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Anomalies	By : Harpling Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3513 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sherlock, the BBC, or any of the characters mentioned herein, nor am I making any money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 17
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- 19
Title: Anomalies
Author: Harpling
Characters, Pairing: Sherlock/John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Mrs. Hudson, OC
Rating: R
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a man accustomed to anomalies. Things out of place formed the bulk of his work, after all. But why was he so slow to notice them in his own behaviour?
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I am making no money from them.
Warnings: Manly man love, murder and blood, awkward cab rides
Beta’d by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked.

The flat in Holloway was swarming with police by the time they arrived. Sally Donovan’s sneering face was the first to greet them at the barricade. “Hello, Freak. Back so soon, Doctor Watson? I thought you’d finally got some sense and gotten away from him.”
John’s tight smile showed his anger, but all he said was, “Sergeant Donovan. Hello.”
As they stepped under the tape, Sherlock couldn’t resist the puckish urge to tilt his head just a bit to left while reaching down and back with his right hand to hold the warning cellophane barrier. His shirt collar shifted just enough to display the livid bruise already forming on his throat from John’s earlier attentions. Sally’s eyes immediately locked on to the red mark. “Oh my god, is that what I think it is? Who the bloody hell would be desperate enough to get off with you, Freak?”
Not Good. Sherlock had only thought to discomfit an annoying person, but this had had the unintended side effect of making John very uncomfortable. Though his face was carefully blank, the fingers of his left hand were trembling slightly. This was something Sherlock hadn’t anticipated – yet another instance of John being able to surprise him. But why was John uncomfortable about the idea of someone learning about this development? That was a question that warranted further consideration in the future, but the present situation required immediate defusing.
He treated Sally to his most condescending stare. “If you’re going to misinterpret the facts and jump to absolutely incorrect conclusions like that, Sergeant Donovan, perhaps you’d find more meaningful employment writing for The Daily Mail. You’ve obviously no talent in detecting. Surely it’s not asking too much of your mental abilities to consider that, being so pale, my skin is easily bruised and that I play the violin quite regularly. Is it so much of a strain for you to put those two facts together to realize that a mark on my neck is most likely caused by irritation from the instrument resting on my shoulder as I play? Really, who did you have to sleep with to be promoted this far?” He heard her sputtering as he swept inside, but there was really nothing interesting she could say. The stupid woman didn’t even consider that he held his violin on the other shoulder while playing.
Lestrade met them at the door to the flat, his face grim. “Sherlock, there better be a good reason why your name and number were sitting on the victim’s computer. I’ve already got the higher-ups out for my head over that little stunt you pulled to get into the Karjavin woman’s flat. If you’ve been involved in any way here, you better come clean about it before you walk into this mess.”
“Never been here before in my life. How long ago was the body discovered? Who was first on the scene?”
“About three hours ago,” Lestrade said as he moved aside and let them into the small kitchen. “Down the hall neighbour was taking her dog for a walk when it went berserk at the front door here. Wouldn’t stop barking. She said he used to be a hunting dog and still went a bit mad at the smell of blood. She knocked and got no answer, so she called the police. Officers Jacoby and Boulden responded to dispatch. They could smell the blood, so the knocked in the door. And, well, they found this.” He gestured to the body splayed out against the cabinets. “Name’s Victor Trevor. Twenty five years old. The flatmate, Edward Windibank, must have been abducted at the same time. We’ve got the kidnapping squad on his case now.”
Sherlock tuned out the rest of Lestrade’s commentary as he observed the scene before him. The victim was being poked and prodded by a team of Forensics Incompetents, led by Anderson. The swarm of latex gloves and blue coveralls obscured most of the view. No doubt anything interesting had already been blundered over. It was no use trying to gather evidence there at the moment; the rest of the flat would be so much more revealing.
