You and Sherlock

Aren't You Coming?

You and Sherlock ambled back into 221B some hours later, Sherlock having accompanied you to St. Barts, where you actually got some work done and Sherlock pestered Molly relentlessly. And of course, poor Molly was completely incapable of telling Sherlock off so that she could focus on her actual job instead of fetching this or that for him. You had half a mind to give Sherlock a stern scolding over that whole fiasco, but then decided you had neither the energy nor time that 

The next few days passed blissfully quiet. You went to work, finished some cases, filed paperwork, and didn't see Sherlock much at all. Briefly, the next morning you ran into John, who was coming on out to go to a job interview. You hoped he got a job; not everyone could be like Sherlock, who often made his money in questionable ways at best. With John out and about, you figured you should eventually check on Sherlock, at the very least to make sure he wasn't being attacked by some errant sword-wielding maniac. Then again, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Sherlock had some sense and humility knocked into him.

Stepping out of the cab, you pushed your way through the door of 221B and made your way up the stairs. For a fleeting second, you felt a lot like Sherlock when you unwound your scarf and unbuttoned your coat. You paused at the threshold and then gently pushed the door open into chaos.

Utter and complete chaos. That was your initial reaction. Though the sight was not something you were surprised to see; Sherlock did have a tendency to visualize his cases, and this one was no exception. Photographs of the graffiti were pasted up on the mirror above the fireplace. Sherlock was sitting, staring blankly at the photographs. Belatedly, you realized you should have brought some food with you because in all likelihood he had not eaten.

His fingers were steepled in his traditional fashion, and you walked further in before sighing and dropping down into John's armchair. Without taking his off the mirror, Sherlock spoke.

"I was wondering where you'd gone off. I asked for a pen."

You raised your eyebrow. "When exactly did you ask this?" 

Nevertheless, you got up and walked over to Sherlock's desk, rummaging through to pick up a pen.

"Oh," Sherlock dragged his eyes over to you. "About an hour ago."

"Well," you chucked the pen at him irritably, growing even more annoyed as Sherlock caught it without looking away from the photographs, "I was working. Which is what most people do."

"I work."

"When you want to." You rolled your eyes, dropping back into John's armchair. 

Sherlock beckoned to you.

"Have a look at this, Y/N."

You stood up a dutifully followed Sherlock over to the table, where his computer displayed an article. "Ghostly Killer Leaves A Mystery For Police." Next to the article title was a small headshot of a bald man.

An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth-floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in.

You raised your eyebrows skeptically. "An intruder who can walk through walls?"

Sherlock nodded. "Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside – exactly the same as Van Coon."

Oh. Oh. A wave of horror washed over you. "Dear God," you murmured. "You think..."

Sherlock nodded again, his face stern. "He's killed another one."

You rocked back on your heels.

"Well then...Scotland yard?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, whirling around and grabbing his coat. "Scotland yard."

***

Across from you, looking like a petulant child with his folded arms, sat Inspector Dimmock. Sherlock stood beside you, typing on a laptop. 

"You see--" Sherlock turned the laptop to face Dimmock. "Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat, doors locked from the inside." 

Dimmock stared back at Sherlock, unimpressed. You sighed.

"Look, Inspector -- you have to admit it's similar," -- Dimmock scowled at you and you meant his gaze challengingly -- "Both men killed by someone who can apparently walk through walls."

At Dimmock's lack of response, Sherlock jumped in, growing agitated.

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another City suicide?" Sherlock looked at you as if he were searching for patience in your eyes when all Dimmock did was squirm uncomfortably. You shrugged and offered him a supportive smile. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to Dimmock, determination set in the shape of his jaw.

"You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose?"

Dimmock assented reluctantly.

"And the shot that killed him -- was it fired from his own gun?" Sherlock pressed, growing more intense. Dimmock sighed and shook his head.

"No."

"No." Sherlock hissed, the irritation plain on his face. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel." Dimmock glared at Sherlock, who leaned over the desk, his voice low and threatening. "I've just handed you a murder inquiry."

Dimmock exhaled heavily and Sherlock straightened.

"Five minutes in his flat."

***

"So, I guess we're going to the scene?" You looked up at Sherlock, the wind whipping your hair around. 

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, face slightly mischevious, the cab pulling up to the sidewalk.

"Aren't you coming?"