gravoria-manent

[gravoria-manent]

"When everything falls into place, you shall see," replied Holmes cryptically and stared to her right with his fingertips steepled and mind ever working. Ceaseless, fluid, powerful. In truth, she was the last person he wished to be greeted by. 

Familiarity was a fault. One of his faults. Of course he would return. Adler suffered from the same fault. 

Enough people were convinced of his abilities that the authorities had yet to be tipped off. This bought precious time to allow Holmes' plan to solidify and finish neatly in silence. 

"I usually do." 

The woman then went silent, his intent gaze returned. This was not an attempt to read or make her uncomfortable - there was something of far more importance on his mind. And what was the great detective scheming now? Irene finally raised a quizzical brow. It was likely he knew what she was about to say. "What’s the course of action? And which part am I to play?"

[gravoria-manent]

"Regardless of current living status, one always comes from somewhere. A base thought pattern. Cultures and experiences shape subjective views." The detective did not look at the woman who was now following him as he continued his brisk walk along the sidewalk. Ever-moving and fidgeting hands stuffed into the pockets of his woolen overcoat, still slightly too heavy for the transition to autumn. 

Just as she had intrigued him, Giselle found that she was in the same situation, though perhaps with different intentions. Whereas he seemed to be searching for some sort of explanation for her, the Time Lady was simply curious. The human mind, though smaller than her own, could potentially be exponentially brilliant, and Giselle always enjoyed seeing the mind at work. Their way of thinking was always intriguing. That being said, she was not about to let this one get away so easily, so she decided to follow just as he resumed his walk. “Ah yes, I’m supposed to think about purple elephants now. Unfortunately by the time I mention them I somehow dip into a conversation about oddly-colored African wildlife and their very unfortunate absence on this Earth. But—what does one do when they don’t have a home? Where do their thoughts come from then? Exposure to multiple cultures certainly plays a part then, does it not?”

[gravoria-manent]

The cultures were different from Asia and the Middle East. Names were different. Something he should have taken into account. His own appearance, accent. A microexpression of confusion flitted like a shade across his features from the apparent help that the other man offered. Once the conversation settled onto something much more comforting, Holmes turned and eagerly continued his search of the body without another word.

Holmes firmly stood behind his belief of not forming a conclusion until after all of the facts presented themselves. Otherwise, the facts and evidence were twisted to suit a previously proposed theory. He filed away the other man's comments and cleared his mind as he carefully picked through the scene. Pet hair spotted her clothing and a burn through the thin lapel of her blouse in a perfect circle suggested that she was grabbed by the lapels and pushed against something at some point. Posthumous and superficial scrapes around her face indicated something rough was pulled across. Drag patterns in the blood indicated a towel or wash cloth. 

Bruising on her fingers indicated the presence of false rings; not of value to steal, but perhaps worn out of sentiment. "Her rings," he murmured to himself, "where are her rings..." the ex-detective straightened once again and flitted about the room. In a small, crystal dish, he located the missing rings. They were smudged with blood. In the very slightest of movements, his eyebrows furrowed. 

Once more, he returned to the side of the body and examined what he originally considered pet dander. "Psoriasis," he said aloud to no one in particular. She did not appear to be the cause. Wait.

Carefully, Holmes inched open the woman's mouth with a gloved hand. Something glittered through the gap of her teeth and he pulled it out. A man's ring. Large, bulky, gaudy. Something that was given at a University, surely. Carefully, he wiped the blood from the ring and gave a small smile as he held it to the light. "Nineteen eighty seven. Drama and English major, University ring. This did not belong to the woman nor her...husband? Lover? It also did not belong to the murderer. Position indicates that it was placed in her mouth posthumously." The stone inset was a deep emerald and was mottled with the muddy brick coloured blood. An engraved 'LSU' was filled with the clotted blood.

"Was this what you were looking for?" He offered the ring to the other man.

