Sherlock Holmes and the Thief Of Souls
Mar. 19th, 2022 03:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bungakertasIn London, on a street called Baker Street, there is a building with three flats owned by a woman named Mrs. Hudson. The landlady reserved the A flat for her own use, as it was on the ground floor and she didn't care to climb stairs overmuch with her hip. She had yet to find a tenant for the C flat, in the building's basement, since no one wanted to brave both the prices of housing in Westminster and the damp of a basement at once.
The B flat, on the first floor, however, was rented by two men who were perhaps the most unlikely friends she'd ever encountered and their names were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
Sherlock was tall, thin, had piercing grey/blue eyes, and was currently exchanging a series of bizarre text messages on his mobile with Dr. Molly Hooper, the incongruously and painfully cheerful medical examiner from the St. Bart's Hospital morgue.
Message sent, 10:10 AM
Will be down to fetch eyes at eleven. Office or lab?
SH
He was already headed for his coat when his mobile beeped. He snatched it up and furrowed his brow at the response.
Message received, 10:12 AM
Sherlock, are you all right? This isn't like you at all.
~*Molly*~
He stared at the phone for a full three seconds before coming to the conclusion that his initial impression had indeed been correct and the response made no sense whatsoever.
Message sent, 10:13 AM
Asking you for body parts is perfectly normal behaviour for me, as well you know.
SH
The response came almost immediately.
Message received, 10:13 AM
I gave you the eyeballs on Tuesday.
~*Molly*~
Message sent, 10:14 AM
Today is Tuesday. You haven't given me anything.
SH
Message received, 10:15 AM
It's Thursday.
~*Molly*~
Message received, 10:15 AM
Check your phone, if you want proof.
~*Molly*~
Irritably, Sherlock did just that. And there, printed in neat letters across the banner was the word "Thursday." Except that it couldn't be Thursday because he couldn't possibly have lost two whole days. He didn't recall any cocaine recently and he had no cases on, so it couldn't be that. But he'd never lost track of time so completely under any other circumstances. In fact, he had very carefully made a habit of not doing so.
Message received, 10:16 AM
ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?!?
~*Molly*~
Sherlock scowled.
Message sent, 10:16 AM
Perfectly well, thank you. Your concern is appreciated, but I will text again if I require anything further. Good day.
SH
He was about to text John when the doctor himself came charging up the stairs.
"Did you know it's Thursday today?" John said in a bewildered voice. "I would've sworn today was Tuesday. Showed up at the surgery and Sarah told me they didn't have a single thing for me, though it feels like just yesterday she was telling me someone was on holiday today."
Sherlock eyed his flatmate in absolute astonishment. John's appearance was disarming. His dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes, and slightly-shorter-than-average height made him easy to overlook. Since his clothes often amounted to jumpers and unremarkable trousers, the bland-and-ordinary image was only reinforced more often than not. However Sherlock knew him to be smarter than the average, as well as clear-headed in a crisis. So his next question was asked in a deadly serious tone. "What can you remember of the past two days?"
"Nothing," John said, completely baffled. He opened the refrigerator door and then said, "I must've done the shopping, since we're all stocked on jams again, but I don't recall doing it."
Sherlock scowled. "Both of us. Those two days…" He was about to curl up in his chair when his phone beeped again.
Message received, 10:20 AM
Sherlock, if you've found anything and haven't told me, so help me, I will make your life a living hell. What are you doing?
Lestrade
Sherlock's fingers moved across the keys so fast he could barely even follow them himself.
Message sent, 10:21 AM
John and I are coming down to your office AT ONCE. Wait for us.
SH
"John," Sherlock said, turning. "Something is very, very wrong. I can't remember anything from either Tuesday or Wednesday, and apparently Lestrade thinks we have a case."
"You? Forget about a case? Now you're having me on," John laughed.
"It's not a joke, John. Something is very seriously wrong. We need to see Lestrade, immediately."
John frowned. "If we've both lost two days, we need to see a doctor immediately."
"After we talk to Lestrade, I promise, since he will, no doubt insist on the same thing," Sherlock sighed. He pickpocketed John's crime scene book from his friend's jacket as the two of them headed down the stairs.
New Scotland Yard was stuffed to the gills with some of Sherlock's least favourite people in the world, but today he noticed almost none of them as he made a beeline for Lestrade's office ("What are you doing here, Freak?" from Donovan's desk was thoroughly ignored) and strode in without so much as knocking.
"When did you ask me in on the case?" Sherlock demanded.
Lestrade shot a flummoxed look at John who said, "He's been like this since the time I got home." with a shrug.
