Murder with Lens: A Sherlock Holmes Case (221B Baker Street Series) (18 page)

Sherlock immediately put his hands up to cover his face. After a moment more, he sighed and laid both hands on the table. Then he picked up the orange juice and drank the whole glass down. He set down the cup and looked around him miserably. His craving was like a force that swept the room.

“Everything’s so… slow.” His fingers opened above the table, like they might wrap an apple.

“I know,” John said soothingly, even though he didn’t actually know.

“Coffee’s done.” Sarah set out a cup that was snatched up immediately by Reese. She took a swallow so deep and scalding that it creased her forehead.

Then she turned to look at Sherlock. He stopped moving and averted his gaze.

“Good morning,” she said. “Want some coffee? It might help make a man out of the mess I’m seeing here. You realize the police are going to take one look at you and know you’re flying. It won’t be Freak then, it’ll be Tweak.”

“I didn’t do this.” Sherlock said very stiffly.

She leaned on the table. “A cocaine injection is hard pressed to last an hour. How much shit did they give you?”

His green eyes studied patterns on Sarah’s table placing.

“You don’t remember, do you? Oh that’s rich.” Reese stalked around the table with a sour smile making her young features – very young, without the make-up – hard. “Oh you’re a genius, you are. Got ahead of yourself this time, though. I watched these guys a couple of years before I got to lead the investigation as Primary. Do you have any idea how meticulous I’ve been? I don’t think so. Off you go and you smack into them: hurricane Holmes. And what did they do to you?” She guzzled more coffee and smacked the mug down. “They cleaned your clock. I mean… you don’t even know what they did.”

Sherlock shut his eyes. He closed his hands together before him.

She pushed in close to him and he turned his head, so as not to see her. “So let’s look at you. I mean, you’re the evidence now.” She unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it back. The bend of his elbow was badly bruised. Reese straightened his arm and swallowed hard. She stared for a long moment before she cleared her throat. “Tearing. When they stuck you, you were struggling. That’s what the bruising is about. Ligature marks, wrist and I can just see the edge of them,” she tugged his shirt collar, “on the throat. You weren’t bound to a chair, or object, there’s no sign of that. But your knees are going to be as badly scuffed as those fancy trousers of yours are. These guys controlled you by hand – someone was on each rope the whole time you were with them. That’s why the bruise patterns aren’t uniform, and there are so many of them.”

Sherlock undid the other sleeve and rolled it up. His skin was purple with bruises. Reese bent and sniffed him. She surprised him by using his own mini magnifier to study his arms. When Reese looked up, she was so close to his pale face he momentarily couldn’t avoid her eyes. “I thought they might have been shooting you full of speedballs. This looks more like it was coke in one arm, heroin in the other. These are two different people, giving these shots. The bruising is different. There’s a handprint, and the tearing is really bad. You’re lucky there’s no abscess. Also, there are fewer holes over here. If you were strung out on heroin-”

“My pupils would be pinned.” Sherlock shaded his eyes by gripping his head again.

“Right. And your eyes are sensitive because the pupils are huge – really blown. They’re not the size of pinholes. So, this arm was heroin. You got less of it than you did of coke. Now, one drug in one arm, and one in the other, is that how you used to do it?”

He looked sickened and pulled away from her. Reese caught a two-handed hold of his shirt and pulled him slowly back. “Okay, maybe this isn’t getting to you through the high, but we spent all last night flipping out and thinking they’d cut off your head. Answer my question, please.”

He shut his eyes and said, “No. I did the right arm. But I didn’t like to mix, or backload. I’d do shots of coke with a chaser of heroin. I never had a point in my left arm unless someone did it for me.”

“Stupid,” she released him and stood back. “You should stop trying to destroy yourself.”

“I was a kid. And you slit your wrists.” Sherlock snapped in retort.

“Fine. Then so should I.” She heaved a sigh and hugged herself. Reese stared at him. “So, if you had help, would you split it out? Like let’s put the white stuff in the right, and the brown in the left?”

“No. And no, whoever they were, they didn’t know me that well. Just well enough to make it look close.” Sherlock shook his head. “I need a blood test… see if I’m okay. Check me for disease.”