Blood had been tracked all over the kitchen and the adjacent sitting room by someone wearing size 11 dress shoes (weight distributed unevenly, no pressure in the toes, 0.685 centimetre strides, dragging the tips, pronounced supination of the ankles, pigeon-toed). The sitting room and part of the kitchen had clearly been the object of some determined havoc (books and videos knocked off shelves, lamp tipped over, broken glass from picture frames below the mantel, sofa cushions strewn around the floor). It was clear that a pair of bachelors had lived here: a collection of beer bottles lined a top bookshelf, furnishings had all been selected for frugality or comfort rather than design, a hamper in the corner was filled with soiled laundry that had clearly been left there for several days. The door on the right was ajar, displaying a Spartan and spotless bedroom. Sherlock went through the other, tightly shut door first.
It was clearly not the room of the victim in the kitchen. That man was well over two metres, and everything in this room was set up for a man who was closer to one and half metres. Judging by the angle of the shaving mirror perched on the bureau, he was 1.65 metres, to be more precise. Edward Windibank’s room, then. Clearly a technophile; a power strip beside the desk held chargers for an iPad and a laptop as well as the cords for another computer, a desktop model. This was a semi-permanent arrangement, as shown by the layer of dust covering the whole set-up. The only empty socket had a clear spot where something had recently been removed.
Windibank was a bit of a dandy as well. The closet was filled with more wardrobe options than any sane man would ever wear, all stuffed and jumbled in an untidy heap. At a glance, Sherlock counted no fewer than eleven pairs of shoes, all size seven, including a pair of what looked like women’s pumps. Football cleats corroborated the photo of a trio of young men in the navy blue and white of Harrow jerseys, all making obscene gestures at the camera. From the stray hairs scattered on the floor, it was clear that Edward had short, brown, wavy hair. Why were long black strands caught in the teeth of the comb left on the bed?
Bedside table showed no condoms; either he was in a committed relationship (unlikely, given the variety of pornographic magazines in the drawer), he chose not to take precautions with new people (sticking plasters and hand sanitizer on desk, so he was attentive to health in other areas), he relied on partners to supply prophylactics (again, unlikely based on the precautions taken in other areas), or he was not currently in a position that would allow him to attract and retain sexual partners. So why were smudge of pale pink lipstick on his pillowcase? And where had the black strands of hair come from? Or the shoes?
The other detritus littering the nightstand and the bureau top were fairly typical for a single young man. Ticket stubs for films and concerts, a mostly empty can of shaving foam, poker chips, broken cd cases, receipts from shops, a Tube pass, racing forms, visitor’s badges to The Eye, the British Museum, the Port Authority, and the Tower, scrawled telephone numbers on various pub napkins and matchbooks, several packs of playing cards, empty pack of cheap cigarettes, pocket phrasebooks for Russian and French. All the normal, boring, tedious things people did to fill up their time until they died.
Victor Trevor’s room was a stark contrast to the magpie mess of his flatmate’s. The bed was neatly made. Books were shelved alphabetically by author’s last name. Computer cords were coiled neatly out of the way where they might present tripping hazards. A large crucifix dominated the wall opposite the bed, and a string of rosary beads hung from the headboard.
The only other decoration on the wall was a large cork board covered with photos. Most of the people in the images shared Victor’s prominent lower jaw and mousey blonde hair. Family members, then. One or two with unrelated people of about the same age, all clearly taken on some sort of camping holiday. A man in a Roman collar featured prominently in several. Each picture was tacked very carefully to the board so that the edges met but did not overlap, except in the lower right corner. Though there were no spaces, the photos were slightly disarrayed, as if someone had hastily rearranged them.
The closet was mostly empty, holding only a single dark suit, a few button-up shirts, and two uniforms with the LPA Security logo on them shoulder. Shoes were stacked neatly in boxes; four ties were hanging on a rack. Everything was starched and ironed within an inch of its life.
Only the computer desk showed any sign of being less than neatly arranged. Scraps of paper littered the area beside the keyboard, vague and barely legible phrases scribbled on them. Milk, bread, soap. M 12-9 W 12-9 F 10-7. Call Fr Roder. Ushering Sunday. Holly Trafalgar 7p. Dinner 6:30 Gino’s. Holloway to Brighton 12:15. One note was stuck upright in the keyboard: Sherlock Holmes, Science Ded. Underneath the smudged pencil message was scrawled his own mobile number, in ink. Well, this was obvious enough.
