Chapter Text
*
Section Chief Stamford had a broad, friendly face and an office full of cigarette smoke.
This was mildly disconcerting, as John knew that smoking had been banned in federal buildings since at least the late nineties, and the restrictions had only grown ever more stringent in the last decade.
The source of the smoke was a slim, sour-faced man in a smart three-piece suit. He had taken up residence against a tall filing cabinet by the wall, studying John with keen eyes. He took a long, slow drag on his cigarette as their eyes met.
Stamford stood, leaning across his desk to offer his hand.
John took it, shook briskly. He looked back at the smoking man, who did not offer a hand.
"Special Agent Watson," Stamford said, pulling his attention back. He gestured to the chair nearest the desk. "Thank you for coming in on such short notice."
The man against the filing cabinet had positioned himself in such a way to be visible in John's periphery, just a hint of furtive movement and stale smoke.
"Of course," John said, sitting.
Short notice was putting it mildly—he'd been halfway through an autopsy at Quantico when he'd gotten the call, and a mishap with a hastily gulped cup of coffee had left him scrambling for a quick change of clothes.
He'd arrived on time, only just, with his chest heaving and his neck prickling with sweat. Not exactly the impression he'd wanted to make, but when the Section Chief said jump, you asked how high.
The man by the cabinets drew in another long lungful of smoke. His cigarette hissed.
"Hah," John said, shifting in his seat to offer a disarming smile. "Thought there was no smoking in these buildings."
The man did not smile back, merely regarded John with a strangely intent air. He did not speak.
"Your records say you've been with us for just under two years," Stamford said, all business. He did not look up at the man by the cabinet, did not take his attention off of John.
"Erm," John said, shifting in his seat, hoping he hadn't put his foot in it too badly in an attempt to break the ice. "Yes, that's correct."
"You have impressive credentials," Stamford said, tapping the file in front of him with one thick finger. "Enlisted in the army right out of medical school. Rank of Captain. Wounded in action and honorably discharged three years ago. You've chosen not to practice medicine, may I ask why?"
John flexed his hand, his mercifully steady hand, and looked down. Do not, he told himself, screw this up.
"I saw the FBI as an opportunity to distinguish myself," he said after a moment. It sounded good. He thought it might be mostly true, even.
Stamford nodded, looked back at his paperwork.
"Agents with your kind of background don't come along all that often," he said finally, shuffling the pages and looking up. "Reports from your supervisors have been almost universally positive. It's fair to say you've caught our attention."
"Well," John said. "That's—hah. Good. I imagine one only gets called in to the Section Chief's office on short notice for something very good or very bad. So." He cleared his throat.
Stamford smiled at him, then flicked his eyes over John's shoulder to the man by the cabinet. John very carefully did not turn to follow his gaze.
"There's an assignment," Stamford said, still not looking at John. "We'd like you to take it."
John straightened up, squared his shoulders. "Oh?"
He didn't want to appear too eager. But Christ, was he ever. Months upon months spent languishing in the forensics labs at Quantico, donning a white lab coat and staring down at corpses on slabs—he'd been bored, well, stiff.
"Perform well, and there's no telling what doors may open to you," Stamford said, his gaze landing back on John. He smiled.
The words were friendly, encouraging. But there was something about them that felt odd, like a rough bit of cloth catching at the edge of his subconscious.
"What, exactly, is the assignment?"
A furtive rustle to John's right. The man with the cigarette had come away from the cabinet, crossed over to stand behind Stamford's desk. He fixed John with another of those silent, penetrating stares. His cigarette was burning down to its nub.
He did not look like any FBI agent John had ever seen. His clothes were far too expensive, clearly custom-tailored. There was a watch chain dangling from his waistcoat—a watch chain, honestly, did people even use those in real life?—and an odd, hawkish intelligence in his expression that he wasn't typically accustomed to seeing in his fellow agents.
The man was not wearing an ID badge.
CIA? he wondered. Military intelligence? Politician?
Stamford rustled his papers, and John pulled away from the man's oddly arresting stare.
"Are you familiar with an agent named Sherlock Holmes?" Stamford asked him.
John startled.
"Yes," he said, hesitating.
Stamford raised his brows, glanced briefly towards the smoking man, who did not react. "How so?"
"By reputation," John said, and damned if that wasn't the understatement of the year. Sherlock Holmes was a legend. "He's—he's rather brilliant, isn't he? Oxford-educated, widely considered the best analyst in the Violent Crimes Unit. Wrote a monograph on serial killers and the occult." He swallowed, weighed whether or not to continue. "He had a nickname, at the academy. Our instructors swapped stories about him, you know? They called him the Freak."