"My memory functions just fine, but that’s a fair attempt at a distraction," he chuckled, hands dipped into his pockets. He normally didn’t take kindly to other people poking around the crime scenes before he could, but this one didn’t seem like an ambulance groupie or an overly ambitious student. The accent set him apart, as well.

"If you’re going to lie about your name, try something a little less… phlegmy. People out here will get stuck on that and it’ll keep you the wrong kind of memorable. Keep it simple, lean on a stereotype. The rest of the team will bug out and think you’re Internal Affairs. They won’t mess with you," his head tilted to keep his eyeline from the nearby body. There wasn’t enough room to let the pendulum swing, too much static. He couldn’t work with someone else in the room. He plucked at the hems of his sleeves, but he stood his ground well enough. "Unless I tip them off. So, you don’t really have to tell me who you really are, but it’s encouraged.”

The last foreigner he’d stumbled onto at a crime scene had wound up spending most nights in his bed. In his way, he’d developed something of a soft spot.

"But you can tell me what else you see. What’s missing, what’s been replaced? A button on her blouse? A clip in her hair? A band-aid? Something doesn’t belong to her, it belongs to someone else. What’s he looking for that he isn’t finding with all of these women?"

He knew most of the answers already; he wondered if the other man did, as well.

[gravoria-manent]

One of Holmes' gloved hands left the body and splayed in a sign of frustration and plea for silence. An automatic reaction to the mumbling of the Scotland Yard members and John. Are you going to tell me what you see? "Are you going to be silent so th--" his eyes followed his splayed hand with the realisation of the situation. He'd been caught. Other policemen undoubtedly awaited. This wasn't Scotland Yard. Holmes straightened himself to his full height and cleared his throat. A crooked smile tugged at his lips. After all, genius needs an audience.

Fluidly, he moved to the hallway and pointed at the faint ash mark, "Marlboro cigarette ash. He was right handed, as it was held in his left hand and the weapon in his right. Possibly a butcher or former slaughterhouse worker. Five feet, six inches tall, possible previously wounded leg. Limp," he pointed to the rise and fall of the ash, "experienced, but clumsy," his fingers led to the arterial spray on the south wall, "she was attacked from behind and dragged to current resting place." Holmes moved at a speedy, but tolerable pace as he waltzed around the scene, "and I have not yet finished examining the body of the deceased."

At this, he approached the smaller male.  Holmes' eyes scanned the other and he remained at a distance, although closer than he was. Professor; callouses from holding pens, familiar glasses. Dog owner. Ten...no. Fourteen dogs. Fine hair clung to his clothing; he must attempt to stay clean. Government worker, FBI or CIA agent, professor at their training grounds. Teaching job. Ill or becoming ill. Memory difficulties. Irregular sleep patterns, not from parties or barking dogs; rings around his eyes, possibly caused by illness as well. Lives alone. Enjoys fishing or working with engines, possibly both. Boats. Calloused hands and fingertips; tan that doesn't appear to stop at wrists. "Have you seen a physician for your memory difficulties?" The ex-detectives hands clasped behind his back and he added, "you may call me Dr. Loham Corshleks." 

"You’re not a private investigator," he announced himself matter-of-factly. Nor was the man in the employ of the FBI — Will Graham was the only one with clearance to enter the scene, as of yet. It was someone else entirely, yet Graham didn’t perceive a threat. "And you’re too clean to be the murderer. So before I call you in to the brass outside — who are you?" The body could wait. Its story already unfurled in his mind in grisly detail, the man was far more interesting.

Will gingerly navigated around the evidence to draw closer, sharp eyes compiling data for a mental checklist. He remembered every face he ever met and this one was familiar, he just couldn’t place how. The body, on the other hand, was a stranger only by name. He knew the weight, height, hair color, eye color, and how well her family photos would resemble a Senator’s intern that had been missing for a year. They’d been turning up all along the eastern seaboard over the past three months, unconnected and previously dismissed as botched robberies. A correlation didn’t develop until forensic units began finding small items that belonged to the missing intern at every scene.