Sherlock wanted to throttle them both. Couldn't they see that there was a very serious problem here? "When?" was all he said out loud.
"Tuesday, of course," Lestrade snapped.
"It shouldn't be possible," Sherlock murmured. "I can't delete my own memories with this much precision, certainly no one else should be able to."
"What are you on about?" Lestrade demanded.
"Tell me about the case," Sherlock ordered.
"What, the dehydrated man found in an impossible pose? Sherlock, you were there," Lestrade said.
"I don't remember being there."
"If this is a joke, it isn't very funny."
John broke in. "I know it sounds mad, but I don't remember being there either, Inspector."
Lestrade blinked and sat back in his chair. "Neither of you?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"You forgot the whole case?" Lestrade repeated, much more urgently.
"No. I have forgotten everything, case or otherwise, from the end of Monday to this morning," Sherlock replied.
Lestrade stared at him in utter shock. "But you never forget anything!"
"I suspect someone has interfered with both John and myself, ensuring that we would forget the case. They've also torn out two pages from John's case book." Sherlock held it up.
"Oi!" John protested. "When did you take that?"
"I need your forensics team to look at it. Try and recover what he wrote," Sherlock said, tossing it down on Lestrade's desk.
Lestrade picked the book up, ignoring John's scowl, and glanced it over. "You've got a firm hand," he said to John. "Probably left some good impressions. I'll see what the lab can do with it. In the meantime, I'll rebrief you on the case. You still have the casefile, I assume?"
"I don't know," Sherlock said, hating those words as they came out of his mouth. "If it wasn't with us when we were…attacked, then it's probably still at the flat. We have no reason to assume our attacker was there, so under those circumstances, it's likely I do. However, if it was with us at the time, the attacker no doubt took it. Until I know what it looks like, I can't be sure."
So Lestrade showed them photographs and told them how Thorfinn Rowle, Eirian Rosier, and Roderick Jugson had all fought with someone in their homes and then, after loosing, remained exactly where they were until they died of thirst. And how no one had seen the murderer. And he showed them the interviews with the various co-workers and neighbors that had been taken during the past two days.
Sherlock was able to make a number of deductions, most of which had Lestrade nodding and showing him the place in his own notes where he'd scribbled down those things already. To Sherlock's surprise, Lestrade had credited him in each place.
After looking the whole thing over, he set Lestrade's notes down and said, "It's clear we were getting close to something, but I can't imagine what. Nothing about this case makes any sense at all."
"It's not like you to admit defeat," John said mildly.
"I'm not admitting anything," Sherlock shot back, "but beyond what we just discussed, unless John and I had a breakthrough yesterday that he wrote down in his book and you recover, there's nothing more I can tell you until we have new evidence."
"You mean a new murder," Lestrade said.
"Yes, of course a new murder," Sherlock returned sharply.
Lestrade buried his face in his hands. "We can't just wait, Sherlock, I've told you a thousand times—"
"Do you think I like it that I can go no further?" Sherlock hissed.
"Well, in the meantime," Lestrade said, "you and John had best report to a hospital immediately. And until we can be sure you're back in top form, I'm going to have to consider you off the case."
"What? You can't do that!" Sherlock exploded.
"Technically, you were never on it," Lestrade sighed. "I know it's not your fault, but until your memory's trustworthy, you're no good to us."
Sherlock was furious, but with Lestrade and John both working against him, he had no choice but to comply and allow himself to be dragged to a local hospital. John pulled some strings and got them both MRI appointments that day (boring, boring, boring just lying there, perfectly still, for ages, in that tiny space without even his phone or a book to occupy him) and then they went home.
The first thing Sherlock did was to check the fireplace. It was, mercifully empty. He went into his bedroom, and started checking every single hiding space he'd ever stashed anything in his life. John watched, bemused, from the doorway, until Sherlock finally emerged in triumph, brandishing the casefile. It was missing the pictures, which he suspected had been affixed to the criminology mirror. But the autopsy reports and other papers were still there, and he and began reading them immediately, setting a stack before John automatically.
John, who had been quiet since they got home, looked at the papers without moving. And then, quite suddenly, he seized the Union Flag pillow and flung it angrily into the smiley face on the opposite wall.
"John?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his papers in confusion.
"Someone stole our memories, Sherlock," he snapped. "They altered our minds."
Sherlock nodded. So this was anger at their attackers then. Understandable, but not practical. He sympathised without participating. "We need to go examine the crime scenes in person." Then he swallowed because he really didn't want to have to admit this next bit, even if it was true. "And we'll possibly need to give Mycroft Lestrade's number."