The name had been whispered like an invocation, more often than not. Spoken with equal parts reverence and disdain. Sherlock Holmes, the Freak, the man they called in when no one else could get the job done. He could see through anyone, through anything.
Or so they said.
John cleared his throat again, looked back at Stamford.
Stamford's attention was on the smoking man. He wondered what they were communicating to each other, with that look.
Perhaps he shouldn't have shared the Freak comment. He'd thought the name to be common knowledge around the Bureau, what with the amount of times he'd heard it spoken. But perhaps—
"Yes," Stamford said, startling him out of his thoughts. He looked back at John, folded his hands in front of him on the desk. "Yes, that's—that's correct. But what I'll also share with you is that Agent Holmes has recently developed a—" another glance towards the smoking man. "—a fascination, let's call it. With a project outside of the Bureau mainstream. Are you at all familiar with the so-called X Files?"
John blinked, caught off guard. He considered for a moment. "Not really. I mean—I've heard it mentioned. Something to do with unexplained phenomena?"
Stamford shrugged, smiled at him. It was a disarming smile, reassuring. "Something like that. It's the reason you're here. We'd like you to assist Agent Holmes on this project."
John smiled, shook his head. They wanted him to what?
"Sorry," he said. "Sorry, you'd—"
"You'll provide regular field reports on your activities, of course," Stamford continued. "Documentation of cases. And in these reports, we ask that you offer your own observations on the—well, on the validity of the work itself."
The smoking man smiled at him, a thin, bloodless smile. He leaned over and stubbed his cigarette out in an ash tray at the corner of Stamford's desk.
The back of John's neck prickled. He met the man's unnerving gaze, held it. "Am I understanding you correctly? What it sounds like you're really asking is for me to debunk this project."
Stamford smiled again, gave him an oddly knowing look. "Your credentials and background make you uniquely suited for this assignment. We trust you'll draw the proper conclusions."
"Right," John said. He clenched his fist, released it, nodded. "Right."
"Agent Holmes has been informed of your assignment. He'll be awaiting your contact." Stamford stood, once more extended his hand across the desk. "We look forward to your reports."
*
He rode the elevator down to the basement, trying not to fiddle with the cuffs of his suit jacket.
He didn't know what to think.
He'd been noticed, had been hand-picked by his superiors for an assignment. That—that was a good thing. That had to be a good thing. That was the kind of thing he and his peers had hoped for, back in his academy days.
He'd told Stamford that he'd seen the FBI as an opportunity to distinguish himself.
The truth was a bit murkier, of course, but he supposed that for now it suited him well enough.
And he had distinguished himself, hadn't he? In one way or another, if he'd been hand-selected by the Section Chief for an assignment. It was flattering.
It left him feeling off-kilter. Unsettled.
He was, essentially, being asked to spy on a fellow agent. It didn't sit right with him.
The elevator doors opened into a long hallway, narrow, poorly lit, lined with dusty filing cabinets. His nose twitched and he paused, breathing deeply, trying not to sneeze.
Did they really keep offices down here? Really?
Maybe they were having him on. Playing a little practical joke. Even if the FBI, on principle, didn't seem the sort of place where practical jokes went over too well.
There was an office at the end of the hall, a warm sliver of light spilling out under the door. He paused, registered the nameplate that read SHERLOCK HOLMES, and knocked lightly against the wood.
"Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted," replied a dry voice.
Sherlock Holmes. An hour ago, he'd been little more than a name, just a legend that other agents swapped stories about. Now he was on the other side of the door.
John pushed open the door, stepped inside.
The man himself was seated at a little counter, his back to the door, face pressed up against a microscope. A microscope? John was fairly sure those were meant to be confined to the Bureau labs.
"You must be—" he started, hesitating as he got a good look at the rest of the office. It was cluttered, musty with the smell of old paper (although how much of that was the office itself and how much was owed to the basement setting he wasn't quite sure), and damp. The desk was piled with papers and file folders, stacked in untidy, precarious piles.
There was a framed family photo, smiling children on a swing set, oddly homey in the midst of all the mess.
The walls were positively plastered with photographs and news clippings, none of them originating from reputable news sources. The headlines screamed out sensational nonsense about UFOs, aliens, abductions, monsters, ghosts—it was like a window into the mind of a lunatic.
No wonder they kept this guy in the basement.
"—Agent Holmes," he finished, after an uncomfortable pause. His eyes found and froze on a—a human skull, perched at the edge of the desk, the world's most inappropriate paperweight. "I'm Agent Watson and I've—well. I've been assigned to work with you."
