taunted, shaking his head at the brunette. “You wrote them all.”
“Yeah, well, I forgot yours,” she clipped, clearly having done nothing of the sort. Her eyes drifted past him, alighting on the table they had just been standing beside, the lamp still glowing, giving away their position. She smiled, eyebrows lifting. “Well, well,” she drawled, and Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling, “someone’s been making progress. Found my little clue, did you?”
“Wait, hang on,” John interrupted, turning to point a finger between them. “How are you competing? Don’t you already know who the killer is?”
“I’m not really competing,” Irene replied, waving an airy hand, “I’m just going along with Harry.”
John snorted. “Yeah, and giving her all the answers.”
Irene opened her mouth, but it was Harry who spoke, scoffing loudly.
“Answers!?” she spluttered, incredulous. “She’s been useless! Leading me in circles all night!”
“Can I help the layout of my parent’s main floor?” Irene sighed, and Harry rolled her eyes. “Now,” she chirped, turning back to Sherlock, sly smile on her lips, “I presume you have a few questions for me, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, hoping to be right just this once about her ability to read minds so she would know how fiercely he hated her, but he did have questions. “Where were you the night Lady Boddy was murdered?” he spat, and Irene grinned, triumphant.
“Well, it’s the oddest thing,” she mused, theatrically turning away from him and beginning a slow ambling pace over the tile. “I had…an appointment, if you know what I mean,” she added with a wink, directing it at John for some reason, and the blond smiled, shaking his head at her, “but he never showed.” She turned back on her heels, shrugging exaggeratedly. “First time customer too, and those always pay well.” She waggled her brows, and John ducked his head, biting hard at his lip to stave off laughter.
Sherlock’s fingers cracked as they balled into fists. “Did this customer,” he bit, knowing Irene wouldn’t tolerate a break from character, “perhaps leave a name?”
“Hmm,” Irene hummed, lifting a gloved finger to her chin, and John had to physically turn around, hand clapped over his mouth. “You know, I don’t recall. He might’ve done. If he did, it would probably be in my book.”
“The little black one?” Sherlock muttered, John snorting as Irene glared. He sighed, rolling his eyes as he returned to the pantomime. “And where would this book be?” he asked, and Irene smiled, eyes glittering.
“In my purse,” she explained. “But, unfortunately,” she sighed, shrugging as though terribly distraught, “I seem to have misplaced it.”
Sherlock’s face fell flat. “Of course you have,” he deadpanned, and Irene grinned.
“Come along, Harry,” she chirped, moving to sling her arm through the blonde’s, Harry just shaking her head at her. “I have to get the hors d'oeuvres out of the kitchen.”
“And that’s my job how?” Harry snipped as they walked away.
“Which one of us is in the maid’s uniform?” Irene replied, and then promptly stumbled as Harry tried to trip her.
“Wait!” Sherlock called, lifting a hand, and the women stopped, turning curiously over their shoulders. “Are you, by any chance, right-handed, Ms. Adler?” he asked, brow quirking, and Irene smiled, slow and dangerous.
“Indeed, I am, Mr. Holmes,” she drawled. “Indeed, I am.” And, with that, they left, Irene fussing over the ideal temperature of spinach dip while Harry insisted nothing had ever mattered less.
“Well,” John said, arms crossed over his chest as he moved to Sherlock’s elbow, “I guess that settles it.”
“I guess it does,” Sherlock replied, staring at the spot the duo had disappeared from.
A beat of silence went by before John spoke again.
“So, shall we get the hell out of here?”
“Absolutely,” Sherlock replied, spinning back toward the living room, John laughing loudly as he followed.
“What are you doing?” he asked as they entered, Sherlock stepping around the sofa toward the fireplace. “Shouldn’t we gather everyone up? Reveal Irene’s a murderess and then haul ass before we have to eat spinach dip?”
“Everyone will be in here in a few minutes anyway for hors d'oeuvres,” Sherlock said, settling into one of the wingback chairs. “Might as well wait.”
John shrugged in acceptance, plucking his hat off and settling onto the sofa across from him as he pulled out his mobile. He bit on the corner of his lip as he frowned down at the screen in concentration, and Sherlock’s heart spiraled up into his throat before settling back down, his mind finally calming enough to completely panic.
