The Devil's Chord

Chapter Ten

John’s words still echoed in the back of Sherlock’s mind the next morning. Had Miss Walker been shot?

He hoped so. It was far less boring than a car accident.

He and John had taken turns watching her through the night. She had tossed about in a fitful sleep, muttering incoherently, restless hands twitching. Though he’d had hours to study her, he'd only come away with more questions.

Miss Walker was a puzzle, one he intended to solve.

He exited his room, hair still damp from the shower, and entered the middle guest room. It was just after dawn, and pale, yellow sunshine filtered through the window, the light falling across her still form stretched out across the bed. She was twisted up in a green blanket, and one black-sock-covered foot hung off the side of the mattress. John sat next to a roll-top desk holding a steaming cup of tea and staring out at the pink and gold clouds.

“How is she?” Sherlock asked, taking a seat in the bedside chair.

John yawned. “She settled down about ten minutes ago. Perhaps she’ll sleep better now.”

“Doubtful.”

“Why do you say that?”

His mouth quirked. “Because our guest is awake.”

John shot him an incredulous look. “But she hasn’t even stirred.”

“Precisely. Don’t tell me you didn’t learn anything from watching her thrash about half the night.”

“I wasn’t in a learning frame of mind, Sherlock. I was bloody trying not to fall asleep.”

He shook his head at the feeble excuse. “Come now, Miss Walker. I know you’re faking, even if he doesn’t.”

The steady, rhythmic sound of her breathing hitched. Green eyes snapped open, peering at him through a tangle of dirty red hair. “What am I doing here?”

“Besides not sleeping and generally making a nuisance of yourself? Not much. Tell me what you recall from last night."

She eased into a sitting position, leaning back against the antique brass bed frame. A frown settled on her face. “Everything is a bit fuzzy.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at John. His friend nodded. So, it wasn’t out of the question for her memory to have been affected following consumption of the morphine. However, the events leading up to her taking the drug shouldn’t have been impacted. “Surely you recall driving to Eden.”

“I do." She tucked the blanket more comfortably around herself.

His mouth curved. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Excellent. He would have been disappointed otherwise. “What were you doing at the night club?”

“None of your business.” She brushed her hair behind one ear and winced as her fingers came into contact with the bandage.

John cleared his throat. “How’s your head?”

Her brows drew together. “Sore. What happened?”

“I saved your life,” Sherlock said. “Someone attempted to run you over in the alley behind the club. I shoved you out of the way. You’re welcome.”

Her gaze darted to John, who nodded in confirmation. Interesting. She trusted the doctor, but not him. Smart.

Her hand worried up and down her right wrist. “Where’s my bracelet?”

John glanced sideways at him, his lips pursed.

Sherlock frowned. The look on John's face was reminiscent of the time he'd come home and found his sock index disturbed. John had felt the need to check his things for drug paraphernalia. Sherlock hadn't been using, but if he had, he wouldn't have hidden it there. But why was John giving him that look now? Self-righteousness, but with a dash of guilt.