He tore his gaze away from the skull and found that Holmes was looking at him. His eyes were startlingly light, his face startlingly young. He was pale, sharp-angled, his hair dark and curling and in no way cut to FBI grooming regulations.
"Nice to be so highly regarded," Holmes said, his voice quite deep, dry, almost amused. There was an alarming keenness to his gaze, and John could not help but feel pinned in place, flayed open.
Right, he thought, shifting where he stood. Well. No one earned the nickname "Freak" without a reason.
John held out his hand and Holmes took it after a brief pause, giving it a firm shake. He was still studying him with that unnerving, penetrating stare. He did not stand.
"Clearly you've pissed someone off," Holmes said.
"Why's that?"
"I can't fathom any other reason why you'd have been given this assignment."
"I—"
Holmes held up his hand, forestalling him. "You're a medical doctor, currently not practicing, although they do have you working forensics at the academy. Must be dreadfully boring for a man of action such as yourself—a former Army Captain, is it? You've jumped at the opportunity for a field assignment without bothering to research the specifics—otherwise you never would have said yes—" this, spoken with a slightly self-deprecating curve to his lips, "—and, going by the tremor in your left hand, I'd say you're having second thoughts already."
John looked down at his hand, his traitorous, betraying hand, and clenched his fist. He looked back up.
"Read my file, then, have you?" he asked. His voice remained quite calm.
"Didn't have to."
"Agent Holmes—"
"Sherlock," he said, unfolding out of his chair, smoothing his suit jacket. He was quite tall. "Please."
"Sherlock," John tried again.
"Wounded in action, weren't you?" Holmes—Sherlock—asked, brushing past him and going for a stack of file folders on his desk. "You've recovered enough to pass the physical requirements for entry into the Bureau, although clearly you had to get a bit creative in order to bluff your way through the psych screening."
John bristled. "What, exactly, are you trying to say?"
"I'm not trying to say anything," Sherlock gave him a flat smile. He looked down at the folder in his hand, flipped through the pages. John caught a glimpse of a crime scene photo, a corpse face down on the ground. When he spoke again, his voice was distracted, almost bored. "I merely observed."
Right. Supernaturally observant. That's what people had said about him. That was his reputation. Observant, nosy, insufferable. Weird.
And crazy, apparently.
"Right," John said. "And how could you possibly have observed that?"
Sherlock glanced up from the folder, pinned him once more with that alarming gaze. "Don't want to bore you with the details."
"Right," John said again. "Because you didn't observe anything, you read my file. As I thought."
It had the reaction he'd hoped. Sherlock shut the folder with a brisk snap, drew himself up to his full height, took a deep breath.
"You have the posture of a military man. Very specific, hard to unlearn. Not an unusual background for someone in law enforcement, after all, the Bureau does a fair amount of recruiting out of the armed forces. Your suit—now, your suit is inexpensive, ill-fitting. You keep tugging at the cuffs. Surely a doctor could afford better. So. Not practicing. Now, back to the suit. Your shirt is wrinkled, poorly matched to your tie. You're an army man with meticulous habits—a bit unusual for you, wouldn't you say? So, you dressed in a hurry. In a hurry to make an inconveniently timed, unexpected meeting here at the Hoover Building. Eager, wouldn't you say? Eager to make an impression, eager for a new assignment."
Some of the tension unspooled from John's shoulders as Sherlock spoke. There was a robotic, mechanical cadence to his words, as if the thoughts were simply piling up in his brain and demanding a voice.
"Clearly your current assignment is boring you to tears, or you'd be a bit more apprehensive about this new task you've been given. Or, at the very least, a bit more curious as to why you, in particular, have been deemed an appropriate choice to wrangle the madman in the basement. What type of assignment would a doctor and a soldier find boring? Forensics. Obvious. All of that tedious detail work—" he tsked, shaking his head. "Your work begins long after the real action is finished and that's dull. Getting a bit harder to hide your tics, now that you're well and truly bored, isn't it? Afraid someone's going to find out about that intermittent tremor in your hand, the weakness in your leg that comes and goes when your mind and body aren't sufficiently occupied?"
John's mouth dropped open. "You—"
Sherlock held up his hand, stepped closer, swept his eyes up and down over John's frame. "You're standing at parade rest, almost perfect, but you've got more weight on your right foot than your left. Poor form, Agent Watson. Ah—" he looked up, smiled. "—and you've just corrected it. Wonderful."
John pursed his lips, studiously avoided looking down at his own feet. "You knew I was a Captain. How?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Licensed physicians enter the army with the rank of Captain. Judging by your age, the amount of time it would have taken you to complete your medical training, and the probable time frame and recovery period surrounding your injury, it seemed the most likely choice."