“You’ll be clean. They didn’t want to kill you. They wanted to question you. But, yeah, I agree you need to go to hospital. In fact, I have news for you – you’re the crime scene. You aren’t doing anything until we go over you for evidence.” She told him and crossed her arms on her ribs. “I want a doctor to do that. Then we’ll need to do some head work with you. I saw you on security footage. You don’t remember what they did, but, inside, you were mashing the Record button. It’s in there. So it’ll be down to me against the drugs. This will work better if we start as soon as possible.”

Sarah reached out and closed her hand over John’s shoulder. He really appreciated that, because he was afraid. There was no way the police were going to believe this.

***

Lestrade looked like he’d aged overnight. The moment John and Reese walked onto his floor, the moment Sherlock stepped out of the elevator, his eyes on the floor, half Lestrade’s agents froze. Lestrade shoved through the CIA. He actually shouted. “What the hell is going on?!”

Young hurried between the intervening desks and caught hold of Reese. They fell into a quiet conversation. Reese handed over a copy of the hospital report. It was from the evidence collection carried out on Sherlock and his clothes. Holmes seemed to be doing a little better after a shower and a change, but he wasn’t going to relish this next part.

John could look at him and see that he still hadn’t come down. Cocaine flashed over the brain and was gone, sometimes, in half an hour. And this wasn’t right for heroin. John had spoken to the doctors about the urgency of the matter, but they said it was likely the results of the blood draw wouldn’t be in until evening, or tomorrow. They didn’t know what he’d been given. The hospital visit had taken three hours. Evening was closing in on them now.

Lestrade walked through the gathering silence. His motions caused Sherlock to raise his head. It was impossible to miss the effects of the mystery drug at that distance from Holmes. The blood drained out of his face, and Lestrade looked at John. “What’s this about? What did he run off and do?”

“Not my call.” Sherlock said dryly.

“Let’s look at the positives here,” Reese broke away from her handlers and walked back to join Lestrade. “The Club broke pattern. Their people may have grabbed Sherlock, but he was brought before actual Club members last night. The reason why he’s in this condition should be obvious. First, you’re a cop. A cop would be much more likely to believe Sherlock did this to himself than had it done to him by a bunch of kidnappers, second they kept him docile and off his game, mentally. His resistance to coke is low to begin with. The Club would have done their homework and known what cocktail was most believable for him. I mean, sans me, you wouldn’t believe Sherlock, and it’s likely you’d suspect John was protecting him. These injections were designed to keep him functional, but not in control. I think we’re going to find that the cocaine injection was some kind of powerball. He’s got no conscious memory of last night. My best guess is they hit him with GHB.”

“Oh, well – that makes it all perfectly clear,” Lestrade set his hands on his hips. “I had men all over the city looking for you, Sherlock. And you’re going to stand here and tell me someone forced you to do this and you didn’t go off the wagon?”

“He didn’t do this at all,” Reese shook her head. “Two people stood by and shot him up.”

“And if he did, his aim was off,” John said grimly. “Let’s pull the blinds in your office. I’ll show you the track marks.”

“No you won’t,” Sherlock said stiffly.

Lestrade gave Holmes a look that normally would have silenced him. But it was only by chance that Sherlock remained quiet. “You’d best start cooperating, Sherlock.” Lestrade turned and barked. “Donovan, keep them out of my office.” Lestrade had a mean head of steam going. They all followed him, Sherlock guided by John. He was in a daze, almost unaware of the staring police he drifted through.

Holmes folded into a chair in Lestrade’s office. “Turn out some of these lights.”

“His eyes,” Reese pointed at her own eyes on her way out to deal with her people. She flicked off the overheads and shut the door behind her.

Moments later, John said, “They’re not infected.” Under the light of the desk lamp, with all the blinds closed, John slowly turned up a peacock blue shirt sleeve and pulled Sherlock’s pale arms straight. “Besides, if he did this to himself, why are there ligatures?”

Lestrade laid down the copy of the evidence report Reese had handed him. He hadn’t had time to open it yet. He set it on his keyboard and got in for a close look at Holmes’ arms. “No… Sherlock on his worst day… never looked like this. He’s too precise for this mess. It’s a bloodbath.” The door opened and closed to admit Reese and Young. Young simply found a chair near the door and settled into it. Reese paced in front of the door.

