Chapter Text
‘Well, well, well!’ The man emerged from the shadows as if he was one of them himself. ‘It warms my heart to see that romance still blossoms in the sewers of London. If it isn’t the Romeo of the cloth and the Juliet of the gutter! What a pretty pair.’
The bishop backed away from him instinctively, though the only threatening thing about the small man was his voice. ‘How dare you speak to me like that, sir!’ he said indignantly.
‘How dare I, sir? How dare you, sir!’ With these words, the man took a step forward, then another, and the bishop backed up again. They were circling each other like predator and prey.
‘Do you know who I am?’ the bishop asked, trying to keep a shred of his dignity despite the fear that this man’s demeanor had struck into his heart.
‘Oh, I know exactly who you are!’ The tone of the man’s voice was almost cordial, but the sneer on his face was anything but. ‘You’re Basil, the fourteenth Bishop of Basingstoke. You are on the board of governors at St Jude’s Hospital.’ He stopped circling and advanced on the bishop, brandishing his cane. ‘And you, sir, are an obscene, self-indulgent, malevolent, malignant...’ He raised the cane high and brought it down on the bishop’s head with a resounding crack. ‘Hypocrite!’ he finished gleefully. ‘Hypocrite! Hypocrite! Hypocrite!’ With each repetition of the word he struck the bishop again until the man of God collapsed, unmoving, in the mud. Then with a chuckle he reached down and tore the cross from the unconscious man’s neck. Spitting on it contemptuously, he threw it down in the mud before pulling a flask from his hip. Uncapping it, he doused the bishop with its contents and produced from his coat a box of matches. He struck one, threw it on the bishop, and watched as his victim awoke, writhing and screeching in pain. His grinning face was illuminated in the firelight for a moment, more fiendish than the Devil himself, and then he turned and strode away.
* * * * *
'Sherlock Holmes, I swear to God, if you put one more hole in this wall -' John stormed into the living room to see his flatmate lounging in his armchair, feet over the side. Sherlock looked like he’d just rolled out of bed and had been too lazy to get properly dressed - trousers, an unbuttoned white shirt, unruly dark hair. At least he was actually wearing clothes this time.
He lifted his right hand. It was cradling the small black pistol he kept ‘just in case,’ and three new holes had been added to the familiar pattern already shot through the wallpaper in previous fits of boredom. Lazily, he rolled his head to look levelly at John. 'You’ll do what?' he asked in his deep voice. 'Divorce me?'
‘You might have missed the memo, but we’re not actually married.’ Sherlock lifted the pistol again and fired another shot through the wall without even looking. All the while he kept his eyes fixed on John, daring John to try and stop him.
John crossed the room in three long strides and plucked the pistol from his hand. He didn’t resist. 'What the Hell is the matter with you, Sherlock?'
'I’m bored. And you took my cigarettes.' He was drumming his long fingers on the chair, not looking at John. John had meant the question in more of a general sense - he’d already known his flatmate was bored and drugless and was much more curious to find out why he shot holes in the wall when he was bored. But he let it go.
'That’s no excuse for you to shoot up the flat. I’ve told you that before. Play your violin if you’re bored, or...mix some chemicals or something, but for God’s sake don’t destroy things!'
By way of answer, his hand shot out and took back the pistol before John could react. Irritated, he lunged forward to try and take it back, tripped over one of the many random objects laying around the flat (most of them Sherlock’s) and toppled half-over the chair, hand still outstretched for the pistol.
At that moment the door opened. Both men’s heads snapped up simultaneously to see Lestrade, with Mrs Hudson peeking around behind him. Lestrade looked shocked at first, then cleared his throat, smoothed his face into an amused expression, and asked dryly, 'I’m sorry, did I come at a bad time?'
John realized belatedly that one of his hands had landed on Sherlock’s bare chest and the other was twined with his around the pistol. Hastily they disentangled themselves. Sherlock sat up straight in the chair and buttoned his shirt, and John took the advantage of the occupation of both of his hands to snatch up the pistol and pocket it.