"Right," John said, a smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. "And how did you know I was a doctor, then?"
Sherlock smiled, just a tiny quirk of his lips. "Oh, that. I read your file."
John stared at him for a moment. Then he laughed.
Sherlock looked startled. He blinked once, twice, glanced down at the folder in his hands.
"You really get all of that, just from looking at someone?"
Sherlock cleared his throat, looked up, nodded. There was a caution to his movements, a hesitance that had not been there earlier.
"That's—well. That's amazing," John laughed again, gave an incredulous little shake of his head. "I suppose that's why they consider you the best profiler in the Bureau then, yeah?"
Sherlock stared at him. Stared. "You really think so?"
"What, that it was amazing? Yeah, Jesus, that was—I've never seen anything like that."
"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock said, still staring.
"What do they normally—" John hesitated. He supposed he already knew the answer to that one, didn't he? Freak. He cleared his throat awkwardly, looked around. "Anyway. I'm looking forward to working with you."
"Are you?" Sherlock tilted his head, his gaze sharp, considering. "I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me."
The words stung. John looked away, skin prickling with something akin to shame. He sniffed, squared his shoulders. He did not deny the accusation.
After a moment, he glanced back at Sherlock, who was watching him with an odd sort of hesitance. He seemed almost surprised by John's reaction.
Sherlock pursed his lips, held out the file folder. John took it.
"How's your chemistry?"
John blinked. "What?"
Sherlock smirked, nodded his head down at the folder. "Chemistry. That's the substance found in our victim."
"I—" John looked down at the folder, utterly lost. "Victim?"
Sherlock made a pained noise, flung himself back into the chair by the microscope. "Yes, victim. We're agents with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Emphasis on the investigation. By which I mean that we investigate crimes. Did you think this was a social visit? I don't really do those."
"No," John said. "No, it—it just wasn't—this wasn't included in the briefing. I had no idea you were currently in the midst of an investigation."
"I'm always in the midst of an investigation."
"Right, all right," John said. He almost felt like laughing. This man was ridiculous, truly. He opened the folder, looked at the medical report.
"Victim is James Philimore, age twenty-one. His body was found in an empty sports complex about three miles from his home in Bellefleur, Oregon. He'd been missing for less than twenty-four hours."
"Poisoning," John murmured, skimming the pertinent facts. "He was found holding an empty pill bottle. No note. The medical examiner ruled suicide?"
"Mm," Sherlock said, disinterested. He flicked his hand impatiently. "The substance."
"Yeah, all right, getting to that," John said. He read the next paragraph, frowned, read it again. "I'm not—I mean, chemistry really isn't my strongest area—"
"Regardless, your thoughts?"
"It's organic." John frowned. "Nothing I'm familiar with."
"Hm," Sherlock said. "That's what the medical examiner thought, too."
"And you think differently."
"I've seen it before."
John closed the folder, looked expectantly up at Sherlock.
Sherlock stood up from his chair again, whirled towards his desk in a flurry of motion. He picked up a file, held it in John's direction. "Sturgis, South Dakota. Victim's name was Jeffrey Patterson. His body was found in an empty office building. Ruled a suicide. Same substance, John." He dropped that folder, picked up another one. "Shamrock, Texas. Beth Davenport. Her body was found at a construction site nearly ten miles from her home. She had no reason to be there. None."
"Ruled a suicide?" John guessed.
"Yes," Sherlock's eyes had taken on a rather manic gleam. He was almost vibrating with excitement. "Ruled a suicide, even though no one could identify the substance she'd taken. Even though no one could come up with a plausible explanation for how she'd gotten there. Or why."
"So—some kind of new synthetic drug? Accidental overdoses?" John asked, nudging Sherlock over to skim through the other two files. He glanced up at Sherlock's face, let out a little huff of laughter. "Serial killer?"
"Serial killer?" Sherlock shook his head. "No, not working such a wide geographic area. Highly unlikely."
"All three victims were young. Early twenties. Healthy," John mused. "Ah. Beth Davenport's file indicates that she was undergoing psychiatric treatment for severe depression."
"So were Jeffrey Patterson and James Philimore."
John nodded. "All right, then that explains why the medical examiner was quick to rule suicide in each case—"
Sherlock made an impatient noise.
"—but you clearly have some other idea of what's going on. So."
"There's another connection between the victims. Not just the fact that all three were actively undergoing psychiatric treatment." Sherlock was grinning now, his fingers tapping against his thighs. He spun in a circle, much like a delighted child, and snatched his coat off of the back of the door. "They were classmates, John. Three years ago, all of the victims graduated together from Bellefleur High school."
