John had never been to the posh clothing shops on Savile Row before. Even if he could afford a bespoke suit or a pair of monogrammed socks, he'd never purchase such a thing. He was perfectly content with his own clothing, thanks very much. John knew Sherlock had a personal tailor, but he'd never met him. All he knew was that Sherlock had done the man a favor in the past. While they were well compensated for the independent cases they solved, it certainly wasn't enough for Sherlock to afford an entire custom wardrobe from around here.
"Why can't we ask your tailor about the handkerchief?" John asked as they left the cab.
"Dimitri doesn't rise until the late afternoon. If I were to wake him now, he'd shorten the legs on my next suit in revenge."
"Sounds like an interesting chap."
"Yes, he can be rather temperamental, but his skill with a needle and thread is unparalleled."
Sherlock led the way to a small clothing shop. Deep blue subway tiles decorated the outside, giving it a sleek look. Sherlock tried the handle on the door, then heaved a sigh. "It's locked. This one is by appointment only."
Through a side window, John could see two men hovering around a taller man who had his arms stretched out for measurement. "There's people inside though. Can't we just knock and say we're on police business?"
"They still won't let us in. Clients pay a tremendous amount for one-on-one service, and even if I showed them Lestrade's badge, they wouldn't buy it. Tailors are observant, unlike the rest of the populace."
They continued down the street to the next shop. Thankfully, this one was accepting customers. The open floor plan and exposed black pipes overhead gave the interior a modern warehouse feel. Mannequins boasting various suit styles posed beneath bright halos of light. John followed Sherlock over to a lopsided, angular counter. It looked like the product of a drunken fling between a geometry problem and a Picasso painting. Was it art or an accident the shop couldn't afford to fix? Lights inside it illuminated a glowing display of watches, wallets, and cufflinks. A man in a pink shirt and paisley tie stood behind the strange structure, carefully weaving a silver thread through a white button. On the counter sat three other button sets, each with a different color thread. Good grief. John had never given a single thought toward the color of his button thread. He'd thought they were all the same, to be honest.
The man looked up, and hazel eyes raked over John, wincing when they reached his shoes. What was wrong with his leather Loake boots? They were a classic.
Sherlock took a step forward. The snooty git's assessing gaze shifted to Sherlock, then went wide. "I thought Dimitri retired." Alarm filled his tone.
A knowing smirk. "He has. He merely takes on a few projects now and then," Sherlock said.
Some of the tension left the man's shoulders. "I see. My name is Elliot Waverly. How may I help you gentlemen?" He glanced at John as if he assumed they were there for him. A bit rude of him, really.
"We're here to see if you can identify the tailor who monogrammed a handkerchief," John said as Sherlock handed it over.
Elliot spread it out flat on the counter, then traced the stylized initials with one finger. "Ah, yes. Andrew Ramroop is the only one who does this particular script. He's got a fine hand. You can find him at Maurice Sedwell, four doors down. Green canopy, you can't miss it." He offered it back.
They exited the shop and continued down the street.
"How did he know about your tailor?" John asked. Elliot had acted like Sherlock was wearing a neon advert for the man.
"The red buttonhole thread on my Belstaff coat. Adding color to a buttonhole is Dimitri's signature so to speak."
"I don't understand. He didn't make your coat."
"No, he enhanced it. He does more than create custom clothing. In Dimitri's skilled hands, a shirt or coat that was once a manufactured clone becomes one of a kind."
John shook his head. As long as his clothes fit, were practical, and looked nice on him, he was happy. He couldn't care less whether his shirt or trousers were special.
Maurice Sedwell was much smaller than the last shop. Two tall windows framed the door, showcasing four distinct suit styles. They walked inside, and the hubbub of the city faded away. The walls were lined in a shining cherry wood, and John's feet sank into jade green carpet. If it weren't for the displays of ties, jackets, and suit shirts, John would have thought he'd entered a vintage smoke shop. A slender Indian man stood at a long table, scissors snipping neatly away at a long piece of fabric. A cloth measuring tape hung over his shoulders like a scarf. Sherlock and John approached the counter. The man finished a section, and his dark eyes glanced briefly up at them before he continued his work, scissors following along another white line of chalk. "I hope Dimitri is alive and well."