John's head snapped up. "You're going to put Mycroft onto your case? On purpose?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed irritably at that thought. "Let us hope it doesn't come to that."
It took a bit of setting up, but soon Sherlock and John were on their way to visit the murder scenes of Rowle, Rosier, and Jugson. Again, apparently.
The trip, for Sherlock, was absolutely maddening. Although many people thought so, and while he admittedly encouraged them to do so, his memory was not eidetic. He had not been born with any innate gift that enabled him to perfectly remember any significant information he happened across and wished to recall later. However, over time, with a great deal of practice and self-discipline, he had succeeded in sharpening his memory to an extreme degree. His ability to retain or "delete" useful or useless information was just as much a learned skill as every other tool in his arsenal.
So, after putting so much time and effort in to building up his memory, the fact that someone had managed to tear down two whole days so completely—and apparently effortlessly—was frustrating on a deeply personal level. And frightening in a way he couldn't bring himself to admit, even to John. Whoever this was, they had altered his mind. And his mind was, in many ways, the only thing that made him worthwhile. He was not a pleasant person, nor a man who could easily make friends. If he couldn't think, he couldn't do anything.
He wouldn't be worth anything.
Rowle's flat was long since cleaned and now utterly useless for evidence. Jugson's house—an uncreative affair, identical to every other house on the street—held no information the crime scene photos hadn't already given him.
But Rosier's, visited in between the other two, did hold a few surprises.
The kitchen, where she'd died, was neat and clean and not a thing was out of place. As was the sitting room, which had been a thorough mess from the photos Lestrade showed them earlier in his office.
"So," John sighed, viewing the room, "I suppose that's that."
"It's perfect," Sherlock said, frowning as he checked indentations in the carpets and ran his hands along the wall. In the photos he was certain that the wall had been damaged, even though it wasn't now.
John glanced at the bookcase and then frowned. "Sherlock, look at this."
Sherlock looked up and instantly saw what John had noticed. The bottom half of the bookshelf was arranged in something approaching an artful clutter. The top half, while it did vaguely match the same aesthetic, had been alphabetised by author.
"So, whoever cleaned up the crime scene is a part-librarian," John quipped.
"Likely a woman, and probably didn't even realise they were doing it," Sherlock said, his tone indicating agreement.
"What? How do you figure?" John asked.
Sherlock sighed in irritation. Most of the things he saw, he didn't bother to break down in his own mind. Spelling them out for someone else was sometimes more difficult than coming to the conclusion with certitude in the first place.
"Some of these books, going by author, are in the wrong place," he replied. "Whoever replaced them read off the spines and alphabetised the books out of habit. If the author isn't listed, they used the title.
"Given the average height for a British woman, this top shelf would be a bit too high to comfortably stock, which is why those books are closer to the edge of the shelf. Coupled with the size of the tracks their fingers left in the dust and woman is more probable than a man."
John grinned. "As always, Sherlock, that's brilliant."
Sherlock smiled back. Good old John.
Once they'd completed the rounds of the crime scenes, the two of them returned to Baker Street. John got on the phone with the hospital to ask after their MRI results while Sherlock called every tattoo artist he'd ever met or heard of to ask after the skull-and-snake tattoos. He'd never seen a design remotely similar and he imagined that someone would know exactly what he was talking about immediately. Frustratingly, no one did, forcing Sherlock to conclude that they had been acquired underground.
He went back to the autopsy photos in his mind, thankful that whatever had stolen away the past two days had not destroyed his ability to form new memories since his glance at the pictures in Lestrade's office had been brief. He methodically brought to mind every tattoo he'd ever seen that had been acquired in prison or on the cheap or under any other circumstances that were less-than-mainstream, looking for any that were nearly such good quality as these had been. Nothing. Either his memory was failing him again, or he hadn't encountered this particular underground artist. And they were good, whoever they were. This was quality work. Not only was there a great deal of shading and detail, but the design itself was compelling. You could almost believe the snake was moving, and the empty eye sockets of the skull seemed malevolent and angry. And for some bizarre reason, Sherlock kept thinking of the colour green, despite the fact that the tattoo itself was black. Even operating illegally, someone with that kind of skill should have acquired a reputation.
He sighed and picked up his phone.
Message sent, 2:22 PM
Have been cleared by hospital. All leads have dead-ended. Text when next murder occurs.
SH
He set his phone down and started compiling a mental list of contact information for people he could use to track down this tattoo artist. Then his mobile beeped. He frowned as he picked it up. He hadn't expected Lestrade to entirely buy his lie about being cleared, but he hadn't thought he'd catch it quite so quickly, either.