"They—" John blinked, startled. "That's—my God. How did you even put that together? These cases were ruled suicides and closed—I didn't even know the Bureau kept tabs things like this."
"They don't," Sherlock said, tucking his scarf around his neck. "But I do." He finished fussing with the scarf and advanced on John, his eyes bright, gleaming with interest. "Agent Watson, do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?"
John laughed. He couldn't help himself. He managed to choke it down before his chuckle turned into all-out hysteria, but it was a near thing. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No, of course not, I—are you serious? No."
Sherlock seemed to deflate a bit, but tipped his head towards the file folder in John's hands. "Three suicides that weren't suicides."
"That's a guess," John said.
"I never guess."
"It's a good guess," he placated. "But still just a working hypothesis. And I don't know where aliens come into this at all—aliens, really? Are they known for being particularly suicidal?"
"It's not uncommon for alien abductees to report losing time—being unable to account for minutes or hours. There have also been documented cases—well documented cases, John, where a reported abductee has been found miles away from home, with no discernible means of transportation to or from the area." His eyes were agleam again, his expression captivating in its enthusiasm. He lowered his voice, standing very close, his breath warm against John's face. "There is something else at work here. Something beyond the easy answer, the one that everyone seems desperate to accept. And if convention offers us no answers, and science offers us no answers, then, might we not look elsewhere?"
"Elsewhere as in—" John raised his eyes up towards the ceiling, then looked back at Sherlock.
Some of that manic energy seemed to drain from him. "You're mocking me."
"No, I'm—" John frowned, because he was fairly sure that Sherlock was crazy. He was also fairly sure that he liked Sherlock. He didn't want to start things off on the wrong foot. "These people all died of something. It's plausible that something was missed in the post-mortem. It's plausible that there was a sloppy investigation. But there are answers to be found, real answers, not answers beyond—beyond the realm of science. Sherlock, the answers are there. You just have to know where to look."
"Ah," Sherlock said, the corner of his lip curving into a small smile. "Fortunate, that. Knowing where to look is sort of my area."
John let out an amused little breath of air. Sherlock tugged once on his scarf and straightened up, moving back and out of John's personal space.
"I take it that someone has tracked down the remaining students from the victims' graduating class?" he asked, finally.
"Yep," Sherlock popped the 'p' in the word as he waved his hand towards his desk.
John hesitated a moment, waiting for Sherlock to elaborate. When it became apparent he had no intention of doing so, he moved to the desk and took the top folder from the precarious pile.
"Not that one," Sherlock said.
John sighed, set the folder down, picked up the one beneath it.
"Our flight's at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Hang onto the file, you might feel the urge to do some light reading tonight."
He went out of the office in a sweep of long coat, then turned back, lingering in the doorframe. "Lock the door on your way out."
"That's it, then?" John asked, somewhat taken aback.
"Problem?"
"Just—that's how this works? We've just met, and now we're going to fly out to Oregon to solve a murder?"
"Three murders," Sherlock said. And winked. Winked. "Eight o'clock," he called, already halfway down the hall.
*
The flight to Oregon was uneventful.
The plane was not quite full, and Sherlock wound up sprawled on his back across three empty seats, eyes shut, headphones on, hands steepled under his chin as if in prayer or meditation. He did not so much as twitch for the duration of the trip.
John sat across the aisle, paging through the file, keeping the folder half-shut to shield the more gruesome photos from the passengers around him. His one effort at making conversation with Sherlock had been soundly ignored.
Sherlock stirred himself from his trance as the plane landed and stood, smoothing his suit jacket. He did not speak as they made their way through the terminal and collected their luggage.
It was approximately an hour drive from the Portland airport to Bellefleur, and John settled himself into the passenger seat of their rental car. It was a gray, damp day, and the trees rose up ominously through dense fog as they merged onto the highway.
"Sherlock," he said, finally.
Sherlock's eyes flicked towards him.
"I did a little reading, last night. On the case."
In fact, he'd stayed up well into the night researching the victims and their classmates, searching for connections.
"Obviously," Sherlock said.
John blinked, derailed. "Obviously?"
Sherlock sighed. "Dark circles under your eyes. Three cups of coffee already—one at the terminal before we boarded our flight, one ordered from the beverage cart, and another one once we'd landed. You don't strike me as a nervous traveler, and you've certainly been in more dangerous or stressful situations than this assignment, so, it wasn't that keeping you up all night. Fairly obvious that you forwent sleep in favor of researching our case."
"Right," John said, rubbing at his eyes. "Yes, well, I suppose there's no point in telling you what I've found, then."
