Find Me (BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

Chapter 16

September

Sherlock pointed at the emaciated, grey tinged, brittle woman in the consulting chair. 'You have five minutes,' he said. 'Go.' He checked his watch.

'My son is missing.'

'Go to the police.'

'Is that your best idea? I thought you were supposed to be clever.'

He shrugged. 'I don't find missing people.' He followed up the shrug with a sour glance at John. 'Or missing pets. And I don't find missing keys either.' He followed up the sour glance with a sarcastic text to his brother. Have you looked for the treaty in the pocket of your other trousers? Down the back of the settee? In your coat pocket?

Fluffing the keys a few times, he longed for a cigarette to soothe the tremor in his fingers, a hangover from last night's visit to Irene's flat. It always left him on edge the following day. He glanced up at the client, who was glaring at his distraction from across the room, and where John would once have covered for him, his friend was now too angry to bother.

'Well?' he demanded. 'Carry on then. Tick tock.'

'I came to you because the police won't help me. My lad, Brandon his name is, has been missing for six weeks and the police tell me they're out of resources already and have closed the investigation. They never liked him. They were always following him around the estate, asking him questions when he'd done nothing wrong. He'd got in with a bad crowd but that didn't make him a bad person, he deserves their help as much as anyone. I've already complained about it. If he's never found it'll be police incompetence. And discrimination. I'll want compensation.'

Sherlock leaned forward, surveyed the woman rapidly, wondering if he could ask for one of the cigarettes in her handbag before sending her on her way. 'Look, Mrs.... I can't remember what your name is but it hardly matters. Your son, as I'm sure you're aware, was a low-level drug dealer. Of course, he never told you where all the sudden cash was coming from, you just took it and enjoyed spending it. Your clothes, shoes bag – all expensive but have all seen better days. You gave up your job as a secretary, probably wise with the repetitive strain injury, and decided to live off your son's money instead. But it ran out a while ago didn't it? In fact, he started borrowing from you, and now you're in so much debt your only hope is finding your son or winning the lottery. You've spent your last change on scratchcards on the way over here, you've had to rub the top off the numbers with your fingernails because you literally don't have a penny to your name. This trip was a waste of time. I don't do missing persons and even if I did you and I both know your son is never coming back.'

She fumbled in her bag, came up with a cigarette and a lighter and Sherlock was off his feet in a heartbeat, twitching the nicotine out of her hands faster than John could open his mouth to object to the smoking.

'He is coming back,' she snapped. 'You're as lazy and as arrogant as the police are. If there was a nice fat cheque in it for you you'd be straight out of the door trying to find him but we're not good enough for you, are we? If he was a pretty young white girl you'd be bending over backwards to help me, but because he's... '

Sherlock cut her off. 'Your son is dead. He's bloated and rolling along the bottom of a canal somewhere, or he's in the basement of a squat with his face blown off. Don't come here and expect me to empathise with you because I won't. Now leave.' He was aware that he was shouting because of the sudden silence in the room when he stopped and the look of shock on John's face. He took a steadying breath. 'Or he's gone to a yoga retreat in Dorking. Either way I can't help you.'

He retreated to his bedroom, turned the key in the lock and lit the cigarette he still had secreted in his pocket – that interview hadn't been a total loss after all. Then he took out his phone and dialled the number of his next appointment. The screen flashed up instantly with the avatar of his contact – a tiny purple horseman carrying a bow and arrow. The call connected and a high pitched female voice, distorted by a voice synthesizer so that it might have been a baritone male speaking said, 'Hello, Mr Holmes.'