"For the moment," Sherlock replied. "When he's not busy pickling his liver, he still fashions the occasional suit. He says he won't stop until he's dead."
The scissors slowed, and the cutting ceased. "He'll no doubt leave this mortal coil drunk and with a needle and thread clasped in his cold, Russian hands." A pause. "Considering what happened to his associates, it's not such a bad way to go."
"Indeed," Sherlock said.
Right. Definitely a story there. A shame there wasn't time for it.
Sherlock held out the handkerchief. "Did you make this?"
"I did. Would you like one for yourself?"
"No. The owner of this one won't be needing his any longer. He's dead."
A frown. "I'm sorry to hear that. How can I be of service? Perhaps a suit for the funeral?"
"We need the man's name. His body was found without any identification," John said.
Andrew's gaze sharpened. "While one of you has military bearing, neither of you are Scotland Yard. Shouldn't I be speaking to the authorities?"
"You are. I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, and this is Doctor John Watson. We solve crimes together."
Knowing the arrogant assertion wasn't enough, John handed the man Lestrade's business card. "You're welcome to contact Scotland Yard for confirmation. We're here on their behalf."
"Are you any relation to Mycroft Holmes?" Andrew asked Sherlock, head tilting to the side.
Sherlock's expression immediately soured.
"Ah." A quirk of the lips. "You're the brother."
"I used to hold out hope I was adopted, but the DNA test results were irrefutable."
John snickered. Sherlock had been ten years old when he'd ordered the equipment to conduct his own DNA testing. He told John he'd repeated the test thirty times before finally accepting its validity.
This seemed to convince Andrew more than anything else, and he nodded. "I'll do what I can to help you, but I have more than one customer with these initials who requested the same script."
Sherlock held up his mobile. "I have a photo of the man in question."
"That will certainly make things easier." Andrew took the phone from Sherlock and peered at it, face grave. "Yes, this is Michael Alexander Wakefield. I finished his suit eight weeks ago."
"Do you have an address or phone number for him?" John asked.
"I'll see what I can find." He disappeared through a door in the back. A few minutes later, Andrew returned with a slip of paper in his hand. "I've written down his office information and home address for you."
"Thank you." John looked it over before handing it to Sherlock. Mr. Wakefield had worked at The Wellington Clinic, a private dental practice in Chelsea.
Sherlock studied the fabric Andrew had been cutting and ran a finger along one dotted chalk line. "You'll want to widen the waist half an inch. Mycroft has been away on business in Italy the past ten days."
A dimple formed beside Andrew's mouth. "I appreciate the tip, Mr. Holmes. Please give my regards to Dimitri."
"I will," Sherlock said, and they left the shop.
Outside, John rang Lestrade on speakerphone and told him what they'd discovered.
"Good work. I think I'll handle this next bit on my own though."
"Don't be ridiculous. You couldn't handle the first part without my help," Sherlock said.
"I'm not talking about the bloody case. Mr. Wakefield was married. I'm not about to let you deliver the bad news to his poor wife. She's already going to be traumatized enough as it is."
Sherlock blinked, and John realized he'd completely forgotten about the dead man's family.
"Yes, well, I prefer you handle that part anyhow," Sherlock finally said. "Once you've informed them and gathered any pertinent information about Michael, let me know. I'm going to head to the morgue and run a few tests on the drug in the syringe."
"Fine. Michael's body was transported there earlier if you need to do any further testing."
John ended the call and shoved his mobile into his pocket. "Right. What about me? Is there anything I can do?"
"Oh yes." Sherlock smiled. "When's the last time you saw the dentist?"
***
With John busy investigating The Wellington Clinic under the premise of a toothache, Sherlock made his way to St. Bart's. Thankfully, it was the lunch hour, so he wouldn't have to deal with Molly's hovering presence. He was still annoyed with her for not sending him the autopsy results. When he entered the morgue, however, it wasn't empty. Vivian was seated at the counter, chopsticks in hand above a take-out container.