"There's a connection between our victims that goes beyond simply being members of the same graduating class."
John let out a little unamused laugh. "Well. You could have just told me that, instead of letting me stay up half the night to find out for myself."
Sherlock took his eyes off the road to give John a long, penetrating look. His expression was difficult to read. "Better to let you discover it for yourself, I think."
John nodded, looked out the window at the fog and gloom. He had the strange, fleeting impression that he'd passed some sort of test.
They drove in silence for some time.
"So," Sherlock said, finally, his deep voice shattering the quiet that had fallen between them. "Five years ago, ten students on a field trip for their astronomy club disappear without a trace. Their school van is found, driven into a ditch, the driver unconscious with a superficial head wound. He has no recollection of the circumstances leading up to the crash, and no idea where his passengers might have disappeared to. There's a massive search effort in the community, yielding no results. Three days later, all ten students reappear with no memory of their ordeal."
"Sounds like the setup for a lousy TV movie," John said. He shook his head.
Sherlock smiled. "No official explanation was ever provided. As all of the students in question were in good health and showed no sign of physical trauma, the matter was eventually dropped. Many came to consider the entire incident to be a prank."
John frowned.
It had troubled him, reading about it. It troubled him even more, now, knowing that three of those students were now dead under mysterious circumstances.
Ten students. Juniors in high school when they'd disappeared. When… whatever it was that had happened to them happened. They'd come back, presumably continued on with their lives. They'd graduated. They'd gone off to colleges and universities or had gotten jobs.
Ten students. Ten names. Beth Davenport. Jeffrey Patterson. James Philimore. Jennifer Wilson. Lucy Ferrier. Eddie Drebber. Rachel Stangerson. Gary Jenkins. Helen Rance. Alice Charpentier. Ten mysteries.
"Victims of alien abduction are often ridiculed," Sherlock said.
John looked at him. Sherlock shrugged.
"It's not surprising that there would be a lot of people eager to label what happened as a 'prank,'" Sherlock added.
"You think they were abducted by aliens," John said.
Sherlock didn't respond, stared pointedly ahead at the road.
"You think—you genuinely think that no one could find them because they spent three days riding around on a spaceship."
Sherlock opened his mouth, shut it, went on driving.
"None of them ever said anything, anything, about aliens."
Sherlock tapped his long fingers against the steering wheel. "Would you?" he asked finally.
John had no answer for him.
They continued on without speaking for a few moments more, the car bumping over a bit of uneven road. Sherlock's unhappiness was palpable. His displeased silence had weight.
"Sherlock—" John started, but was cut off by the sudden blare of the car radio, a burst of static and jumbled voices that set his heart slamming against his ribs.
Sherlock had jumped too, he saw, the car swerving slightly in its lane. John reached forward and stabbed at the power button. "What the hell—"
The radio would not shut off.
Instead, the volume increased, static and unintelligible voices rising up in a squealing, squalling cry, making him want to clamp his hands down over his ears. Sherlock pulled over to the side of the road, gravel crunching under the tires. He unbuckled his seatbelt and flung himself out of the car, the engine still running, the radio still shrieking.
The car rocked gently as he opened the trunk, fumbling around in their luggage in search of something.
John leaned over and killed the engine, relieved when the radio cut off as well. He got out of the car, slowly, stiffly, breathed in the damp chill air.
It was calm, eerily quiet, very much unlike the hustle and bustle of the city he'd grown used to. Tall trees stretched upward all around him, their topmost branches cloaked by fog.
A somber makeshift memorial had been assembled around the base of a large pine at the edge of where the road curved: flowers, ribbons, a drooping teddy bear bleached and battered by the elements. There was a deep gouge in the bark of the tree.
John looked at it for a moment, frowning, then walked around to where Sherlock was standing.
Sherlock had emerged from the trunk with a can of spray paint and a triumphant smile.
"Is that—" John frowned. "Did you bring that on the plane? That's not actually legal, you know."
"I checked it in my luggage," Sherlock said dismissively, looking up at the sky and then back down at the road. He was muttering something under his breath, taking a few steps away from the car in the direction they had come from. His coat fanned out behind him.
"Yeah, still not legal," John said, following him. "And what are you doing?"
Sherlock shook up the paint, the can rattling. Then he stooped and sprayed a bright yellow X right in the middle of the road.
He straightened up with a little flourish, almost skipping back towards the car to stow the paint in his luggage. He shut the trunk, slipped into the driver's seat and restarted the engine, all without a word.
John stood outside in the fog for a moment, gaping. After a moment, he feared he looked rather like a fish and shut his mouth.
His nose was cold. His shoulder ached.