'Not at all,' Sherlock said coolly. 'Which case do you need help with this time, Lestrade? The jewelry store robbery, perhaps? Or is it the runaway maid? I’ve solved them both.'
Lestrade gave him a look of intense dislike, and even John wanted to smack him a bit for showing off. 'No, this is one that hasn’t made it to press yet.'
'Tell me,' Sherlock demanded. 'And for God’s sake, make it interesting.'
'Sit down,' John added apologetically, trying to make up for Sherlock’s appalling lack of host abilities.
Lestrade sat. 'A bishop,' he said, 'was killed last night in a London slum.' He paused, waiting to see if Sherlock was interested.
'And that’s all you know, isn’t it.'
For a moment John was genuinely worried that Lestrade was going to try to strangle Sherlock. He didn’t blame him - Sherlock was difficult even on the best of days, and practically impossible when he was bored. Which was often. But Lestrade just let out a tired sigh and continued. 'His Grace Rupert Basil the 14th Bishop of Basingstoke died last night at around twelve thirty AM. Witnesses saw him walking through a...shady part of town with a young woman, presumably his daughter, around midnight. When he was found, at about twelve forty five, the woman was gone and the bishop had been beaten to death with a blunt object before being lit on fire.'
'Naturally, you’ve assumed the woman is the killer.' Sherlock still sounded bored out of his mind, but John recognized the glint in his eye that meant something about the case interested him.
'We have considered the possibility,' Lestrade admitted.
'It sounds to me like a simple murder case. Why did you come to me?' John shot him a warning look. He knew full well why Lestrade had come; he just liked to see him squirm.
Lestrade looked slightly homicidal, but in a tight voice he said, 'Because we’re stumped.'
Sherlock shrugged. 'Find the woman,' he suggested. 'That’s a good start.'
Lestrade’s face fell. 'Does that mean you won’t help us?'
'It means that I am going to check out the scene of the crime while you look for her. I do the deductions, you do the dirty work.' Lestrade didn’t look completely satisfied with that answer. 'Have you already moved the body, or were you kind enough to leave it alone for me?'
Lestrade shot Sherlock a sharp look. 'Of course we’ve left it alone. Contrary to popular belief, we do know how to handle a murder case.'
'Could have fooled me.'
'Sherlock,' John said sharply.
'I thought you were trying to hide this from the press,' Sherlock continued, ignoring John’s reprimand.
'They’re going to find out eventually. We’re just hoping to keep it away from them until we make some headway on it.'
'Fantastic. Where’s the body?'
'In an alley off of Bayham Street, in Camden Town.'
John raised his eyebrow. 'You weren’t kidding when you said a London slum, were you.'
'No, I wasn’t.' Lestrade’s voice was grim. He stood. 'Good luck, gentlemen.'
'You too,' John returned, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t wish him luck. Lestrade nodded and left the flat.
John turned to Sherlock, waiting for him to say something. He was sitting cross-legged in his armchair, his fingers pressed to his lips the way he did when he was thinking. 'Sherlock?' he asked, hesitant to interrupt him. In one fluid movement he jumped up from the chair and donned his coat.
'Well, are you coming?' he asked expectantly, hand on the doorknob.
John grabbed his jacket from where it was draped over the back of another chair and put it on. 'Yes, but...Sherlock...'
'What.' He was watching John with irritated impatience. John looked pointedly at his feet. His bare feet.
'You’re not wearing shoes.'
He glanced down. 'Shoes are for lesser men.'
'Shoes are for men who like not stepping on broken glass in the slums. Put them on, Sherlock.'
'I’m not worried about broken glass. I have a resident doctor.' But he put on his shoes. Then, without looking back to see if John was following - he knew he would be - he exited the flat.
John caught up with him on the sidewalk outside 221B. He had his hand raised, hailing a cab. One pulled up, and they got in. 'Bayham Street,' Sherlock ordered the cabbie.