John Watson. He’d been paired up with John Watson. And not completely blown it! Forget Halloween, this was practically Christmas!
“Hey, are you doing anything after this?” John asked, looking up a short second out of the tops of his eyes.
Sherlock’s heart stalled. “After the party?” he clarified, and John nodded. “No.”
“There’s a diner near campus—that American-style one, ya know?” he said, and Sherlock nodded mutely. “It’s open till, like, 3,” he murmured, shrugging as he tapped at his phone, his cheeks seeming to redden slightly in the firelight, but Sherlock couldn’t be sure. “If you wanna…you know…go.”
Sherlock swallowed, grateful that John’s eyes were glued to his mobile screen, although they didn’t appear to be reading anything. “Go?” he squeaked, and then immediately cleared his throat.
“Yeah,” John muttered, licking over his bottom lip before biting white over the spot. “Go. With me.”
Sherlock blinked, silent long enough that John looked up, a twitch of a self-conscious smile on his lips, and Sherlock was lost. “Okay,” he blurted, and John startled, head snapping up.
“O-Okay?” he stammered, mobile lowering forgotten to his lap.
Sherlock nodded, face burning with heat he hoped he could blame on the actual flames nearby, and John’s eyes flew wide for a blink before he smiled.
“Okay,” he chirped, teeth leaping out to bite down a grin as his eyes skittered away toward the door, but there was no denying the flush of his neck now.
Sherlock could feel his heart doing somersaults, pounding against his chest like a bell. He sucked his lips in tight over his teeth, trying to stamp down a sudden urge to laugh as he turned his face away, and then his eyes caught on something on a desk in the corner. Frowning, he tilted his head, and then stood, moving across the room.
“Sherlock?” John asked, turning in his seat to follow Sherlock’s progress. “What are you-”
“Irene’s bag,” Sherlock said, picking up the small black satin clutch. “Remember? She said she left it somewhere.”
There was a rustle of cloth as John stood behind him. “Oh, right. Well, you don’t really need to check it now,” he chuckled, shrugging as Sherlock turned curiously around to look at him. “I mean, you already know it’s her, right? And who knows what she’s hiding in there.” John waved a hand at the bag, trepidation in his blue eyes.
“The more evidence, the better,” Sherlock replied, snapping open the clutch.
There was nothing in it, really—a lipstick, a pen, and a miniature (black) book—and Sherlock plucked the book free, placing the purse back to the table as he skimmed through the dates. The pages blurred in front of him, names and scrawls flying by in a flipbook until he neared the day of Lady Boddy’s murder and slowed, turning one-by-one to the day in question. There, scrawled beneath the day in Irene’s swirling penmanship, was a single name.
“Mr. James?” Sherlock mused, frowning down at the page. “But that’s-” He stopped, blinking the ink blurry as his expression fell, chest frosting over. Slowly, he turned, eyes wide as he roved over John’s face, blue watching him warily. “Hamish,” he breathed, and John’s jaw set. “Scottish Gaelic. The English equivalent”—he lifted the notebook, pointing the page out toward the blond—“is James.”
John swallowed, looking between the page and Sherlock’s face. Suddenly, he let out a puff of nervous laughter, smile trembling as he lifted an arm, bracing it on the back of the sofa beside him. “Well,” he clipped, shrugging in a sharp spasm, “mystery solved.”
Sherlock’s arm fell to his side, book hanging limp as his eyes blinked frantically, gaze skittering around the room as the pieces fell into place. “You-You were seeing Lady Boddy,” he said, pointing out at John, who tilted his head, frowning. “All the time, you- But she wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop taking other clients or-or something, so you- You called Irene Adler.” He began to pace, eyes wide and hands waving through the air in front of him, physically slotting the scene together. “Maybe Lady Boddy had mentioned her to you, mentioned the other brothel in town that was taking her business, and you knew, you knew Irene would have motive to kill her, to get her out of the way. So you made sure she wouldn’t have an alibi, set up an appointment you never intended to keep so she would be left without anyone to corroborate her story. And who would take the word of a prostitute, anyway; not up against a doctor. A doctor!” He spun around, pointing at John, who was looking equal parts stunned, concerned, and terrified. “I knew there was something about those cuts; I knew it! They were all too clean, right along the joint. Irene wouldn’t know how to do that, but an army doctor used to cutting off limbs in the field,” he added, bobbing his head side-to-side to weigh the options.