He closed his eyes, breathed, got himself back under control. After a moment, he rejoined Sherlock in the car.
"What was that?" he demanded.
"Mm," Sherlock said, his attention already on the road as he pulled away from the shoulder. "Oh, you know. Probably nothing."
*
Sherlock drove them to the county morgue.
John had been expecting to check into the motel first—the flight had taken roughly five hours and then they'd spent a little over an hour more on the road. He was tired, stiff, and wouldn't have minded a short break to collect himself before beginning the investigation in earnest.
In retrospect, he supposed this shouldn't have surprised him.
"James Philimore is scheduled for burial tomorrow," Sherlock said. "I've arranged for us to see him. You'll want to examine the body."
John sighed. "Right."
Corpses. Morgues. This was what he'd been doing since he'd completed his FBI academy training. They'd hired the doctor, not the soldier. They had more use for his scalpel than his gun.
He'd thought field work might be different.
Sherlock was watching him, his gaze sharp, focused. John had the uncomfortable feeling that his every thought was being broadcast and made an effort to school his expression into something more carefully neutral.
They went inside. The body had been laid out on an exam table, discretely draped in a white sheet.
John stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at that sad shrouded shape. Twenty-one years old. Older than some of the kids he'd seen torn apart on the battlefield, but still so terribly, terribly young.
He glanced up. Sherlock was still studying him, hawklike, intent.
John cleared his throat, snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He drew the sheet back from the body, tried very hard not to let on that he was at all affected by the scrutiny.
There were no overt signs of violence on the body. No bullet holes, no gaping wounds, no telltale bruising. Just a young man, his skin pallid and sagging in death. His eyes were closed.
John bent closer, studied the skin. There were small patches of broken flesh on his upper arms and chest.
"These appear to be self-inflicted," he said, after a long pause. "The skin is raw in places. Like he was scratching at bug bites or hives."
"Mm," Sherlock said, and there was something in his tone that John didn't like at all, something that said he knew more than he was letting on.
John glanced at him, sharply, but Sherlock's expression was bland and placid. He looked back down at the body. "I see no evidence of any bites. Or hives, or weals. Of course, given the time frame we're looking at, if there had been some kind of histamine reaction, the urticaria was likely absorbed back into his system."
"Mm," Sherlock said again.
John stepped back from the table, gave him a hard look. "What aren't you telling me?"
Sherlock looked at him, did not say anything.
John took off his gloves, dropped them into the trash. He turned around, folded his arms across his chest. "We're not going to get very far if you don't trust me," he said. "What aren't you telling me?"
Sherlock looked down at the ground. He looked slightly guilty, or—like he was attempting to affect an aura of slight guilt. "There may have been information not included in the medical examiner's initial report. I may have—procured said information."
"And you didn't feel that was pertinent to share with me?"
"I wanted you to draw your own conclusions."
John breathed out harshly through his nose. "And are you going to share it with me now?"
Sherlock nodded, took his phone out of his pocket. He swiped at the screen, held it out to John.
Scowling, John snatched it from his hand, looked down.
James Philimore's body filled the screen, slumped on the floor of the sporting complex in which he'd been found. There was a dull shine of basketball court flooring beneath his head, catching and reflecting the camera flash.
It was similar to the crime scene photograph from the file. Similar, but not exact. The angle was slightly different. Less professional. Almost—intimate. Furtive. This was no official crime scene photographer, snapping photos with full clearance. This was someone using a camera phone, documenting with haste, secrecy.
A cold, uncomfortable pit settled in his stomach. What, exactly, had he gotten himself involved in?
He swiped to the next photo. Whoever had been holding the camera had crouched closer, pulled the shirt aside to snap a close up of Philimore's skin. There were raised red bumps along his arms and upper chest. They were irritated, inflamed. Bumps he'd clearly been scratching at, with some vigor.
"This photograph wasn't included in the record you showed me," John said. He looked at Sherlock. "The medical examiner's report made no mention of a severe allergic reaction."
Sherlock reached out, took back his phone, tucked it away in his coat pocket.
"This changes things, Sherlock. The unknown substance found in his blood—it might not have been poison at all," John said. "Judging by the severity of that reaction, it's likely he went into anaphylactic shock."
He looked down at the corpse and then back up at Sherlock, shaking his head.
"This—why wasn't this included in the report? And how did you get this information?"
"I have my ways," Sherlock said evasively. "But you're asking the right questions, John. Why, indeed, would the medical examiner see fit to cover up signs of an allergic reaction in the victim?"
"Maybe he knows more than he's letting on," John said, straightening up.
From the hallway outside their little exam room came the sound of a commotion; rapid, heavy footsteps, raised voices.
