Fight for Me

Chapter 24

Lydia showered and got dressed after finishing breakfast with the boys, leaving the bathroom only to find a woman sitting on the third chair in the flat, her eyes puffy and face tearstained. It immediately occurred to Lydia that this must be a client, a conclusion that was not hard to reach as John and Sherlock were watching her with great interest. Well, John was watching her with great interest, Sherlock just sat there staring blankly with mild disinterest, his fingers typing deftly on his phone. That look was common for him, Lydia supposed.

Deciding to stay out of their way while they listened to the woman's tale, Lydia took it upon herself to make some tea for their guest, clearly she needed something to calm her nerves with the way she was shaking. As much as she tried to focus on her task at hand, Lydia couldn't help but listen to the woman's story which easily floated into the kitchen.

"The police claim that it was suicide, but I know my husband, Mr. Holmes, he would never do such a thing," she pressed and Lydia frowned at her persistence, it was just a bit more than was natural.

John spoke up while Sherlock continued to take in the information, "yeah, but his wrists were cut, weren't they? Isn't that normally found on suicide victims?"

"But they found that he had also taken a number of sleeping pills, enough to overdose on. Someone could have-could have forced him to take them or something. It wasn't suicide, I know it."

Finally Sherlock spoke up as Lydia walked into the room with the tea in hand, "and you did not hear anyone coming into the room? If a murderer came in and forced your husband to overdose and then slit his wrists for good measure, you probably would have heard something."

"I was out cold, the sleeping pills that they made him take, those were mine. I have insomnia, you see. The murderer must have waited until I was asleep so that I wouldn't be a witness."

"Liar," Lydia muttered under her breath as she placed the tray on the coffee table, glancing quickly at the woman's hands.

The woman perked her head up at Lydia's comment, "excuse me?"

"Oh, sorry, ignore that. I, er, I made you a cuppa, you seemed like you needed it," Lydia quickly tried to change the subject, though her cheeks were burning.

Sherlock watched her carefully, confused as to how this woman was so skilled at lying, but here she was blushing like an idiot. But she was correct in her assessment, so he decided to test her.

"No, Lydia, please do explain what you said. Why do you say Mrs. Wilson is lying?"

Her eyes snapped up to meet Sherlock's and widened, wondering why he was putting her on the spot. He was the famous detective, he should have realised she was lying long before she had, why didn't he explain it? But Sherlock patiently waited for her to speak, giving her a nod of encouragement.

"Oh, well, er, in acting we have three fundamental things that we need to assess to make sure we are putting on a believable performance. A clear objective, a clear audience, and a clear image in mind of what we're talking about. The audience isn't as important in this situation, but the other two reveal holes in her story."

She turned to the woman sitting in the chair, "You had a very clear image in mind as you explained what might have happened to your husband, yet that same vividness was lacking when you claimed to be sleeping. Your objective here would be to convince Sherlock that you're telling the truth, for lack of a more powerful acting verb. But if you really wanted him to catch your husband's killer it would have been more along the lines of convincing him to take the case. It is a small difference because obviously convincing him that you are being truthful could very well lead to him taking the case, but it is noticeable in your performance. Then there's the small head shake you did when explaining why you didn't see the killer, a clear sign you were lying. And of course the blood."

"Blood?" John inquired, his brows furrowed.

Lydia nodded, "I believe Mrs. Wilson here murdered her husband. She obviously has since washed her hands, but the hardest place to remove blood from is under the nails. She missed a spot when she was scrubbing her hands clean. I'm sure if it was tested it would prove to be Mr. Wilson's," Lydia explained, lifting Mrs. Wilson's right hand for them to see. Mrs. Wilson's face hardened as Lydia pointed out the blood and she looked about ready to kill her.

John leant forward in his seat to get a closer look and questioned, "but why would she come here if she was the one who killed him? Surely she could have guessed that Sherlock would have solved the case."

"Life insurance policy, I'd imagine," Sherlock spoke, getting up from his chair. "He was still relatively young, so he probably just recently took one out. You really should have read the fine print, Mrs. Wilson, but I'm sure you know that now. When she murdered her husband, she made it look like a suicide, managing to fool Scotland Yard, which isn't much of a feat. But, there is usually a set time frame at the start of the policy in which suicidal death will not get paid out. Mrs. Wilson didn't wait until that time ran out and she realised that she wasn't going to get the money. So then she was left with only one other option, convince a private detective to look at the case and prove that it was murder."

With that, Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen and Mrs. Wilson turned to John, "you don't honestly believe this woman, do you? She's an actor, not a detective."

"Well, I am a detective," Sherlock spoke as he came back into the room with a petri dish and a small blade in hand. "And I realised that you were lying the minute you walked in."

"Show-off," Lydia muttered as she sank into Sherlock's armchair, her legs draped over the arm.

This time the words that Lydia meant only for herself were not picked up by those around her. John was still trying to process everything that just happened, surprised by Lydia's ability to pick up on Mrs. Wilson's lies. Sherlock, on the other hand, was picking out the blood beneath Mrs. Wilson's nail and dropping it into the petri dish so that she could not get rid of the incriminating evidence. As soon as that was taken care of, he guided her down the stairs of the flat, where DI Lestrade would be pulling up less than a minute later to collect the criminal.

"I got your text, it was the wife, was it?" Lestrade spoke as he got out of the car, a pair of handcuffs already in his hands.

Sherlock merely nodded, nudging the women towards him and watching as he cuffed her, Mrs. Wilson muttering insults directed towards Lydia under her breath. Once the woman was secured in the back seat, Sherlock haded over the petri dish with the dried blood, "I think you'll find that this will match her husband's. It was under her right index finger."

"She was rambling about some woman figuring it out," Lestrade frowned as he accepted the evidence.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, although he was uncertain why he was hesitant to advertise Lydia's presence in his flat. "Yes, John's friend is staying for a bit so I let her point out why Mrs. Wilson was lying."

"You let someone else have the spotlight?" Lestrade asked incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief.

"It was a boring case, solved it the minute she walked in. I didn't need to waste my breath on it."

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(A/N): I apologise for not getting this up yesterday but I was to exhausted to edit (I'm still not quite happy with it, but I figured I can always edit it more later). Also, I did get the job I interviewed for so the past few days have just been running around trying to get all of the work done for that so I can start as soon as possible which means not much time to write, unfortunately. But I hope you enjoyed this chapter!