Message received, 2:23 PM
Sherlock, what are you on about? Hospital? Look, unless you're hurt, I do have work that doesn't involve you, you realise?
Lestrade
Sherlock seized his phone and instantly rang Lestrade.
"What do you want?" was the curt response when Lestrade finally answered. The first two times, he'd let the call ring through.
"Tell me about the dehydration case," Sherlock demanded.
"What dehydration case?" Lestrade said.
"You don't remember it."
"There's nothing to remember," Lestrade snapped. "Obviously, you're not that hurt, so I'm sorry, Sherlock, but whatever it is will have to wait. I'm busy at the moment."
"Wait!" Sherlock seized the remainder of the case file and began frantically thumbing through it. "This is important, Lestrade, I promise." As he paged through the reports, he mentally sifted through the photos Lestrade had shown him, again, trying to recall any anomalies at all. And he found one, surprisingly enough, as he looked at the autopsy report for Thorfinn Rowle. In the background of one of the photos, he had seen Lestrade talking to Donovan. The only reason they'd have been there was if Rowle's death had been ruled a murder (or, at least, murder hadn't been ruled out). Which meant people had been forgetting things about this case even longer than he already knew.
"Pull the file on Thorfinn Rowle." He glanced at the top of the autopsy report. "Case number one-one-seven-dash-two-six-eight-stroke-A. His death will be listed as natural causes, but ignore that. Read your notes."
"If this is not the most important information you've ever given me, Sherlock, then I promise you—"
"Just read it."
Sherlock heard background noise as Lestrade pulled the file, and then silence as he looked it over. Then there was that different silence that indicated he had picked his phone back up, but hadn't spoken yet. When he finally did, he said, "How could I forget this?"
"Someone is trying to keep us away from this case," Sherlock said. "Someone who can make us forget things. I don't know how, and it doesn't make sense, but they can."
There was a very deep pause on the other end of the call. "You know how mad that sounds," Lestrade finally said.
"You believe me." It wasn't a question, though he was surprised at how much Lestrade trusted him.
"Sherlock, what is going on?"
"There are two other victims in this case that I'm certain of. Eirian Rosier and Roderick Jugson. Pull their files, and make sure we don't lose that information. Make as many copies as you can make, or have the entire department memorise them or something. But make sure you can hang on to it. There are several people dedicated to making sure this information gets forgotten."
"Several people?"
"Someone got to John and me one day and then you and your entire team the next. One person would have to be very busy indeed to manage all that."
"Fair point. All right. We'll work it out so that the case files are not mislaid. Although I do wonder why they weren't just destroyed outright?"
"Because whoever is doing this understands bureaucracy. If all the paperwork is rubber stamped properly, those case files will go into a cabinet somewhere and sit there collecting dust from now until the end of the world and no one will ever notice. They've limited their direct contact only to those of us who've been directly involved. They're trying to be stealthy. There may even be other victims we've missed."
"All right." Lestrade sounded like he was half-way between overwhelmed and irritated. "We'll see to coming up with a way to make sure this information is not mislaid again."
"Text me when the next victim turns up."
"Sherlock…"
"Waiting for a murderer to strike again is bad," Sherlock sighed, "so you've said. Text me." He hung up.
At some point, John had reentered the room and he was sitting by the television, looking at Sherlock. "It is bad, you know."
"There's nothing more to be done until we have a new victim," Sherlock shrugged. "These victims have told us all they have to tell."
John sighed but didn't say anything further.
"John, you can't always be so disappointed in me. You know I don't do it for the victims," Sherlock said.
John gave him an enigmatic smile and said, "Don't worry about it, Sherlock. You are the smartest man I know, so you'll get there eventually I'm sure."
Sherlock stared at him in confusion. Whatever that meant, he couldn't begin to properly parse it. How could John not know that he wasn't like everyone else? Maybe his invincible friend could afford to be compassionate, but all he had was his mind and he couldn't risk caring for anyone more than John. Maybe being surrounded by friends and family was good for others, but it would ruin him. One friend. That was all he needed. That was all he could afford to let himself have.
So he busied himself with working out how to approach the next crime scene in a way that would guarantee they wouldn't loose information. Generally the best way to prevent something from becoming a secret was to tell as many people as possible. However, media involvement nearly always made inquests more difficult to manage and whoever was trying to keep all this secret (An accomplice? Or perhaps the same group of people that the three victims had initially left? Perhaps the victims were being killed for turning against that group at some point?) might be more interesting when responding to the threat of their secret being revealed, rather than the reality of it already having been.