Back in the kitchen, the Forensics team was just packing away their kit. Anderson saw him and turned to Lestrade, drawling, “The professionals have got it all done here. I guess there’s no harm in letting a couple of amateurs have a go now. I’ll be back at my lab if you need anything.”
“Don’t try to be clever, Anderson,” Sherlock replied. “The strain must be overheating your brain.” He sniffed. “Does anyone else smell strawberries? Odd.”
“What are you getting at, Freak?” Anderson asked.
“Oh, nothing. I just thought that particular scent was much better suited to Detective Inspector Dimmock. It went so well with his laundry soap.”
Anderson purpled, but he was dragged away by another burly member of the Forensics team before he could carry out his blatant, if incoherent, threats of violence. Lestrade did not look amused, but he refrained from any reprimands. For now.
The Forensics team had clearly swapped and prodded the body, but it had not been moved much from where it fell. Blood spread in coagulating pools over much of the kitchen floor. It was no wonder the dog had gone berserk; it looked as if the entire contents of Victor Trevor’s circulatory system had been splashed against the cabinets and dumped on the floor. There must have been some time between the initial attack and the fatal blow; as the victim had moved through the kitchen, blood had been wiped on nearly every surface in the room.
The corpse was wearing a plain grey t-shirt and neatly ironed denims. Nothing interesting there, aside from the evidence of a minor compulsion disorder. A Sacred Heart medal hung on a fine chain around his neck. Most of his body was covered in blood, but the palm of his left hand had been scrubbed clean. Sherlock could just make out faint traces of the words written there in blue ballpoint pen: Hon…ell… Be….
Sherlock examined the man’s feet: size ten, wear on the inner edge consistent with ankle pronation. The large kitchen knife on the counter would most likely be proven to be the murder weapon; the blade was consistent with the cuts, and blood was fairly caked all over it. Multiple lacerations covered the victim’s arms and face, all of which would have bled heavily. His chest had been sliced open; there were marks were the blade had caught on the ribs and clavicle. It was difficult to see beneath the mess on his face, but his skin was notably pallid, consistent with massive blood loss. At first glance, it would appear that Victor Trevor had been knifed to death.
“Well, he wasn’t knifed to death,” said John, very quietly beside him. “Look at his throat, here. The hyoid’s been broken when he was choked. And here, petechia.” John lifted the victim’s eyelids to show the tiny, tell-tale signs of haemorrhaging in the whites of his eyes. “Not much, though. He’d already lost a lot of blood by the time our killer got around to choking him. Probably got this one here in the back first; it bled the most. Then he tried to defend himself and got these others all over his arms and his head. Whoever did this didn’t get to the chest until just after he was dead, that’s why the blood seeped out instead of the arterial spray it would have done otherwise. Must have been pretty upset to keep stabbing a corpse like that. Or just bloody crazy…” He trailed off at the sight of the avid, blue eyes staring hungrily at him. When John nervously ran his tongue over his lower lip, it was all Sherlock could do not to tackle him to the floor and tear all his clothes off.
“It’s fairly obvious what happened here. Call me when Edward Windibank turns himself in.” He grabbed John’s arm and started propelling him to the door.
Lestrade called after them, “Why would he turn himself in? He’s been abducted, for Christ’s sake.”
That stopped him. “Why do you keep saying he’s been abducted?”
“Signs of a struggle, he’s missing, and the ransom note is a pretty big clue.” Lestrade handed him a piece of grimy paper wrapped in clear cellophane. “The family’s pretty loaded; own half the major import firms in the city. Looks like this poor bloke just got caught up in the cross-fire when they came for the other one. Found this ”
The message was written in blood, probably Trevor’s, on a sheet from a cheap steno pad. We have Windibank. Bring 500 mil by midnight tomorrow. No police.
Sherlock stared at the Detective Inspector. And all the assembled idiots following so blindly where they were led. It was absurd, really, that anyone would fall for this ploy.
