The Devil's Chord

Chapter Eight

John stood on the upper edge of the dance floor gaping like a fool.

Sherlock Holmes had just bloody tangoed Miss Walker out the door. His mobile vibrated in his pocket, but he was too gobsmacked to pay it any mind. 

A curvaceous woman in a low-cut purple dress sashayed over to him. “You look like you could use one of these, love.” She offered him a shiny, red fruit.

He could use a nibble for the road, but he doubted it was an average apple. It was likely injected with alcohol, and he needed all his wits about him, addled as they were. “You’re very kind, but I have to leave. Enjoy your evening.”

He headed out Eden’s back door and into chaos. 

A car raced down the alleyway straight for Miss Walker. Sherlock darted forward, faster than John had ever seen him sprint, and tackled her out of the way. The sedan’s tires squealed as it took the corner at a dangerous speed. It disappeared into the night.

John’s heart pounded, and he ran towards the bodies crumpled beside the dumpster. “Sherlock! Are you all right?”

His friend rolled off Miss Walker Walker and crouched beside her still form. “I’m not the one you need to be asking.” He removed a torch from his inside coat pocket and shone the light on her pale face.

John placed two fingers against the side of her neck, automatically locating her carotid artery. He exhaled when he detected a pulse. Glancing at his watch, he determined the rate to be a slow fifty beats per minute. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, but steady breaths.

John lightly slapped her dirty cheek. “Miss Walker. Can you hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked drowsily up at him. “I need to sleep."

Her heavy lids fell shut. Not only had her words been slurred, but her pupils had appeared overly constricted in the torchlight.

John's mouth fell open. “She’s been drugged."

“While I agree she’s under the influence, we don’t have all the evidence.” Sherlock searched her pockets. “The correct question is, what drug and why.”

Sherlock produced her mobile, the keys to the Bentley, and a coin purse. Opening the small zippered bag, he dumped the contents onto Miss Walker’s stomach. There wasn’t much, just her identification, a few bank cards, and an empty money clip.

“You’re not suggesting she drove all the way here to do drugs, are you?”

“Not everyone’s a boy-scout like you.”

He shook his head. While his life experience had shown him the depravity of man, John still tried to see the best in people. A person was innocent until proven guilty. Sherlock had the exact opposite attitude. Everyone was guilty of something. His trust had to be earned. It was never freely given.

John tilted Miss Walker’s head to the side and ran a hand across the back of her skull. He was unsurprised to find his fingers stained with blood. Sherlock had slammed into the woman at full speed, and the road was hardly a forgiving surface. “Did you really have to use her to break your fall?”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. “I was too busy saving her life. Can we move her?”

“Yes. I believe the drug is the reason for her lethargic state rather than the bump on her head, but we’d best be careful. There are no signs of concussion or broken bones, though I suggest we take her to the nearest hospital to be safe.”

Sherlock slid his arms beneath Miss Walker and lifted her. John was reminded of the time his friend had straightened out their fireplace poker after a man had twisted it in a fit of rage. While a number of criminals could attest to the strength hidden within the detective’s slender frame, it struck John as odd to see Sherlock carrying an injured woman in his arms. Sherlock didn’t exactly fit the hero archetype.