He sighed and explained the problem to John. After all, the man had been a soldier. Surely he could come up with a plan for an ambush, even if it was a somewhat more cerebral one than normal.
The B flat, on the first floor, however, was rented by two men who were perhaps the most unlikely friends she'd ever encountered and their names were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
Sherlock was tall, thin, had piercing grey/blue eyes, and was currently exchanging a series of bizarre text messages on his mobile with Dr. Molly Hooper, the incongruously and painfully cheerful medical examiner from the St. Bart's Hospital morgue.
Message sent, 10:10 AM
Will be down to fetch eyes at eleven. Office or lab?
SH
He was already headed for his coat when his mobile beeped. He snatched it up and furrowed his brow at the response.
Message received, 10:12 AM
Sherlock, are you all right? This isn't like you at all.
~*Molly*~
He stared at the phone for a full three seconds before coming to the conclusion that his initial impression had indeed been correct and the response made no sense whatsoever.
Message sent, 10:13 AM
Asking you for body parts is perfectly normal behaviour for me, as well you know.
SH
The response came almost immediately.
Message received, 10:13 AM
I gave you the eyeballs on Tuesday.
~*Molly*~
Message sent, 10:14 AM
Today is Tuesday. You haven't given me anything.
SH
Message received, 10:15 AM
It's Thursday.
~*Molly*~
Message received, 10:15 AM
Check your phone, if you want proof.
~*Molly*~
Irritably, Sherlock did just that. And there, printed in neat letters across the banner was the word "Thursday." Except that it couldn't be Thursday because he couldn't possibly have lost two whole days. He didn't recall any cocaine recently and he had no cases on, so it couldn't be that. But he'd never lost track of time so completely under any other circumstances. In fact, he had very carefully made a habit of not doing so.
Message received, 10:16 AM
ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?!?
~*Molly*~
Sherlock scowled.
Message sent, 10:16 AM
Perfectly well, thank you. Your concern is appreciated, but I will text again if I require anything further. Good day.
SH
He was about to text John when the doctor himself came charging up the stairs.
"Did you know it's Thursday today?" John said in a bewildered voice. "I would've sworn today was Tuesday. Showed up at the surgery and Sarah told me they didn't have a single thing for me, though it feels like just yesterday she was telling me someone was on holiday today."
Sherlock eyed his flatmate in absolute astonishment. John's appearance was disarming. His dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes, and slightly-shorter-than-average height made him easy to overlook. Since his clothes often amounted to jumpers and unremarkable trousers, the bland-and-ordinary image was only reinforced more often than not. However Sherlock knew him to be smarter than the average, as well as clear-headed in a crisis. So his next question was asked in a deadly serious tone. "What can you remember of the past two days?"
"Nothing," John said, completely baffled. He opened the refrigerator door and then said, "I must've done the shopping, since we're all stocked on jams again, but I don't recall doing it."
Sherlock scowled. "Both of us. Those two days…" He was about to curl up in his chair when his phone beeped again.
Message received, 10:20 AM
Sherlock, if you've found anything and haven't told me, so help me, I will make your life a living hell. What are you doing?
Lestrade
Sherlock's fingers moved across the keys so fast he could barely even follow them himself.
Message sent, 10:21 AM
John and I are coming down to your office AT ONCE. Wait for us.
SH
"John," Sherlock said, turning. "Something is very, very wrong. I can't remember anything from either Tuesday or Wednesday, and apparently Lestrade thinks we have a case."
"You? Forget about a case? Now you're having me on," John laughed.
"It's not a joke, John. Something is very seriously wrong. We need to see Lestrade, immediately."
John frowned. "If we've both lost two days, we need to see a doctor immediately."
"After we talk to Lestrade, I promise, since he will, no doubt insist on the same thing," Sherlock sighed. He pickpocketed John's crime scene book from his friend's jacket as the two of them headed down the stairs.
New Scotland Yard was stuffed to the gills with some of Sherlock's least favourite people in the world, but today he noticed almost none of them as he made a beeline for Lestrade's office ("What are you doing here, Freak?" from Donovan's desk was thoroughly ignored) and strode in without so much as knocking.
"When did you ask me in on the case?" Sherlock demanded.
Lestrade shot a flummoxed look at John who said, "He's been like this since the time I got home." with a shrug.
Sherlock wanted to throttle them both. Couldn't they see that there was a very serious problem here? "When?" was all he said out loud.
"Tuesday, of course," Lestrade snapped.