“You do know I didn’t actually kill a prostitute, right?” John interjected, but Sherlock just waved him silent, the blond folding his arms and narrowing his eyes as the detective continued.
“Your shoulder!” Sherlock shouted, startling John as he whirled around to point at him again. “It was your left shoulder! The card specifically mentions it was your left shoulder because you’re left-handed! The weakness in your left arm accounts for the anomaly in the bruising pattern, giving it the appearance that it was inflicted by a right-handed killer. And then, and then!” He resumed his pacing, breathing quick and ragged as his hands swirled in the air around him, a furious tornado. “You get paired up with me! Me, the only person in this collection of imbeciles with even a prayer of piecing it together! Why? So you could keep an eye on the investigation, steer me the wrong direction! Distract me with your-your hair and your bloody cologne or shampoo or whatever that is-”
“My what now?”
“-when, all the while, you’re pushing me toward Irene Adler, helping me find the evidence you planted to make her look guilty!” He stopped, facing John from across the room, his chest heaving as air whistled in and out past his teeth.
John gaped at him, dumbstruck eyes blinking, and then, quite suddenly, his lips snapped shut, face creasing with frustration. “Okay, that was impressive as hell,” he snapped, jabbing a finger toward him, “and quite possibly the hottest fucking thing I have ever seen, but, just so we’re clear, I DIDN’T REALLY KILL ANYONE!”
Sherlock stilled, brain going suddenly calm as he caught something in John’s face, a slight pinch around his mouth and eyes. “But you did know you were going to be paired up with me,” he said softly.
John’s entire body seemed to draw in on itself, his hand curling back toward his chest as his eyes dropped off to the left.
All the air in Sherlock’s lungs left in a rush, the all-too-familiar taste of bitter disappointment settling stickily on his tongue. “Well,” he croaked, swallowing down at the floor, “at least you’re still on the winning team.”
John scoffed, shaking his head as he lifted it. “That isn’t why-”
“Isn’t it?” Sherlock interjected venomously, and John’s mouth fluttered open in affront.
“No, it isn’t!” he urged, and Sherlock sniffed, turning away toward the wall. “Yes, I asked Irene to pair me up with you, but not because I wanted to win! I didn’t know about the Yard, I had no idea you’d be so good at this. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have asked, because, you know, getting away with murder is always Plan A.”
“Then why?” Sherlock snarled, rounding back on him, but John didn’t retreat, his eyes only flashing in defiance. “Why would you want to work with me if it wasn’t to-”
“Because I like you!” John spouted, and Sherlock was back on the playground in primary school, taking a punch to the stomach. “I-I saw you after the rugby game that one time, and I know we didn’t talk for very long, but- Well, I liked you.” He shrugged, shoes grinding into the carpet as he dropped his eyes to watch their progress. “And then I kept hanging out with Irene, hoping you’d show up. Not that she’s not lovely, because she is,” he added, his palms lifting along with his eyes as his hands bobbed in backtracking. “But you never did, and so, when she mentioned this party…” He trailed away, mouth hovering open as his shoulders lifted higher and higher. “I just…thought I’d give it a shot,” he muttered, arms falling again, and he slipped his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels, his eyes fixed on the floor between them.
Sherlock could practically feel his brain starting to reboot, the vintage dialup internet tone playing in his ears for some reason, and, once again, his mouth ran away on him. “You…like me?” he asked, like an idiot, but, when John looked up, he smiled at him like he would never think he was anything of the sort.
“Of course, I do,” he replied, eyes sparkling with warm mirth. “Quite a lot, too, it seems,” he muttered, turning to bob his head back toward the sofa, where his bowler hat still rested on the cushions. “I don’t wear something like that for just anyone.”
Sherlock chuckled, but it quickly grew to a laugh, all his doubt floating away from him with the sound. “I dunno,” he mused, shrugging as he ambled a few slow steps closer, “the suit’s not bad.”
“No?” John quipped, smirking teasingly as he tilted his head. “Well, I think that deerstalker’s growing on me.”
“Don’t say that,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head, and John laughed, a light sound that sent a shiver rushing up Sherlock’s spine.