"Well? Are you a looky-loo that I need to have removed, or are you going to tell me what you see?"

[gravoria-manent]

"Truly spoken," Holmes admitted (albeit falsely) with a transitory smile as he once again returned his attention to the strange woman and gave a small, obvious nod in the direction he intended on walking. He had no urge to incessantly bother the stranger; she was not a suspect, merely strange. In a sudden movement, his expression shifted stiffly and he began his brisk stroll once again. "Individual thoughts and ideas are affected by their origins. Don't think of purple elephants." The smile returned, wry and knowing, and Holmes was on the move. 

Giselle’s brow line raised slowly, slightly perplexed by this stranger’s need to point out something that was so incredibly true. Had she been determined to blend in with the crowd, she may have grown upset over the man’s deduction, but thankfully it wasn’t that big of an issue to her. “No…I’m not,” she said slowly, still not entirely sure of the point he had been trying to make. “Does it really matter where a person’s from? I like to think it’s the individual’s experiences, their thoughts and ideas that make a difference.”

[gravoria-manent]

themongooseunderthehouse started following you

America. Holmes was not yet prepared to return to London. However, he could not stand by with crimes to be solved. What the security lacked, the scene more than made up for in undisturbed viscera, preserved as if the murderer still remained within the perimeter. With practised ease, the ex-detective pulled a pair of latex gloves on and gave the room a quick survey.

Disguised in a rather convincing uniform with a cap pulled low over his brow, Holmes quickly scrutinised what appeared to be arterial spray on the south wall. The victim's throat correctly described a vicious attack from behind. The wielder of the blade appeared experienced in butchering livestock and overcompensated the thinness of human skin compared to pigskin. Ash from a popular brand of cigarette dusted the room from the south wall to where the victim lay across a table. From the south wall, a hallway led to a second entrance to the small flat, perhaps the 'back entrance'; the ex-detective could see the corner of a bed at the opposite end of the building. The ash smeared along the wall of the hallway as it led to the south wall. Sherlock's right, so the perpetrator was right-handed and held the cigarette in his left. Stocky. Short, with a slight limp (a rise and fall in the light ash). The smear suggested that the murderer held the cigarette at elbow-level and may not have been aware of it touching the wall. 

The events led to the blood-soaked floor which Holmes carefully stepped around and examined before he finally examined the body. It didn't tell him more than the evidence surrounding did, but it did hold something within its mouth that he wasn't sure of.

Too engrossed in the excitement of solving a crime, Holmes did not notice that he was not alone anymore. 

[gravoria-manent]

"You are not from this area," Holmes' voice was devoid of subjectivity and his eyes flickered to her shoes, then to her hands, and finally, to her face. "Or you have meticulous cleaning habits," a sly smile. They both knew that wasn't the case (or did they?). In the brief pause between spoken cues, Holmes observed his surroundings. Countless calculations were made as he considered past experiences and experiments.

She could feel a pair of eyes watching her from afar; the hairs on the back of her neck told her so. People often stared at her, yes, but this may have been for entirely different reasons. Unfortunately, Giselle did not know this, so she was either forced to bare with this unsettling feeling or confront the person responsible.

Giselle continued moving throughout the crowd, ever-alert to the gaze that stuck to her. Eventually, a peek over her shoulder brought her attention to a taller gentleman, one who seemed to be a little more focused on something that the people around her seemed to miss entirely.

"Hello…?"

[gravoria-manent]

"Take what you will of it." The detective tilted his chin up just the slightest, as if to regard the woman from a different perspective; perhaps she wouldn't be real if he just looked at her from a different angle. Not to his surprise, she remained. A pebble that sought out the right place to scratch a leather shoe. Something to be discarded and hidden away as possible harmful evidence. A plan was already in motion. Of course he had a plan. What was Sherlock Holmes without a plan? Already, a social media outrage gave Holmes the support that he would need. People were so eager to take truth into their own hands. His eyes focused on the woman intently, but he did not add. 