"It shouldn't be possible," Sherlock murmured. "I can't delete my own memories with this much precision, certainly no one else should be able to."
"What are you on about?" Lestrade demanded.
"Tell me about the case," Sherlock ordered.
"What, the dehydrated man found in an impossible pose? Sherlock, you were there," Lestrade said.
"I don't remember being there."
"If this is a joke, it isn't very funny."
John broke in. "I know it sounds mad, but I don't remember being there either, Inspector."
Lestrade blinked and sat back in his chair. "Neither of you?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"You forgot the whole case?" Lestrade repeated, much more urgently.
"No. I have forgotten everything, case or otherwise, from the end of Monday to this morning," Sherlock replied.
Lestrade stared at him in utter shock. "But you never forget anything!"
"I suspect someone has interfered with both John and myself, ensuring that we would forget the case. They've also torn out two pages from John's case book." Sherlock held it up.
"Oi!" John protested. "When did you take that?"
"I need your forensics team to look at it. Try and recover what he wrote," Sherlock said, tossing it down on Lestrade's desk.
Lestrade picked the book up, ignoring John's scowl, and glanced it over. "You've got a firm hand," he said to John. "Probably left some good impressions. I'll see what the lab can do with it. In the meantime, I'll rebrief you on the case. You still have the casefile, I assume?"
"I don't know," Sherlock said, hating those words as they came out of his mouth. "If it wasn't with us when we were…attacked, then it's probably still at the flat. We have no reason to assume our attacker was there, so under those circumstances, it's likely I do. However, if it was with us at the time, the attacker no doubt took it. Until I know what it looks like, I can't be sure."
So Lestrade showed them photographs and told them how Thorfinn Rowle, Eirian Rosier, and Roderick Jugson had all fought with someone in their homes and then, after loosing, remained exactly where they were until they died of thirst. And how no one had seen the murderer. And he showed them the interviews with the various co-workers and neighbors that had been taken during the past two days.
Sherlock was able to make a number of deductions, most of which had Lestrade nodding and showing him the place in his own notes where he'd scribbled down those things already. To Sherlock's surprise, Lestrade had credited him in each place.
After looking the whole thing over, he set Lestrade's notes down and said, "It's clear we were getting close to something, but I can't imagine what. Nothing about this case makes any sense at all."
"It's not like you to admit defeat," John said mildly.
"I'm not admitting anything," Sherlock shot back, "but beyond what we just discussed, unless John and I had a breakthrough yesterday that he wrote down in his book and you recover, there's nothing more I can tell you until we have new evidence."
"You mean a new murder," Lestrade said.
"Yes, of course a new murder," Sherlock returned sharply.
Lestrade buried his face in his hands. "We can't just wait, Sherlock, I've told you a thousand times—"
"Do you think I like it that I can go no further?" Sherlock hissed.
"Well, in the meantime," Lestrade said, "you and John had best report to a hospital immediately. And until we can be sure you're back in top form, I'm going to have to consider you off the case."
"What? You can't do that!" Sherlock exploded.
"Technically, you were never on it," Lestrade sighed. "I know it's not your fault, but until your memory's trustworthy, you're no good to us."
Sherlock was furious, but with Lestrade and John both working against him, he had no choice but to comply and allow himself to be dragged to a local hospital. John pulled some strings and got them both MRI appointments that day (boring, boring, boring just lying there, perfectly still, for ages, in that tiny space without even his phone or a book to occupy him) and then they went home.
The first thing Sherlock did was to check the fireplace. It was, mercifully empty. He went into his bedroom, and started checking every single hiding space he'd ever stashed anything in his life. John watched, bemused, from the doorway, until Sherlock finally emerged in triumph, brandishing the casefile. It was missing the pictures, which he suspected had been affixed to the criminology mirror. But the autopsy reports and other papers were still there, and he and began reading them immediately, setting a stack before John automatically.
John, who had been quiet since they got home, looked at the papers without moving. And then, quite suddenly, he seized the Union Flag pillow and flung it angrily into the smiley face on the opposite wall.
"John?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his papers in confusion.
"Someone stole our memories, Sherlock," he snapped. "They altered our minds."
Sherlock nodded. So this was anger at their attackers then. Understandable, but not practical. He sympathised without participating. "We need to go examine the crime scenes in person." Then he swallowed because he really didn't want to have to admit this next bit, even if it was true. "And we'll possibly need to give Mycroft Lestrade's number."
John's head snapped up. "You're going to put Mycroft onto your case? On purpose?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed irritably at that thought. "Let us hope it doesn't come to that."