Sherlock should have expected her as he'd insisted she visit the morgue frequently over the next few weeks to help solidify her new purgatory room. He'd given her his key and told her the best times to avoid people. After last night's hearing disturbance from the dog whistle test, it was even more important she ensured the stability of her Mind Palace.
A welcoming smile spread across her face. "Joining me for lunch?"
"No - better." Sherlock held up the evidence bag containing the syringe. "I'm investigating two murders. Both victims had their kidneys and liver removed."
Vivian's nose wrinkled, and she dropped a sushi roll back into the carton. "Was it some kind of satanic ritual or something?"
"No, nothing so melodramatic. Simple greed. The organs were likely taken to be sold on the Black Market. I need to determine who's behind it and how the victims are being chosen." And why they were being stitched up.
"Sounds...fun." She closed the container and set her chopsticks aside. "Are you, erm, planning on bringing the bodies out right now?"
"Not yet. Oh -- do you want to see them?" His enthusiasm for the case grew all the more in light of her interest. Normally John acted as his sounding board, but Vivian would do nicely. He wouldn't have to repeat himself with her. "I'll show you."
"Oh no, you really don't have to do that," she said, rising to her feet.
"It's no trouble. I'll just rearrange the testing order I had planned." Pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves, Sherlock approached the fridge where the old woman was stored and smiled. "We'll start with the incision site first and compare the stitches between the two."
Vivian lurched forward and caught his arm, stopping him from opening the metal door. "Sherlock, wait. I don't think I have time for that right now. My lunch break will be over soon, and I still need to go to my Mind Palace."
A strange heaviness rolled through him, leaving his stomach hollow. It took him a second before he identified the unexpected sensation. Disappointment. Sherlock's grip tightened on the fridge handle. "Right. Of course. That's why you're here, after all." A surge of irritation followed. What had he been thinking? That she'd come all the way to the morgue to watch him work? "I'll just continue with my original plan then," he said, briskly. Pulling away from her touch, he strode back to the counter and began to lay out the equipment he needed.
Vivian remained where he'd left her. The back of his neck prickled. She was standing there watching him - he could feel it. The heat of her gaze was like a Class 4 laser burning into the back of his skull. He stared into the cabinet he'd just opened. It was full of office supplies. What was he looking in there for? He shut it and swung around. "Don't you have a Mind Palace to tend to?"
"I-I don't want to be in your way." Her uneasy gaze darted from his, and he followed it to the now heavily cluttered counter.
A vial of blood from the old woman sat on top of Vivian's lunch. Beside it perched a microscope, a handful of glass slides, and a jar of methanol. Two trays full of gleaming autopsy tools and a box of nitrile gloves took up the remaining space. There wasn't any room for her now. "You can pull up a stool to the autopsy table on the far end. I won't be using it," he said.
She bit her lip. "What about the viewing room?"
Why would she want to go in there when he'd just offered her a perfectly decent spot? The hollow sensation in Sherlock's stomach turned sharp and twisting. Disconcerted, he shifted his gaze to the viewing room. Vivian would still be able to see into the morgue through the wide window if she needed a frame of reference for her Mind Palace, and the stadium seats were far more comfortable. Any noise he made while working in the morgue wouldn't reach her. In short, the viewing room was perfectly suited to her needs. He found himself irrationally annoyed by the fact. What was the matter with him? Relaxing his jaw, he answered her. "You may use it. No one will disturb you there."
"Brilliant. Thanks." Flashing a small smile at him, she gave the counter a wide berth and headed for the viewing room door.
He moved the vial of blood off the take-out container. "What about your lunch?"
A grimace over one shoulder. "Just bin it. I doubt I could eat another bite." With that, she quickly left and settled into a chair in the front row of the stadium seating.