“He wasn’t abducted, and he’s certainly not being held for ransom. Does anyone in your department ever think? It’s a wonder you can get anything done.” Lestrade looked ready to object, but Sherlock didn’t give him a chance. “Edward Windibank, aka Holly Angel, killed his flatmate when he realized he was about to be discovered. Then he ran about, making it look like a kidnapping, and went into hiding. Unfortunately, the people he’s working for aren’t likely to take kindly to that sort of panic. You might find him holed up in some ghastly motel, but he won’t be tied to a chair or anything. Obviously, he’s the one who killed Victor Trevor. Possibly because they had a row about Edward dressing up as Victor’s girlfriend. More likely because Victor realized that Edward was involved in illegal smuggling activities and made an attempt to contact someone who could actually do something about it. Killed his roommate in a fit of panic – none of this was planned – and faked his own kidnapping to cover his tracks. That should be enough for your team to be going on, don’t you think?”
Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before saying, “Look, I know that’s all perfectly obvious and we’re all idiots for not getting it, but would you mind explaining it in a way that I could actually present in court?”
“Windibank may have come from a wealthy family, but he was willing to stay in this tiny flat with another person and smoke ridiculously cheap cigarettes, so the family clearly isn’t supporting him. Possibly because of his cross-dressing skills, possibly because of his gambling habits. No sign of legal employment, receipts and tickets from all hours of the day and night, so he must have another source of income. Russian phrasebook in his room but no other indications that he speaks the language. We know the weapons smuggling ring has been using Russian as a form of code. Young man accustomed to having financial support finds himself without it, it stands to reason that he’d turn to alternative means of income.
“Flatmate worked as security for the London Port Authority, so clearly he would be an interesting person for smugglers to know. Strong religious background makes it highly unlikely that he would willingly provide information to people for illegal purposes. But he’s forgetful, despite the compulsively clean behaviour he shows. He writes notes to himself of everything he needs to do. He wouldn’t show those notes to a flatmate, but a girlfriend would have access to practically anything when he wasn’t looking. Windibank sees his opportunity to impress his new employers and assumes the identity of Ms Holly Angel. Trevor lived like a monk, as you can see from the selection of photographs on his wall and his choice of decorations. Good Catholic like that wouldn’t date just anybody; no, he’d only be interested in someone on the same religious page. Good news for Windibank: he doesn’t have to worry about the physical aspects of a relationship revealing the ruse.”
Lestrade interrupted, “Wait, hang on. He was dating his flatmate in disguise?”
“Windibank had short, brown hair, but there is long, black hair caught in the teeth of his hairbrush. No signs of a girlfriend at the moment, but there are smears of lipstick and women’s shoes in his room. He was short and very thin, easily able to pass for a woman if you’re not too particular. The photo of Edward in his football uniform, though several years old, is a close enough match for the girl Trevor was dating. He sent me a photo when he thought she’d just disappeared.” Sherlock handed Lestrade his phone, on which he’d called up the post Victor Trevor had made on the website a few days back. “Take away the hair, the lipstick, the glasses, and the face is identical. Ultra Catholic man like Trevor wouldn’t dream of getting close enough to notice things like testicles.
“It works out well for both of them for a while. Holly Angel gets to visit Trevor at work and find out all the smugglers need to know about shift changes and security checkpoints. Victor Trevor has a girlfriend who doesn’t expect anything physical. Until Windibank realizes that he’s gotten everything out of Trevor that he could need and drops the ruse. But he didn’t count on Trevor contacting me about the sudden disappearance of his girlfriend. When I didn’t respond, Windibank thought he was in the clear. But then he sees that Trevor is intending to phone me. The mobile number was written after the reminder of my name and website, smudged the original pencil when he wrote the second reminder in ink, surely even you figured that out. The possibility of discovery is much higher now.
“When Trevor came home after his last shift, he had something written on his hand. Must not have had any paper on hand. Whatever was written on his palm was incriminating, either for Windibank or for the people he’s working for. Panicked, Windibank grabs the closest weapon and starts slashing. But Trevor doesn’t die right away. So Windibank took advantage of weakness from the loss of blood and strangled him, continuing to stab even after Trevor stopped breathing, just in case. Then he scrubbed the dead man’s palm to remove whatever it was he had written there.
