Sherlock's Second Vow [FINISHED]

Chapter 4: Who wants to Talk About Serial Killers?

4

Today was an important day. Maybe the most important day. When the teacher called her name, Rosie took a deep breath, walked to the front of the room, and tried for a smile.

None of her classmates smiled back. Mrs. Fletcher tapped her pen against her notepad.

"Today for Career Day I invited my Uncle Sherlock." She was alone at the front of the classroom, the other parents had gone. Mrs. Fletcher had ushered them out before her presentation-- she hated putting Rosie on display.

Not for nice reasons. Rosie was just weird.

"He works with the police, but he is self-employed as the world's only consulting detective." She waved at the window and it snapped open. Sherlock jumped through and came to join her. She smiled at him as he plucked a hair from the shoulder of his coat.

Mrs. Fletcher jumped, almost falling off her stool. "Oh!"

Sherlock smiled pleasantly. "Who wants to talk about serial killers?"

No one moved.

It's only my Uncle! Rosie thought. Please like him. Please like me.

Mrs. Fletcher stood, brandishing her red pen. "What are you doing in my classroom?"

"I've come for career day. Obviously."

Her teacher edged back and pressed the intercom button. "There's a strange man in my classroom, someone call the police!"

"Oh there's no need for that. Rosie, where would you like to begin?"

Maybe if she could get the ball rolling, everyone would calm down. She launched into her speech. "Serial killers are harder to catch because they kill random people. Regular killers kill people they have a connection with, or know. There's no link between the victims of serial killers. They're a lot harder to pin down."

As she spoke, she deduced. It always seemed to calm her down.

Mrs. Fletcher had a new gold hairpin, shaped like a butterfly. She kept rubbing her neck. Her finger brushed down her collar and Rosie caught sight of a bruise.

Sherlock smiled. "Precisely. A few years ago I was involved in the case of Culverton Smith. I found him in his hospital and we talked. He kept hinting, but wouldn't say anything directly, that is, until it was my turn to die. I planted several recording devices in the hospital room and replaced the meds in the IV to saline-- I was in the hospital for drug overdose at the time--"

"Dear God--" Mrs. Fletcher repeated her message to the office. There were people outside the door, school security, but they had frozen in the hall, staring at Sherlock. Wondering if it was really him.

"He was kind of on heroin or meth. Maybe both? Probably both."

"Among others," he rumbled. He noticed (of course) the look on Mrs. Fletcher's face. "It was for a case. For her father."

Anderson shoved past the others and burst through the door, catching the last few words. "Culverton Smith? Honestly Sherlock, I'd think you'd know better than to tell that story."

From the back of the class, Rich called, "OoOoOoOoOoOo, he's gonna get arresteEeEeEd."

Rosie hated Rich.

"Do shut up, you're lowering the IQ of the whole classroom."

"Wasn't that high to begin with," Rosie muttered.

"You can leave now, Anderson. Obviously there was an overreaction. Now, back to serial killers--"

"Get him out of my classroom."

"But it's Sherlock Holmes--" Rosie started.

"I don't care who the bloody hell it is, just get him out!"

Rich leaned out of his seat. "Teacher said a bad word."

"For shame!" Rosie snapped at him.

Sherlock cast what appeared to be a disinterested glance at Mrs. Fletcher. "As if you're one to judge, Claire. Wrinkled clothes, messy hair, had a hard time getting up-- late night? Yellow stains on your front teeth: smoking addict, and a little around the tips of your teeth. Red wine drinker, trying to hide it with a straw. Hick-- bruise on your neck. And you're married? Cheating."

Her hand flew to her neck. "None of that is true!"

He had started her off, but he had left her the good parts. Rosie couldn't help a small smile. "You're wearing a hair pin worth at least 200 pounds, but you're a schoolteacher, you barely make any money. You've got pictures on your shelf of your husband, construction worker. Neither of you make enough money to afford that, so it was a gift. Gift from someone rich. You've got a reminder app on your mobile, as well as two books on your desk, three. One for class, one for you to take home for your husband to see, and one for you personally. Meaning you're both forgetful. Easy to pass off a rich gift like that if you can convince him that he gave it to you, but forgot. Your wedding ring is 10 years old, at least. On top of that it's a simple band. Probably cheap and from a thrift store. State of marriage right there. It's got scratches on it, probably from being in a pocket with keys, but why is it in your pocket? You're taking it off to meet with someone, someone who you don't want knowing you're married. I assume he also bought the high-end makeup you keep on your desk, correct me if I'm wrong."

Not even Rich spoke. They were all just stunned. Amazed. They had seen her talent, they had seen her with the great Sherlock Holmes.

"That's my girl." Sherlock patted her shoulder, and she beamed, reaching up to squeeze his hand before he drew it away. He was hardly ever affectionate. He must be really proud of me!

Claire Fletcher found her voice. "R-Rosamund Mary Watson, go to the principal's office. We do not tolerate fantasies and lies in this classroom! And as for you, Mr. Holmes, get out."

He followed Rosie through the aisle to the door, past Rich and past Anderson, who gave him a little shove.

Her plan had backfired. They hated him. They hated her.