"Well now, Mr. Holmes, that fate doesn’t only apply to me." So there was some truth to what he was saying, but that was never to be dallied upon. It wasn’t as though Irene was ruling this out completely (as it was a very possible and harsh outcome), but it brought on unwanted worry. “Fake genius," her smirk returned. “You show your face again and you’re going to have some explaining to do. Oh, all those people you murdered…" 

[gravoria-manent]

The moment he heard his name--the correct one for the first time and quite a while--a small groan escaped his lips and the detective took a deep breath, then exhaled and faced his brother's employee. 

Only, she was no longer his employee. This was something that Holmes saw instantly. The small scuffs on her shoes would have not gone unnoticed by his brother, but perhaps they went unnoticed by her. A name. Anthea, wasn't it? Perhaps not an actual name, but the name she introduced herself as.

The mobile that was practically glued to her hand during her employment was not there. Among other things, she was pregnant, but this wasn't a maternity leave. This was a firing. A discharge. 

"You have been dismissed. How long?" Months, maybe years. Time abroad blurred lines, "he is aware that I have returned. I've been expecting some form of contact for some time now."

Once upon a time she worked for this man’s brother, though now it seems so long ago. They’d passed by accident, but unlike Mycroft, Sherlock seemed more likely to deviate from his path than her former employer and only friend. Last she’d heard he’d disappeared, dropped off the face of the planet-almost quiet literally. So she stops him.

"Sherlock."

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[gravoria-manent]

"What will you do when you find yourself handcuffed and in a police car?" He was stiff. Displeasure could have been what he felt; it was hard to decide from his outward appearance. One day, his words would not be empty in their threat. 

"Say I didn’t come to you deceased." She paused. Surely he knew where she was going with this, and for that reason, she didn’t continue on. There were more than enough times for him in the past to turn her in - yet somehow they both strayed from that idea, didn’t they? The woman’s smirk fell. Her features were about as level as his voice.

"As if returning makes me any less free."

[gravoria-manent]

notyouraveragesecretary started following you

Holmes ducked his face away to avoid the woman he was almost certain noticed him. A woman who worked for his brother. A woman who was likely to respond by sharing some sort of unwanted information that regarded John. Or an unnecessary visit with his brother, who was likely already informed of his return.

[gravoria-manent]

notanothertimelady started following you

Immediately, something was off about the woman he spotted at a distance, and it piqued some sort of interest in Holmes. Not enough to dog the woman, but enough to be curious about her movements and how so...out of place they seemed. 

In the event that he saw her again, he would perhaps watch her a little more closely, but once in a crowd was not enough for a cause of investigation.

[gravoria-manent]

He had known, just as he was sure she had known, that they both remained. After all, the motif of thieves was what made them memorable, wasn't it? Perhaps in the public eyes, this was truth, as the public tended to ignore when similar occurrences would appear after said perpetrator was deceased. The silence was shorter this time. "It's no use turning in the deceased for crimes they've continued to commit." His voice was level. Factual. He looked away from her. "Why you have managed to free yourself only to return is beyond me."

And she stood, expecting (maybe not, as he did possess that grand gift of silence) a reply much sooner than that. The woman’s lips curved up into a smirk, returning his prolonged silence before she responded with anything verbal. “And so am I. Meanwhile, everyone believes us to be dead, hm? Whatever shall we do."

[gravoria-manent]

A week or so passed before anything was heard from Ben again (save the tones of instruments, as per usual). No-- and even then, it wasn't from the man directly. Rather, the same strings that Sherlock had given Benedict were gifted to him in a small white box, placed in front of the Consulting Detective's door, alongside a duplicate. Two packs, rather than one. As well as a miniature set with a fresh bottle of string oil and a cloth, Pirastro by name. No note. It was a thank you in itself.