When John looked at him for a reaction Sherlock gave a bored shrug. Then he turned his head away. That was the true reaction. He wanted all of this to be over.

“Banging away on both arms isn’t Sherlock’s use pattern.” Reese stopped pacing and added. “And there’s the fact we saw the videos. He was half carried out of that restaurant.”

“He could have been shooting up upstairs for all we know. He went outside a couple of times. John didn’t know where he was.” Lestrade frowned. “That might have been a former junkie mate, or the dealer just tossing him out of the building – we don’t know.”

John jolted. “We went there to eat. It was my choice, and I know that place-”

“And maybe he knows it too, but for a different reason,” Lestrade said angrily.

John thought of the area and realized… there was a possibility he’d put Sherlock badly in the way of temptation. He’d been struggling with his emotions. From the Met’s point of view, it was plausible Sherlock had recognized the place, gotten tired of waiting, and gotten high. John felt himself shut down when he realized he hadn’t had eyes on Sherlock through the entire first 20 minutes or so of being at the table. He’d been pouring over the menu and talking to the servers.

It wasn’t true. But it could be made to look true.

“If you think he did this. You have to prove it,” Reese challenged. “I have the timeline from the videos too, Detective Inspector. He was out of the way of the cameras in the downstairs only for about eight minutes before the blackout. From what I see right now, the Club’s blackout ended a bit too soon. I doubt they know we caught them dragging him out on tape. But those guys weren’t friends of his. Lestrade, don’t let this muddy the waters. Don’t listen to the office buzz. You’re not being clear now. You should have gotten some sleep last night.”

“Oh. After you both went missing, yeah? Easy.” he said by way of explanation.

“I should have called last night. It was irresponsible, but I was tired and I crashed. I’m sorry,” Reese told him. She also nodded at Young. The apology had stopped Lestrade in his tracks. In fact, Reese had called from the hospital in the afternoon, as soon as they’d arrived there, and explained. Of all of them, she’d been the mature one.

Young spoke up. “We tracked your iPad to a park – the Victoria Embankment. It’s a high crime area. A theory emerged, Reese, that John convinced you to use your skills to track Sherlock there after he’d bought and used the drugs. On the surface, it’s plausible. Your primary loyalty has always been to the other Assets.”

Sherlock snickered on the tail end of that, and Reese put a hand to her forehead to sigh. “Oh my God, Rose, please tell me you’re too smart to buy that theory.”

“No, I believe you, Reese. I feel obliged to tell you what you’re up against.” The CIA Agent got to her feet and said. “Powerful people in the Met have been spinning this since your phone call. Some of them seem to deeply dislike Sherlock. They’re sure to suspend you and take your badge pending further investigation, Mr. Holmes.”

“Immaterial,” he muttered. Released from his inspection, he rolled his sleeves back down over his bruised arms again. Sherlock pushed his hands through his thick curls.

“Headache?” John bent to Sherlock to ask.

He nodded.

“Think you’re coming down?”

“Yes.”

“Let me know if you feel nauseous.”

“Oh, there’s nothing left unless you count the orange juice. I got sick all over them when they put in the heroin. It’s been too long for me to take big pushes like that without getting nauseous. And that’s the tearing and bruising you see.”

John straightened in surprise. “You remember?”

“Relax, Doc,” Reese sighed, “That was deduction. Good deduction. He may be all flaky, but he’s still in there.”

Young came to a stop at Sherlock’s shoulder and, for a moment, said nothing. She stood in the canned light of the shuttered office and watched him as if staring down a logic puzzle, while taking the Bar. But it would do her no good, and she’d worked with exceptional individuals since recruitment. So Young pulled over the chair beside Holmes and sat with him. “Sherlock,” she said gently, “I feel, in part, accountable for what’s happened to you. Normally, we, and by we, I mean the CIA, would have the manpower to safeguard all the Assets on this case. We’re well aware these are very difficult adversaries. Their Secret Society is well-established, known to be dangerous, and we’re outnumbered here. The attitude about Exceptional people in this building is very negative. They actually believe you’re a sociopath. The Club may be unshakable now, I understand that. It’s just another fact of life we may have to live with. But I know we involved you when we didn’t have the staff to protect you. That’s our fault.”