"Maybe," Sherlock agreed, his lips pulling up into a smile. "Let's ask him."
The door swung open with some force behind it, rebounding off of the wall as a man stalked in. His face was flushed, fists clenched, and John took an instinctive step to put himself between the man and Sherlock.
Sherlock had drawn himself up to his full height and was watching his advance with a mildly amused expression.
"What is the meaning of this?" the man sputtered, seeing something in John's face that brought him to a halt.
"Ah, Dr. Wilson. Right on schedule." Sherlock smiled, clapped his hands together.
"I want to know what you people think you're doing. You—"
"Investigating," Sherlock said.
"You—what?"
"You asked what it was that we're doing. Or, rather, what we think we're doing. The answer to your question is," Sherlock paused, slipped his hand into his jacket, withdrew his badge, flipped it open with an odd sort of flourish. "Investigating. FBI, Agents Holmes and Watson. Any other questions?"
"Investigating what, exactly? This young man killed himself. He's scheduled to be buried tomorrow. I'll not have you up here—disrupting everything, putting his family through hell—"
"Dad?"
A young woman hesitated in the doorway. She wore a vivid pink jacket, her face very pale in the harsh fluorescent light. Her eyes had gone wide, fixed on the corpse on the slab.
"Jesus," John muttered under his breath, moving to draw the sheet up over the body.
"Oh," she said. "James." She shut her eyes.
"Jennifer," Wilson said. "Go back outside. You shouldn't see this."
"Did you know the victim?" Sherlock asked her.
Wilson snapped his attention back to Sherlock, his face contorting. "There is no victim. There is no crime here, just a very sad story. Leave my daughter alone."
"Jennifer Wilson," Sherlock said, looking from the medical examiner to the girl. His voice had gone breathy with realization. "You're Jennifer Wilson."
She startled at her name, blinking back at him with wide eyes. "Yes. Yes, I'm—"
"Jennifer, outside NOW," Wilson snapped. He turned back towards Sherlock and John. "You leave my daughter alone—"
"Your daughter was one of the ten students who went missing," Sherlock said. "Same as James Philimore here."
Halfway through the doorway, Jennifer froze, turned back. There was a wild sort of hope on her face, a haunted, twisting expression. "Do you know something?" She advanced forward, holding out her hands towards Sherlock as if in supplication. "Do you know something that might—?"
"JENNIFER!" Dr. Wilson slammed his fist down on the exam table. The steel rattled. The sheet trembled but did not fall away from the body.
Jennifer cringed away, fled into the hallway. She did not look back.
Wilson turned back towards them, his face scarlet with rage. "It's bad enough that you're here, poking your noses into something that you've no business with. But I won't have you upsetting my daughter, and I won't have you upsetting the family of this boy. He's being laid to rest tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?"
"With all due respect, I don't think we're the ones upsetting your daughter," John said, crossing his arms. He caught motion out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock, glancing sharply at him. He could not quite parse the expression. Approval? Amusement?
"Those students are dying, Doctor," Sherlock said, his voice quite grave. "One by one by one. If you know something, now would be the time to share. The clock is ticking."
"What exactly are you implying—?"
"Tell us about the bumps."
"What?"
"The hives, on the corpse. Why was there no mention of an allergic reaction in your report?"
Wilson flipped the corner of the sheet back, displayed the cold pale skin of Philimore's shoulders. "No hives, gentlemen. No bumps. Nothing at all but a troubled young man who couldn't cope with his demons."
"It can be extraordinarily difficult to diagnose anaphylaxis after death," John said. "There have been studies—"
Sherlock cut him off, advancing on Wilson, drawn up to his full height. "It would appear that a rather large sampling of your daughter's classmates are having difficulty coping with those same demons, wouldn't you say? Are you sure you have nothing else you'd like to tell us?"
"If you're making some kind of accusation, you better hope like hell you have something to back it up."
Sherlock's hand slid to his pocket, but he did not remove the phone.
"Daddy." Jennifer was back in the doorway. She looked very young, very frightened. "Please. Can we go home?"
"Yes," he said, the fight going out of him. His shoulders slumped. "Let's go home."
"Interesting," Sherlock breathed as soon as they were gone.
"Sherlock," John said quietly. He had stepped very close. "You had him dead to rights with that photograph. You have proof that he deliberately withheld information on the cause of death. Why aren't we arresting him? Bringing him in for questioning?"
"Because," Sherlock said, tipping his head ever-so-slightly, his breath ghosting against John's cheek. They were huddled close, too close, conspiratorial under the harsh lights. "I very much want to see what he'll do next."