The Mysterious Case of Oswin Opal

Chapter One

{JW:}

Doctor John Hamish Watson is a man who enjoys sticking to his schedule.

Of course, with Sherlock as flatmate, John is never entirely guaranteed a planned day, but he tries his best.

At five-o'clock, John takes his coat from the hook by the entryway and waves goodbye to Sarah (relationship between them dropped to practically platonic after the Chinese circus fiasco). A cab pulls up in front of St. George's Westminster Branch, and five-twenty finds John turning the handle of 221B Baker Street's door. With a call of hello to Mrs. Hudson, John hangs his coat and sets the kettle on for tea by five-twenty-two. After steeping a bag of Twinings with a dash of cream and two lumps of sugar, John settles into his worn red chair with the day's paper in one hand. John browses the classifieds for possible cases, then briefly over to sports- the chaps at St. Bartholomew's poke fun at his small knowledge of the rugby world.

And then, at five-thirty, John sets his teacup and paper aside and closes his eyes for an evening nap.

On occasion, John can fit in an hour's worth of sleep before Sherlock come bustling in with something or someone to disrupt the quiet of the flat. John's lost count of how many times he's walked in after a long day at work to find a mangled corpse on the kitchen table, his dark-haired companion wrist-deep into one of the body's orifices, muttering like a mad man.

Today, John is confident that he can sleep his current headache off without interruption, and so crosses his arms over his chest with the intention of a peaceful slumber.

But at five-thirty-two, John's dozing is interrupted by the sounds of a slammed door and heavy footfalls that tramp up the stairs and into the flat, accompanied by another door slam.

"John. I need your help."

Without opening his eyes, John replies, "Later, Sherlock."

"I'm afraid that's not an option," the detective says, and John opens his eyes when he hears Sherlock move to stand in front of the chair.

In Sherlock's arms is a little girl who looks to be no more than seven, wearing a bright red jacket.

{SH: One Hour Previous}

"I am only here because the entirety of Scotland Yard is being run by a pack of buffoons," Sherlock says, peeling off his glove and pocketing it. "Now, quickly- have you come into contact with the suspect within the past two days?"

The woman standing in the lavish parlor shrugs her shoulders delicately and tosses a perfectly coiled piece of blonde hair with a swing of her head. "Couldn't say, Mister Holmes. Johnathan Worthington had such a common face."

She said had, Sherlock thinks, his eyes taking in minute details about the Minister of State's wife.

Three short black hairs stuck to the side of her pantsuit- a dog. Yorkshire Terrier. Shirt tailored to be slightly baggy around midsection- never bounced back from stretchmarks even with the vitamin supplements (traces of powder under nails- obvious). Only one child. Daughter? Daughter. Six and a quarter years of age. Taps her right ring finger twice without fail every six seconds- could be a nervous tic, more likely concealing something.

"Mrs. Opal, I am not in the business of beating around the bush." The forceful tone of voice stops the woman's fingertapping and opens her mouth to what Sherlock reads as truths.

"I talked to him yesterday. He dropped by in a panic, asking to speak to Gerald- my husband deals with witness protection, you know," Mrs. Opal says, crossing her Louboutin heels that cost her (according to the detective's calculation) around 475 pounds. "But Gerald's away meeting with the Prime Minister, and when I told Mr. Worthington, he went ballistic."

Cordelia Opal gestures with a manicured hand to the hallway, where a clear tarp is taped over a fist-sized hole in the wall. "Took my venetian vase out with him. It was a gift from the Turkish ambassador."

"And did Peter Worthington give any indication that he was going to hang himself from his suite's ceiling the following evening?"

Mrs. Opal flinches. "No."

Retinas remain constant size. Finger is stilled. Truth.

"The Scotland Yard sends its regards- but if you want someone who can actually solve your problems..." Sherlock rises and hands Mrs. Opal his business card.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," the woman says, tucking the card suggestively in between her décolletage.

"Might I use your washroom?" Sherlock asks, well aware that Cordelia's flirting will earn him a trip to her private quarters- perfect for snooping.

Cordelia leads the detective up an ornate marble staircase and pushes open a pair of double French doors. "All yours, Mr. Holmes."

After locking himself inside securely, Sherlock scans through the cupboards and runs nimble fingers along surfaces that usually lead to hidden pop-outs. A few minutes of searching lands him a big clue- an orange prescription bottle of psilocybin pills, the label claiming "FOR C. OPAL: DEPRESSION FIX".

"More like an upper fix," Sherlock mutters, wrapping the bottle with his glove then into his pocket to prevent rattling.

...

As soon as Sherlock steps foot onto the groomed lawn he pulls out his mobile with the intention of alerting Lestrade, but stops when he sees a young girl sitting on the porch steps. She stares at him with unabashed interest, dark brown eyes a perfect match with her curly hair.

"Are you the detective?" She asks, pushing herself from the steps and balancing on one Mary Jane, arms pinwheeling.

"Who wants to know?" Opal's daughter. Scratch the six-and-quarter, she's nearly six-and-half. Sharp indents near the top of her right middle finger- she draws. An hour a day, at least.

"I'm Oswin. Cordelia is my mother. My daddy's the Minister of State- but you know that already, don't you?"

"Obviously. Why else do you think I'm here?"

The olive-skinned girl steps closer and tugs on Sherlock's black overcoat, standing on tiptoes when he doesn't bend to her listen right away. "You think Mother killed Peter, don't you?" Oswin whispers conspiratorially.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss case matters with underage minors," the detective replies, detaching the child's hand from his coat.

But as the red sleeve of her jacket slid up her arm, Sherlock glimpsed the faintest hint of a week-old bruise. Bruises were common in young people like Oswin, but not bruises shaped like fingers that gripped tight enough to pop blood vessels.

"You may come with me, if you like, be my... witness of sorts."

"I thought you weren't allowed to discuss the case matters with a minor like me," the girl deadpanned.

"I changed my mind." Sherlock started down the steps towards the waiting taxi, and the child followed, slipping her small hand into his.

This time, Sherlock let it be.