The clever detective was rarely able to be shocked. However, this was one of those rare occasions. While he was fairly sure of who the gifts were from, he tested the oil and scrutinized the strings. The cloth was swabbed and tested before use. 

The next morning, a lamenting song drifted through the small flat as the sky grew from dusty, dark grey to lavender and rose with the dawn of a new day. The favour was taken as it was; either the detective fancied an early morning tune (instead of the vigorous midnight ones he was wont to play), or the detective sent his thanks by waiting until the morning to play.

[gravoria-manent]

A keen interest lit the other's eyes at the sight of the apple, but sharp scepticism was not far behind. As the other approached, Holmes silently unfolded himself and took the apple with two long, slender fingers; one from blossom end and one from stem end. He brought it close to his features and pulled a small magnifying glass from his pocket to examine even closer. 

The anagram, of course, was a joke for those who really sought him out. Made himself a viable target for something like this. His connections were severed with those who were held against him. 

This could also be a child's prank. A joke. But the gun could have been loaded with a blank. A blood packet could have been hidden cleverly. A drug could have slowed vital signs. Vacant eyes haunted him in a way that he would never admit to being anything more than a loss of an adversary, and an achievement of security. Finality. I owe you a fall. Only one fell that day. He knew it because he was here.

As he was not willing to give this child any sort of satisfaction, the detective's expression was that of a neutral, stoic sort. Again, he regarded initial observations and just the slightest draw of his eyebrows showed an inkling of belief that neither fell. A microexpression tightened the corners of his eyes and made his lips twitch just the slightest.

And then, he leaned back with an air of resignation and a settled expression of scepticism.

"I am certain he does," the words were spoken slowly, deliberately as he scanned the boy with his hawkish eyes which narrowed as he scrutinised his face, "what other evidence does he have for me? Surely he does not believe me to be so easily convinced." In other words, give me the full message.

"A case? Depends on what you make of this," he responded with a small smile; an expression which bordered on apologetic as he reached into one of the deep pockets of his cargo shorts and withdrew a round object. An apple, with three letters familiar only to Sherlock Holmes carved into its surface. I.O.U. Now, this time, Jim didn’t owe Sherlock anything. Not a fall, not a visit, not a nice date at an authentic Italian restaurant. He owed him nothing. That three-letter carving was nothing more than undeniable proof that it was, in fact, Jim Moriarty who had sent a young messenger to seek Sherlock Holmes out.

But how had Oliver known who to look for? Well, it helped that Jim had given Oliver a few pictures to study. The name was mentioned right at the start of the introduction of this task. Sherlock Holmes. That wasn’t a name easily forgotten. And although Sherlock had listed himself under a false name, it wasn’t too hard to figure out who he was. After all, anagrams were a fairly basic literary device, and a popular one at that. He made the connection almost instantaneously, and he deciphered it for his own benefit. Just to be sure.

And he approached him, he responded to his question, and he handed him the apple.

"Jim Moriarty sends his warmest regards, Mr. Holmes."

[gravoria-manent]

Fin.

The detective was reluctant to simply give away his fine gut strings for the sake of another ‘not being picky’. In fact, his mouth opened slightly in protest, but closed as the other counted the number of instruments. Five others. Close, but still off. A terse nod came not because the other was what should be considered ‘talented’, but because he understood what was written. Six instruments, if not more. More being relative of him learning others as well. Filling his mind-attic with more useless information. A classical study in music was always preferred for Sherlock. However, he limited to one instrument to allow much more room for the more important matters of crime-solving techniques.

"Try them." During the silence he gave for the other to write and the following silence, he decided to allow the other to ‘try them’, “but remember to care for them properly. They must be oiled and they must be all installed in order for the instrument to tune correctly." The sharp detective offered the strings and his eyes followed their movements instead of focusing on the mute.