“Finally coming to his senses, Windibank realizes that he’d better come up with a cover story. He puts on a pair of his dead flatmate’s size eleven shoes and makes sure to track blood all over the flat; the stride length is that of a 185 centimetre man, not what you’d expect from shoes that large. No signs of weight in the toes of the footprints, so someone with much smaller feet wearing the shoes. The tread pattern is consistent with the wear on Windibank’s shoes. He stages signs of a struggle, but all the wreckage is superficial and careful, all of it happening right around shoulder height for Windibank. Didn’t even knock over that row of souvenir bottles on the bookshelf over there.
“He takes the only photograph of himself dressed as Holly Angel that Trevor had; you can see the photos in the corner of Trevor’s collection were rearranged by someone who didn’t care if the edges lined up perfectly – clearly not by the man who ironed his denims. The ransom note alone should have given it all away – no location specified for the drop of an absurd amount of money. The blood was a nice touch, though. Appropriately grotesque.
“Windibank isn’t clever enough to think up a good place to hide out now. If he didn’t go directly to the people he was working for, you may find him near the casinos. Far more likely, though, that he went straight to the smugglers paying his bills. They don’t strike me as the sort to be understanding about a mess like this. You’ll probably find his body in a day or so. If you’re lucky, it’ll still be identifiable.”
That was more than enough for them to work with. Sherlock had no more patience for fools who couldn’t do their own jobs. Not when John was being brilliant and demonstrating the use of all his medical training. The sound of John going through his own method of deduction had made Sherlock absolutely desperate to have him naked and close and… well, he didn’t know exactly what else. It would be good, though. He was sure of that.
Lestrade was still trying to write down everything important as Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and all but dragged him from the flat. If anyone called them back this time, he didn’t care enough to hear it. The lift arrived immediately and was blessedly empty. Sherlock took advantage of the closing doors to crush his mouth against John’s, pushing him up against a convenient wall to press their bodies together. Their teeth clicked together under the desperation of Sherlock’s assault, but John moaned, low and deep in his chest, so it must be ok. With his hands fisted in Sherlock’s lapels and his hips tilted forward to demonstrate the growing evidence of his arousal, John opened fully to Sherlock’s insistent demands. For a moment, Sherlock was lost, completely lost, in the feeling of John’s kiss. Nothing else mattered, really.
A polite “ahem” dragged him back to the world outside of John’s lips. An elderly gentleman was standing in front of the opening lift doors, brows quirked in amusement. “So sorry to intrude, gents, but I’m not quite up for the stairs at this time of night. Would you mind terribly pressing the call for the ground floor, please?” He stepped in and carefully kept his back to them. When Sherlock got himself under control, he saw that John’s face and neck were completely red. Embarrassment. Interesting. Coupled with his reaction to Sergeant Donovan’s comments earlier, John’s current state indicated that he was very uncomfortable with the concept of public displays of their newly-formed sexual relationship.
How would John feel about other displays in public? Would he want to keep everything private between the two of them? The thought of having John as his own, secret, hidden away where the world couldn’t find him, did interesting things to Sherlock’s heart rate while they left the building and found a cab. Safely ensconced in the back, mindful of the prying eyes of the driver, Sherlock leaned in close to John’s ear and whispered, “I would like nothing more than to tear all your clothes off and spend hours cataloguing the taste of every inch of your skin. To echo your earlier statement, watching you figure out the cause of death may be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” He laid John’s hand over the heat swelling between his legs to prove the truth of his words. John shivered and swallowed hard but stared directly ahead, unblinking. The pulse in his wrist fluttered furiously against Sherlock’s fingertips, but he didn’t remove his hand. They stayed like that the whole ride home, Sherlock’s breath rushing hot against John’s neck, John’s palm sliding slowly, torturously slowly against Sherlock’s erection, both afraid of what might happen if they made eye contact.
Sherlock didn’t wait for the cab to stop completely in front of 221B before he was across the sidewalk and fiddling with the front door. His hands were practically shaking with anticipation, making it very difficult to fit the key in the lock. By the time the frustrating hardware finally yielded, John had paid the driver and come up very close, his presence driving all other thoughts out of Sherlock’s mind. Hastily, both men ducked through the door and away from prying eyes.
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Anomalies