The Devil's Chord

Chapter Twenty Two

Sherlock eyed the antique claw-footed porcelain bathtub in the downstairs guest room. The two shower stalls upstairs obviously wouldn't work, and the whirlpool tub in his parents' suite would make conforming the ice to Miss Walker's body problematic. This was their only option. At least the scooped lip on one end would help support her neck, and the narrow shape of the tub would allow for the ice to be packed in more tightly.

John poked his head into the bathroom. "I bought all the ice I could find. The freezer in the garage and the kitchen are both full, and two ice chests. Do you think it'll be enough?"

"We'll make it work," Sherlock said. The next supermarket was an hour away, and it was doubtful the small town store would replenish their ice supply that quickly. Fortunately, the drug would depress Miss Walker's system and lower her body temperature, making the ice last longer. It was difficult to measure exactly how much would be needed for three hours of chilling a live human body. Corpses were far easier to deal with, but he had no intention of allowing her to become one.

"Where's Vivian?" John asked.

"In the library, waiting for the Ambien to take effect." He took out his mobile and opened an article on the dangers of nerve damage during therapeutic hypothermia.

"How did she react?"

Sherlock didn't bother to look up, hoping the incessant questions would cease. "She's fine."

John's voice went all high-pitched. "She's fine? You haven't told her, have you?"

He glared down at the screen. "I don't see the point. My telling her won't change anything, certainly not for the better."

John snatched the mobile out of his hand. "This is about taking personal responsibility. Quit hiding in the bathroom like a child and go talk to her. She deserves to know."

Sherlock's hands clenched. It was utterly irrational, but he wanted nothing more than to drive his fist into John's earnest face. As satisfying as the violent action would be, it wouldn't help matters any. He might be irritated with his friend, but it paled in comparison to the depth of frustration he currently felt towards himself.

He didn't make mistakes. Ever.

"You'll regret it if you don't tell her the truth and she doesn't make it through this. It's as much for her as it is for you."

Sherlock had never heard such ridiculous psychobabble in his life. The nicotine patches had already done their damage. Informing Miss Walker would be a pointless exercise. However, John's wide stance and the determined set of his jaw told him there was zero chance of getting out of it. If he didn't do it, John would. At least this way, he'd have some control over the situation.

"Fine," he said. "I'll speak to her now."

"Good." John set his stolen mobile on two boxes of cling film and held it out for him. "While you're at it, wrap her up in this. The plastic will prevent tissue damage. I told her earlier to dress down to something thin, like a camisole or chemise."

An unsettling sensation formed in his stomach. It hadn't even been a week since he'd used a similar roll of plastic on Rebecca Frost's corpse. And now he was to do the same with Miss Walker, except she was very much alive. "Can't it wait until she's unconscious?"

John shook his head. "It'll be easier to do while she's still awake." He gave him a half smile. "You might want to wrap her arms up before you tell her. She won't be able to punch you then."

Sherlock scowled, then took the proffered boxes and left the bathroom.

He found her seated in his leather chair, staring out the window at the slate grey sky. The downpour had shifted to a soft drizzle. Her slipper-shod feet stuck out beneath a long, plush dressing gown. The thick quilt from her bed wrapped around her like a cocoon. She'd plaited her hair and coiled it on top her head though a few red wisps strayed near her cheek.