He picked up the carton, expecting it to be empty. The solid weight of it startled him. He lifted the lid. It appeared she'd only taken one bite, two at most. He frowned. Vivian never missed a meal, at least not willingly. Had something put her off her food? He sniffed it. Maybe she hadn't liked it. He tossed it into the bin and studied her through the window.
There'd been relief in her tone when he'd agreed to her suggestion of using the viewing room. Like she'd been glad to leave. He picked up the methanol bottle and stared down at it, without really seeing it. The disappointment welled up inside him again like a stubborn bloodstain, bewildering him. He'd come here with the expectation of working alone - he'd looked forward to it even - and yet when the opportunity had presented itself, he'd jumped at the chance to share his work with her. When had he become so dependent on others? This had to be John's fault. He used to be perfectly content working on his own. Burying the uncomfortable thought, he set the methanol bottle down and picked up the marquis testing reagent.
It occurred to him then that John hadn't had the opportunity to send Vivian the email informing her of her diagnosis and treatment options yet. It felt strange knowing Vivian's condition when she herself didn't, but Sherlock wasn't about to broach the subject with her. It was far better for her to learn about it from John. He would soften the painful blow about her reading disability being likely permanent. John was good at that sort of thing, unlike Sherlock, who'd completely bungled things by calling Vivian illiterate at Christmas. If he never saw that hurt expression on her face again, it would still be too soon.
A knock sounded, and he scowled. Who would be disturbing him now, and why didn't they just come in? The door wasn't locked. Sherlock marched over and threw it open. The scathing insult died on his tongue.
Victor Trevor grinned at him. "Hello, Sherlock. You haven't changed a bit."
Sherlock's gaze flicked over his old university friend. Victor's signature fedora sat at its usual rakish angle, his dark wavy hair curling just above his ears. A slim, contemporary suit, vintage tie, and designer stubble completed the dapper look. While they occasionally corresponded online, Sherlock hadn't seen Victor in over three years. "I see your style hasn't altered, though I can't say the same about your marital status. What is this, the fourth one gone now?"
"Like I said, you haven't changed a bit."
"Why are you here?"
"I was hoping you might do me a favor." Victor presented him with a wood case and waggled his eyebrows. "I'll owe you one."
"You still owe me from when your bull terrier took a bite out of my ankle."
"It's not my fault you scared Otis. And if I recall, I paid for your stitches and gave you an excellent bottle of Scotch in apology."
"You drank most of it."
An unrepentant shrug. "Fine. I'll owe you double then."
Sherlock opened the case. A four barrel, large caliber howdah pistol was nestled inside. Built in the mid-18th century, they'd been used primarily in defense against tigers, lions, and other dangerous animals found in remote areas under British Colonial rule. "Where did you get this?"
"I was in the area negotiating a merger and stopped off to visit my parents. They found it in a dark, dusty corner of their attic. Mum wants to sell it so they can go on a nice holiday. It doesn't look like it's ever been shot. I thought you might be able to tell."
Victor's visit became clear. If the antique pistol truly had never been fired, the firearm's value would increase substantially. "A careful inspection should provide the answer."
"I knew I came to the right man."
Sherlock stepped aside so Victor could enter the morgue, then moved a tray so he had space on the counter.
A low whistle carried through the room. "Well, well. Who do we have here?"
Sherlock followed Victor's admiring gaze through the viewing window. "Vivian Walker."
"Looks like you bored her to sleep, mate."
"She's not sleeping. She's working on her Mind Palace," Sherlock said, adjusting the height of his microscope.
Victor rounded on him. "Her Mind Palace? You told me you couldn't teach anyone, that it was impossible."
"Most people don't have the necessary qualities. Vivian did." The threat of death and madness brought a clarity of focus unlike anything else.
"Oh," Victor said, tone speculative. "Are you two a couple?"
"No." Clearly, Victor had forgotten the rule against asking stupid questions. Sherlock settled the pistol beneath the microscope lens.
"Are you sure?" Victor teased. "The only other woman I've known to voluntarily spend time with you is Mrs. Hudson."
"Do you want my help or not?"
