That evening Sherlock went with John to find Sebastian; Petrichor opting to stay behind seeing that her job was the Under-DI, (and also because she was not eager to see Mr. Wilkes again.) So, going alone in the cab, Sherlock realized how much quieter the cab ride was. John thought he was thinking, and gave him respectful silence. But even he noticed, and said so.
“Petrichor’s absence is noted,” he smiled.
“Mm. Yes.” Sherlock murmured, looking out the window.
“But of course you don’t care,” John said cruelly. He couldn’t help it; he was still a human.
Sherlock’s head went up rather quickly. “What makes you say that?” he asked, sounding offended.
John grinned. “Ohh…so you actually do notice things like that?”
“I try to be observant,” Sherlock retorted, seeing through his joke and choosing not to play along.
They rode in silence until they reached the restaurant where Sebastian was apparently eating, but they were coolly received, to say the least.
“My chairman says it was a suicide,” he informed them, looking at his phone.
“Well they’ve got it wrong,” Sherlock said, somewhat forcefully. “Van Coon was murdered.”
“I’m afraid they don’t see it that way,” Sebastian retorted, “and neither does my boss. Look, I hired you to do a job; don’t get sidetracked.”
Sherlock glared at him as he left the wash-up room, and John gave a disappointed smile. “I’m guessing you weren’t the best of friends?”
Sherlock gave him a look as if to say, friends? What friends?
“I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards.” John added somewhat sarcastically.
“Oh really?” Sherlock fixed his pale eyes on him. “Where’d you get that idea?”
He turned and strode out of the room, and John followed close enough behind to hear him add under his breath,
“And where is Petrichor with a good crushing note when you need her?”
John just chuckled. He was beginning to realize that maybe Sherlock did have friends after all.
The mysterious assassin struck again in the night; this time it was a free-lance Journalist named Brian Lukis. The next morning Sherlock went through the same rigmarole of suicide vs. murder with Dimuk, all to no avail. The only thing that got them through, actually, was Petrichor mysteriously showing up with personal orders from Lestrade to give them five minutes in Brian Lucas’ flat.
“How’d you get him to do that?” John asked.
Petrichor looked away, out the window of the cab and looked slightly embarrassed.
“Well?” Sherlock demanded.
She rolled her eyes and turned around somewhat defiantly. “I, erm, brought up a valid point which he saw immediately. He consented.”
“And your valid point was?” Sherlock probed.
Her glance was withering as she answered, “His wife and he have been separated for some time, as you know, but he didn’t know where she was. I,” she cleared her throat, “got the necessary information to tell him her location. In return, he granted you five minutes.”
“Seems like small payment for such a lot of work,” John observed admiringly.
She smiled warmly at him. “Thank you, John, and it was nothing, really.”