“Alright, fair enough,” the blond acquiesced, nodding. “The hats go. And, you know,” he murmured, ducking his head again as he twitched a shoulder, “if-if you still want to…we could go too.” He looked up at Sherlock through his lashes, sheepish smile twisting at his mouth. “To the diner, I mean. Celebrate our victory.”
“Victory?” Sherlock questioned, tilting his head, and John’s brow creased warily. “You think I’m turning you in?”
John stared at him a moment, and then laughed, a brief startled hitch of a sound. “Er, well, yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s kind of your job, isn’t it? Detective and all?”
“Consulting detective,” Sherlock amended, and John laughed, “and, really, that murder was so well planned, I think you deserve to get away with it.”
“I did put in a lot of effort,” John insisted, nodding sagely before a grin broke through the somber façade.
Sherlock smiled, dropping his head as he bit nervously at the inside of his cheek. “So...American diner, huh?” he murmured, chancing a glance up at John through his lashes.
The boy beamed, eyes catching the fire, streaking the blue with orange and yellow, a sunset playing out within his gaze. “American diner,” he affirmed with a nod, and Sherlock responded in kind. “Alright then,” John chirped, turning toward the door. “Oh, wait,” he stalled, twisting back with concern, “did you wanna do the whole reveal thing? Blame it on Irene or something? She’d probably be flattered.”
Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head. “No, I-I think I can go,” he replied, his stomach twisting with trepidation as a mischievous smirk slowly stretched over John’s face.
“Really?” he taunted, tipping his head. “You think you can go?”
Sherlock swallowed, resolutely not moving a single millimeter as John stepped closer.
“Don’t wanna stay for spinach dip? I hear it’s going to be the optimum temperature,” the blond continued, eyebrow quirking, and Sherlock chuckled, dropping his face.
“No, I- I don’t need-”
It was hard to say which came first, the hand cupped over his jaw and neck, or the lips on his own, but, either way, Sherlock’s brain melted in time with his knees.
John’s fingers twisted lightly in the curls protruding from the back of his hat, just enough to send a shudder through Sherlock’s shoulders, and he felt John smile against his mouth, Sherlock’s lips sluggishly responding as he recovered from the shock.
The rest of his body was still frozen, however, which was just as well, as Sherlock wouldn’t’ve had any idea what to do with his hands anyway, and, far too soon, John was pulling away, Sherlock’s eyes lingering closed as they breathed against one another’s mouths.
“Sorry,” John said, twirling through Sherlock’s curls once more before pulling away, Sherlock blinking his fuzzy face into focus, “wanted to get that in before you ditched the deerstalker.”
Sherlock chuckled, a breathy puff in the space between them. “Well, I-” he stammered, swallowing as he paused, heart racing. “I might...keep it. For a little while.”
John laughed, shaking his head at him. “For a little while?”
“For a little while,” Sherlock echoed, and John laughed harder.
“Well,” he said, lifting a hand, grazing along the hair curling out from the brim, “in that case.”
Sherlock’s stomach swooped, and so did his hat, John deftly snatching it off his head before rushing out of range.
He shoved the deerstalker onto his head, and then opened his eyes wide in mock surprise as he moved to take his coat from the rack. “I feel smarter already!” he gasped, mouth stretched open in wonder, and Sherlock rolled his eyes as he followed. “It’s the hat, isn’t it? The source of your power?”
“You’ve got me,” he deadpanned, and John grinned, swinging the door open and sweeping outside.
“I deduce,” he announced grandly, leaping down the steps before turning back to where Sherlock was just closing the door behind him, “that it’s freezing.”
“Perfectly sound assessment,” Sherlock replied with a nod as they headed toward apparently John’s car, considering the boy had removed keys and was now twirling them around his fingers theatrically.
“I also deduce,” he added, thrusting a finger into the air, “that you”—he dropped his finger, tapping it against Sherlock’s arm—“like me a little bit too.”
Sherlock did his absolute best to press his smile flat, but he could feel it tingling at his lips, an irrepressible manifestation of the fireworks in his chest. “Really?” he asked, frowning at the hat on John’s head. “Must be faulty,” he muttered, and, as John scoffed, moving to swat at him, Sherlock reached up, grabbing his hand and intertwining their fingers before returning their arms to swing at their sides.
And John, after a beat, gripped back.