Painting Murders - (A Sherlock fanfic)

Hackers Doubts

Hope you enjoy this new update!

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I tapped the page in front of me before turning it over, sighing at the black text that was beginning to make my eyes ache. John, who was sat across from me, drank the last of his coffee before signalling the waitress over to the table. Sherlock sat motionless in the seat by the window watching the taxi's and people go by.

I doubted that he was watching the people and taxi's, life didn't interest him in that way. He was probably thinking. If I started talking to him I knew I'd be ignored.

"Another coffee, Mister?" The waitress asked as she came and stood by the table, gesturing to John's empty cup with her pen. We were on our fifth round of drinks and I was now convinced that she didn't really have to write anything down because our order never changed.

"Yes please," He said then looked at me. I stared down at my empty glass of coke, the ice cubes melted in the bottom.

"Can I have another coke please." I said, handing her my cold glass for her to take away and refill.

"Sure," The waitress smiled and scribbled it down on her pad, then looked across at Sherlock and politely asked,"Anything for you Mister?"

Sherlock turned and gave her a questioning look.

"You ask me that every time you come over here and I've said 'no'. Why do you insist on asking me again when you obviously know the answer will be the same?" He said moodily.

The waitress stared, looking both scared and amused.

"He means 'No, thank you'." John quickly apologised to her and she walked off, singing under her breath to the radio behind the counter.

"Really, some people." Sherlock grumbled.

I smirked down at the page in front of me.

"Some people indeed." I remarked sarcastically.

We'd left Baker Street about three hours ago and since then had been running around London looking for disused places ideal for a murder.

To begin with I'd thought that sounded a bit too general, but Sherlock had a criteria that the location had to fit:

Firstly: The flooring had to be smooth because the victims clothes were wrinkled like they had been dragged, but there hadn't been any fragments of dirt on their clothes that would have been picked up by the fibres if they were dragged over grit. So Sherlock's conclusion was that the floor had been smooth, maybe tiles, or, more likely; laminate flooring.

Secondly: There had to be paint. It would look oddly out of place if there was random paint splattered somewhere, so Holmes' conclusion was that the murder had to have taken place where there was already paint so the splatters were easily covered up.

Lastly: There had to be some kind of car park or back entrance. When I'd questioned this, Sherlock had said, quite simply, "If I was going to transport a body, I wouldn't pack it into the back of a car in the middle of a crowded street. Bit too obvious." Too which I'd agreed.

The problem we'd come to was it was very (and I meant very) difficult to find a building that fitted all the criteria, and the ones that did, Sherlock had looked around and commented on little details and pointed out things like, "It's too cold in here," or, "The lights are too bright," or pretty much, and very simply, "Do you see any paint splattered about with a body shape in the centre?"

So eventually we'd ended up in a corner café; somewhere near Belgrave Square, with me looking though a book of listed buildings in London. It was great fun.

Finally, after the waitress had given us our drinks, I shut the book and groaned, "I give up!" - sliding it away from me.

John, seeming relieved that I had said something, also shut the book he was flicking through and looked at Sherlock.

"We could be at this for weeks."

"And what if it's a private building?" I said, "Then there'll be no record of it anyway."

At this John gave me a look.

"Well, you know," I said, rolling my glass between my palms and wiping the condensation on my jeans, "We're only looking at buildings that are open to the public or owned publicly. It would be easier to hide a murder if you committed it in your own privately owned building where no one else would be looking."

John considered this then said meekly, "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot. I thought we'd been through this." Sherlock continued to mumble moodily.

I rolled my eyes, ripped a page out of the book in front of me and scrunched it up in my hand. I dipped it in my coke before throwing it at Sherlock.

It hit his coat and splatted there before falling damply to the table.

"Oi!" He shouted.

"I'll pay the dry cleaning bill," I said quickly then added before he could continue, "What do you know that you're not telling us? You're being all moody because obviously we're missing something and not matching up to your 'intellect'- so tell."

He scowled and flicked the damp paper towards me so he could stretch his arms over the table top and leaning in close.

"I think someone's withholding information from us." He said in a voice of annoyance.

"Like who? Lestrade?" John asked him but Sherlock shook his head, his dark curls brushing his forehead.

"Mycroft." He said finally.

My stomach dropped, "Mycroft?"

"He has enough control to monitor what is released to the press and how much Lestrade talks about." Sherlock said, "I've tried to find these people. They haven't been named; no family has come forward, there's no records of them. It's like they don't even exist." He gestured to the ceiling.

I pressed the cold glass to my face tiredly . . . I could see where this conversation was going. It was like Déjà vu.

"So you think Mycroft is wiping out their existence straight after the murders? Why?" I asked.

Sherlock shrugged, "Not sure yet, I have several ideas."

John looked lost which made me wonder how often he just followed Sherlock around pretending to know what was happening.

"So," I said, realising Sherlock was just waiting for me to explain for myself the reason why I was actually there, "You want me to hack into Mycroft's files and get you the information."

Sherlock nodded, "If it's there, yes. I don't like it when my dear brother hides things from me, it irritates me." He said, drumming his fingers rhythmically on the table top.

A thought crossed my mind, "What happens if I'm caught?" I asked then added, "Again."

Sherlock shrugged, "You'd better brush up well for court."

"Sherlock!" John snapped looking quickly at me. I was used to Sherlock's lack of empathy and kept my face blank, trying to remain calm.

"It's okay John." I mumbled, even though the idea of court had shaken me up a little.

"Mycroft's files will be better protected this time though," I added, speaking directly to Sherlock.

"You've done this before?" John almost screeched before rubbing his forehead, "Oh good God."

"Do shut up John!" Sherlock snapped back before saying to me, "Will that be a problem?"

I could only shrug, "Can I sleep on it?"

Sherlock nodded as I got up from the table, pulling my backpack onto my shoulder. The files inside moved about slightly, adding a lot of uneven weight.

"I'll call you if there is any information." Sherlock added as I threw five pounds onto the table for john to pay for my drinks with.

"Yeah, and I'll need a laptop too." I added before leaving, my knees shaking slightly and vision fuzzy.