It took a bit of setting up, but soon Sherlock and John were on their way to visit the murder scenes of Rowle, Rosier, and Jugson. Again, apparently.
The trip, for Sherlock, was absolutely maddening. Although many people thought so, and while he admittedly encouraged them to do so, his memory was not eidetic. He had not been born with any innate gift that enabled him to perfectly remember any significant information he happened across and wished to recall later. However, over time, with a great deal of practice and self-discipline, he had succeeded in sharpening his memory to an extreme degree. His ability to retain or "delete" useful or useless information was just as much a learned skill as every other tool in his arsenal.
So, after putting so much time and effort in to building up his memory, the fact that someone had managed to tear down two whole days so completely—and apparently effortlessly—was frustrating on a deeply personal level. And frightening in a way he couldn't bring himself to admit, even to John. Whoever this was, they had altered his mind. And his mind was, in many ways, the only thing that made him worthwhile. He was not a pleasant person, nor a man who could easily make friends. If he couldn't think, he couldn't do anything.
He wouldn't be worth anything.
Rowle's flat was long since cleaned and now utterly useless for evidence. Jugson's house—an uncreative affair, identical to every other house on the street—held no information the crime scene photos hadn't already given him.
But Rosier's, visited in between the other two, did hold a few surprises.
The kitchen, where she'd died, was neat and clean and not a thing was out of place. As was the sitting room, which had been a thorough mess from the photos Lestrade showed them earlier in his office.
"So," John sighed, viewing the room, "I suppose that's that."
"It's perfect," Sherlock said, frowning as he checked indentations in the carpets and ran his hands along the wall. In the photos he was certain that the wall had been damaged, even though it wasn't now.
John glanced at the bookcase and then frowned. "Sherlock, look at this."
Sherlock looked up and instantly saw what John had noticed. The bottom half of the bookshelf was arranged in something approaching an artful clutter. The top half, while it did vaguely match the same aesthetic, had been alphabetised by author.
"So, whoever cleaned up the crime scene is a part-librarian," John quipped.
"Likely a woman, and probably didn't even realise they were doing it," Sherlock said, his tone indicating agreement.
"What? How do you figure?" John asked.
Sherlock sighed in irritation. Most of the things he saw, he didn't bother to break down in his own mind. Spelling them out for someone else was sometimes more difficult than coming to the conclusion with certitude in the first place.
"Some of these books, going by author, are in the wrong place," he replied. "Whoever replaced them read off the spines and alphabetised the books out of habit. If the author isn't listed, they used the title.
"Given the average height for a British woman, this top shelf would be a bit too high to comfortably stock, which is why those books are closer to the edge of the shelf. Coupled with the size of the tracks their fingers left in the dust and woman is more probable than a man."
John grinned. "As always, Sherlock, that's brilliant."
Sherlock smiled back. Good old John.
Once they'd completed the rounds of the crime scenes, the two of them returned to Baker Street. John got on the phone with the hospital to ask after their MRI results while Sherlock called every tattoo artist he'd ever met or heard of to ask after the skull-and-snake tattoos. He'd never seen a design remotely similar and he imagined that someone would know exactly what he was talking about immediately. Frustratingly, no one did, forcing Sherlock to conclude that they had been acquired underground.
He went back to the autopsy photos in his mind, thankful that whatever had stolen away the past two days had not destroyed his ability to form new memories since his glance at the pictures in Lestrade's office had been brief. He methodically brought to mind every tattoo he'd ever seen that had been acquired in prison or on the cheap or under any other circumstances that were less-than-mainstream, looking for any that were nearly such good quality as these had been. Nothing. Either his memory was failing him again, or he hadn't encountered this particular underground artist. And they were good, whoever they were. This was quality work. Not only was there a great deal of shading and detail, but the design itself was compelling. You could almost believe the snake was moving, and the empty eye sockets of the skull seemed malevolent and angry. And for some bizarre reason, Sherlock kept thinking of the colour green, despite the fact that the tattoo itself was black. Even operating illegally, someone with that kind of skill should have acquired a reputation.
He sighed and picked up his phone.
Message sent, 2:22 PM
Have been cleared by hospital. All leads have dead-ended. Text when next murder occurs.
SH
He set his phone down and started compiling a mental list of contact information for people he could use to track down this tattoo artist. Then his mobile beeped. He frowned as he picked it up. He hadn't expected Lestrade to entirely buy his lie about being cleared, but he hadn't thought he'd catch it quite so quickly, either.
Message received, 2:23 PM
Sherlock, what are you on about? Hospital? Look, unless you're hurt, I do have work that doesn't involve you, you realise?