"Fine. If she's not your girlfriend, then what is she? A colleague? A client?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but found he didn't have one. He stalled for time, adjusting the focus of the lens. Vivian's role in his life was hazy. Somehow she'd escaped definition. The realization rattled him. He was accustomed to ambiguity within his cases, not in the people around him. Swiftly, he came to a decision and met Victor's curious gaze. "She's my student." Yes. That clarified things rather well. The agitation brought on by the question quieted.
"Then she's probably in dire need of a break," Victor said wryly. "Is she available, or are you bogging her down with homework every night?"
"I see you're already on the prowl for your next wife. Did you leave your last one content?"
"Oh yes." A lazy grin. "I assure you, every Mrs. Trevor has enjoyed herself immensely. The separations were all amicable, very amicable."
Sherlock didn't doubt him. It had been the same way at university. Victor was a highly successful serial monogamist. He would commit to a woman and shower her with love, attention, and romance. While the length of each encounter varied, the end was always the same. He'd miraculously charm his way out of the relationship, leaving both parties satisfied somehow. To Victor, every woman was an enticing mystery to be solved - picking just one for a lifetime was unfathomable.
"As to your earlier question, yes, Vivian is available. However, I don't believe she's the dating type," Sherlock said. If Vivian had any past relationships, he doubted they'd lasted long. With a father in the military, she'd moved frequently as a child, never forming long-term connections with people. Losing her family had both strengthened and twisted those behavioral patterns.
Victor's steel blue eyes gleamed. "Oh really?" He studied Vivian through the glass, clearly intrigued. "Perhaps she hasn't met the right man."
Too late, Sherlock realized his words had only served to draw Victor in all the more. Oh well. No matter. Vivian would certainly refuse him. This was going to be both entertaining and historic.
Sherlock set the pistol back in the box. "There are faint traces of carbon on the muzzle and flash-hole. This indicates it's been fired before, but the lack of wear on the flint and hammer and the cleanliness of the barrels means it was only shot 6-12 times during testing. A collector will pay upwards of £4,000 pounds for it. I'd say your parents are in for a very nice holiday."
"You are the best of the best, the absolute bollocks, mate," Victor said, beaming at him.
"I know." Sherlock closed the pistol case, and movement in the viewing room caught his eye. Vivian was stretching. She rose to her feet and entered the morgue.
Not wasting any time, Victor strode across the room, hand outstretched. "Hello. I'm Victor Trevor, an old college friend of Sherlock's."
"Vivian Walker," she said, smiling.
"So I've been told," Victor said, holding her hand for five seconds longer than necessary.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Busying himself at the counter, he continued to watch the scene unfold out of his peripheral vision. He didn't want to miss the first time Victor Trevor was denied a date.
"I like your hat," Vivian said. "Is it vintage?"
"Yes, I got it in a pawn shop in New York. Best souvenir I ever bought."
"Oh, I love New York. The pizza there is gorgeous."
"Isn't it brilliant?" Victor shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the autopsy table. "Did you get a chance to eat at Joe's?"
"Of course. I burnt my mouth on a slice, it was so fresh." Vivian's eyes closed as if in blissful memory.
"I've never found its equal. Were you there for business or pleasure?"
"Business, but I made sure not to miss out on the highlights." She chuckled. "By that, I mean the food."
"What do you do?"
"I'm an organizational psychologist."
Victor's face lit up. "Are you really? I'm a corporate attorney who specializes in business mergers. My clients are always looking for ways to ensure a smooth integration. I'd love to pick your brain." He tapped the autopsy table. "And by that, I mean conversation, not dissection."
Vivian laughed, looking far more entertained by the quip than was warranted.
Sherlock stopped pretending to sort through a pile of microscope slides. Surely she would shut Victor down now. She'd certainly let the man chat her up long enough.
Vivian's mouth quirked, and she slowly shook her head. "I don't think you could afford me, Mr. Trevor."
And there it was. The refusal. Subtle, but there nonetheless. Sherlock smirked. Witnessing Vivian turn the other man down was immensely satisfying, almost like solving a case.
