The Devil's Chord

Chapter Thirty

Two days later they were back at Scotland Yard. 

Lestrade had been kind enough to give Sherlock and Vivian time to recover before requesting their official statements. 

There still hadn't been any word from Mycroft, though Sherlock had authorized a specialized clean-up crew to take the bloodstains out of the carpets at Brackenwood. At least the sofa had made it through the week unscathed. 

Doctor Reed's surgery had been successful, and he was now on the road to recovery. Unfortunately, he couldn't recall anything useful from the altercation at the house, save that the attacker had worn a mask covering his entire head and never spoke a single word. 

Neil Henley's parents had come in for questioning and had left shocked and distraught over their son's confession of murder. While John didn't particularly mind that Neil was behind bars, the man was lying after all, it irked him that the real culprit was still free. 

Mr. Chen had been especially upset to find out that Neil's laptop hadn't been recovered yet. 

John hoped Sherlock would be able to solve the case before the media caught wind of it. An accidental death, two attempted murders, and an abduction. It was a journalist's dream come true and Henry Giles' worst nightmare. The old butler was counting on them to keep things quiet. 

Vivian left Lestrade's office and gingerly sat beside him in the waiting area. 

"Sore?" John asked. 

"Very." She grimaced as she eased back against the chair. A thick cast covered her right arm. "I think my bruises have bruises."

He winced. "Sherlock's been taking Paracetamol every four hours. He even had a bath yesterday, but don't tell anyone. You'll ruin his formidable reputation." 

That startled a laugh out of her. She eyed Sherlock through the glass wall of the inspector's office where he and Lestrade still sat talking. Her eyes crinkled in amusement. "A real bath with scented bubbles?"

John shook his head. "Sherlock came out of the bathroom with his dressing robe on and his hair damp. When I walked inside, the shower curtain was dry, but the inside of the tub was wet. Beside it sat a box of Epsom salts." 

She poked his arm. "Look at you, Doctor Watson. You're a regular detective." 

John affected an arrogant demeanor. "I'll have you know, I'm actually the one who does all the deducing. Sherlock just follows me around." 

"I see," she said, straight-faced. "So, he's just there to stalk about looking all brooding and mysterious then." 

John grinned. "Pretty much." 

She laughed and shook her head. 

He bumped his foot against the black duffel bag beside her chair. "You're taking a trip somewhere." 

"My temporary leave of absence from work to handle the affairs at Aria is over. I'm off to work in France for a while." 

"Sounds lovely. Did Giles pack for you again?" 

A flush spread across her cheeks. 

His eyes widened. "You let him?" The old butler must have been delighted. 

She turned in her seat to face him, shoulders hunched. "You better not tell anyone." 

Of course, by anyone, she meant a certain detective. He smiled. "Your secret is safe with me." 

"What secret?" Sherlock asked, striding over. His inquisitive gaze darted back and forth between them. 

Lestrade stood beside him, eyes alight with interest.