Lestrade
Sherlock seized his phone and instantly rang Lestrade.
"What do you want?" was the curt response when Lestrade finally answered. The first two times, he'd let the call ring through.
"Tell me about the dehydration case," Sherlock demanded.
"What dehydration case?" Lestrade said.
"You don't remember it."
"There's nothing to remember," Lestrade snapped. "Obviously, you're not that hurt, so I'm sorry, Sherlock, but whatever it is will have to wait. I'm busy at the moment."
"Wait!" Sherlock seized the remainder of the case file and began frantically thumbing through it. "This is important, Lestrade, I promise." As he paged through the reports, he mentally sifted through the photos Lestrade had shown him, again, trying to recall any anomalies at all. And he found one, surprisingly enough, as he looked at the autopsy report for Thorfinn Rowle. In the background of one of the photos, he had seen Lestrade talking to Donovan. The only reason they'd have been there was if Rowle's death had been ruled a murder (or, at least, murder hadn't been ruled out). Which meant people had been forgetting things about this case even longer than he already knew.
"Pull the file on Thorfinn Rowle." He glanced at the top of the autopsy report. "Case number one-one-seven-dash-two-six-eight-stroke-A. His death will be listed as natural causes, but ignore that. Read your notes."
"If this is not the most important information you've ever given me, Sherlock, then I promise you—"
"Just read it."
Sherlock heard background noise as Lestrade pulled the file, and then silence as he looked it over. Then there was that different silence that indicated he had picked his phone back up, but hadn't spoken yet. When he finally did, he said, "How could I forget this?"
"Someone is trying to keep us away from this case," Sherlock said. "Someone who can make us forget things. I don't know how, and it doesn't make sense, but they can."
There was a very deep pause on the other end of the call. "You know how mad that sounds," Lestrade finally said.
"You believe me." It wasn't a question, though he was surprised at how much Lestrade trusted him.
"Sherlock, what is going on?"
"There are two other victims in this case that I'm certain of. Eirian Rosier and Roderick Jugson. Pull their files, and make sure we don't lose that information. Make as many copies as you can make, or have the entire department memorise them or something. But make sure you can hang on to it. There are several people dedicated to making sure this information gets forgotten."
"Several people?"
"Someone got to John and me one day and then you and your entire team the next. One person would have to be very busy indeed to manage all that."
"Fair point. All right. We'll work it out so that the case files are not mislaid. Although I do wonder why they weren't just destroyed outright?"
"Because whoever is doing this understands bureaucracy. If all the paperwork is rubber stamped properly, those case files will go into a cabinet somewhere and sit there collecting dust from now until the end of the world and no one will ever notice. They've limited their direct contact only to those of us who've been directly involved. They're trying to be stealthy. There may even be other victims we've missed."
"All right." Lestrade sounded like he was half-way between overwhelmed and irritated. "We'll see to coming up with a way to make sure this information is not mislaid again."
"Text me when the next victim turns up."
"Sherlock…"
"Waiting for a murderer to strike again is bad," Sherlock sighed, "so you've said. Text me." He hung up.
At some point, John had reentered the room and he was sitting by the television, looking at Sherlock. "It is bad, you know."
"There's nothing more to be done until we have a new victim," Sherlock shrugged. "These victims have told us all they have to tell."
John sighed but didn't say anything further.
"John, you can't always be so disappointed in me. You know I don't do it for the victims," Sherlock said.
John gave him an enigmatic smile and said, "Don't worry about it, Sherlock. You are the smartest man I know, so you'll get there eventually I'm sure."
Sherlock stared at him in confusion. Whatever that meant, he couldn't begin to properly parse it. How could John not know that he wasn't like everyone else? Maybe his invincible friend could afford to be compassionate, but all he had was his mind and he couldn't risk caring for anyone more than John. Maybe being surrounded by friends and family was good for others, but it would ruin him. One friend. That was all he needed. That was all he could afford to let himself have.
So he busied himself with working out how to approach the next crime scene in a way that would guarantee they wouldn't loose information. Generally the best way to prevent something from becoming a secret was to tell as many people as possible. However, media involvement nearly always made inquests more difficult to manage and whoever was trying to keep all this secret (An accomplice? Or perhaps the same group of people that the three victims had initially left? Perhaps the victims were being killed for turning against that group at some point?) might be more interesting when responding to the threat of their secret being revealed, rather than the reality of it already having been.
He sighed and explained the problem to John. After all, the man had been a soldier. Surely he could come up with a plan for an ambush, even if it was a somewhat more cerebral one than normal.