Surprise flashed in Victor's eyes, but he quickly recovered. A grave nod. "I'm sure you're right. A private consultation with a woman of your expertise must be costly indeed. Although I imagine you're worth every pound."
Her eyes danced in amusement. "Oh yes. Every last one."
"It appears you'll have to make do without her, Victor," Sherlock said, picking up the reagent bottle.
Genuine regret shadowed Victor's face. "Yes, what a shame."
"I'm sure you'll manage just fine without me," Vivian said with a soft laugh.
"I'd like to do more than just manage," Victor said his gaze candid and warm.
Sherlock frowned at Vivian who was watching Victor watch her. Was that a faint echo of warmth in her own eyes? The satisfaction inside him evaporated. As if it had a will of its own, Sherlock's right hand picked up a small basin and dropped it into the sink. The metallic clang resounded through the morgue like a grenade. Vivian and Victor jumped, then looked over at him.
"Whoops," Sherlock said flatly, then raised a brow at Vivian. "Don't you have to return to work?"
Green eyes bounced to the analog clock on the wall. "Damn. I've got to go." She grabbed her bag from the counter. "I'll see you later, Sherlock. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Trevor."
"The pleasure was all mine, Miss Walker."
Right as she reached the door, Victor called after her, "I don't suppose I could tempt you with dinner this Friday at The Five Fields then."
Vivian's hand froze on the latch, and her head whipped around. "The Five Fields? Are you serious?"
"Oh yes. I take my food very seriously."
She released the handle and walked back over to him, expression awed. "But they only have twelve tables, and it takes ages to get a reservation. How could you possibly have one?"
"You'll find I'm an excellent negotiator, Miss Walker." A slow smile. "I'll provide the reservation at The Five Fields if you allow me to consult you over dinner. Think of it as the perfect combination of business and pleasure."
Her head cocked to the side. "Throw in dessert, and you've got a deal."
"Done. Though I confess I fully intended on ordering it anyhow."
"It appears I need a few tips on negotiation."
Victor winked at her. "I know just the man to help." He handed her his business card. "If you text me your address, I'll pick you up at six. Is that alright?"
"That's perfect. I'll look forward it." Grinning, she gave them both a little wave, then dashed out the door.
As soon as it shut, Victor spun around. "She is delightful. And a fellow hedonist at that." He shook his head in wonder. "Who'd have thought I'd find a date in the morgue? That's a new one, even for me."
Sherlock had to force his fingers to loosen their hold on the bottle. "It's not a date; it's a business meeting, and the only reason she agreed to an evening with you is because you bribed her."
"It'll be a date before the night is over, my friend."
The undeniable statement sent something dark coiling through Sherlock's stomach. He had the sudden urge to rip the fedora off Victor's head and shove it down the man's throat.
It must have shown in his expression because Victor took a step back and raised his hands. "Easy, Professor. I promise I won't keep her out too late and disrupt her studies."
"I don't care what you do with her." Sherlock shoved the wood case into Victor's arms, causing the other man to grunt as one corner jabbed him in the stomach. "All I care about is my work. Now, get out."
Victor stared at him in surprise, which was ridiculous since it wasn't the first time Sherlock had ordered him to leave. Victor used to regularly invade Sherlock's lab at university, after all. His head gave a throb, irritating him further. "While I realize your brain has been addled by Vivian's charming presence, your legs are still completely functional. Use them. The door is there."
Victor's eyebrows disappeared behind the brim of his hat. "Right. I'll just get out of your way then. Thanks for the help, mate." Footsteps retreated and the door swung open, then shut.
Jaw slowly unclenching, Sherlock set out a white ceramic plate and placed a small amount of the old woman's blood on it. He removed the syringe from the evidence bag, and did the same with the liquid inside. Turning the marquis reagent bottle upside down, Sherlock allowed a single drop to fall onto each and waited for the color to change.
He released a breath and closed his eyes.
All he cared about was his work.
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