'Please,' John added. The cabbie looked at the two well-dressed men like he wanted to ask them what business they had there, but it wasn’t his job to ask questions. It was his job to drive, and he did a fine job of it.
'So...if this is just a straightforward murder case like you said, why are we going?' John asked Sherlock.
'Because the Bishop of Basingstoke was Catholic.'
John blinked at him. 'Sorry, what?'
'Before he became a Church of England bishop. He was raised Catholic and ordained as a Catholic priest at the age of twenty two. He converted to Anglicanism at the age of fifty after the sudden deaths of both of his parents and became a bishop at the age of fifty eight. He was sixty three when he died.'
'How do you - never mind. What does that have to do with the case?'
'Catholic priests can’t marry.'
'He isn’t Catholic.'
'No, but he was for fifty years. Do the math, John.'
He did, and realized what Sherlock was talking about. 'Even if he’d married and had a daughter the year he converted, she’d only be thirteen. And Lestrade described the woman he was with as a young woman.'
'Clearly older than thirteen, yes.'
'So who was the woman he was with last night?'
'He was in the slums, at midnight, with a young woman. Who do you think she was?' There was a hint of amusement in Sherlock’s voice. Just a hint.
John’s eyes widened in shock. 'But...he’s a bishop!'
‘Bishops are no different than other men just because they take a vow of celibacy. Well, the Catholic ones do, anyway.’
‘Yes, but...a prostitute?’
‘Does it shock you that much?’
It didn’t really; John had heard much stranger things. ‘So we’re on this case because the woman couldn’t have been his daughter?’
‘No.’
‘Why, then?’
‘We are on this case because I’m bored stiff, and I thought you would prefer this to me putting holes in our wall. I was interested in the case because the woman couldn’t have been his daughter. It’s worth taking a brief look at, at the very least. It could prove to be less straightforward than it seems.’
John hoped so. The less straightforward the case, the longer it would be till Sherlock was bored again.
The cab stopped. The cabbie turned around, pushed open the sliding glass door between the front and back seats, and held out his hand. ‘Seven pounds.’ Eyeing him warily - he still hadn’t quite forgotten a previous encounter with a certain cabbie - John pulled his wallet out of his pocket and handed him a ten.
Sherlock was halfway down the street by the time John got out of the cab and caught up to him. ‘Next time, you’re paying.’
‘You said that last time.’ He was keeping up a brisk pace, as he tended to do when he was on a case. Not for the first time, John regretted being so much shorter than him.
Shouts from up ahead of them made John snap my head up and look around. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn’t even seem to notice. They were on a narrow, dirty street. Tall stone buildings pressed in on them from both sides, looking like they’d been due for a good washing about ten years ago. It didn’t take John long to locate the source of the shouts - a few children jumping rope. They, like everything else here, were dirty and full of holes, with coats that were too big and boots that were too small. In the light of day, everything just looked sort of dreary and grey, but in the dark it probably wasn’t the sort of place you wanted to walk through alone. Not if you valued your life. Which apparently, the Bishop of Basingstoke hadn’t.
‘Lestrade said the body was in an alley,’ John said, glancing around while trying to avoid making eye contact with any of the children; not an easy task by any means. Silently, Sherlock pointed to a police car parked down the street. ‘Oh.’
They reached the police car quickly. An familiar officer was standing beside it. ‘Hello, gentlemen,’ he said, not even bothering to disguise the contempt in his voice.
‘Hello, Anderson,’ John replied.
‘Do us all a favour and stay here while I examine the body,’ Sherlock told Anderson as he pushed past him down the alleyway. ‘It wouldn’t do to have your stupidity distracting me. You know what they say about one bad apple.’
Anderson looked like he wanted to punch Sherlock in the face. John sympathised. Having punched Sherlock in the face before, he knew just how satisfying it could be. So even though he didn’t particularly like Anderson either, he shot him an apologetic look - he seemed to be apologising for Sherlock more than usual this morning - and followed his flatmate under the police tape and into the alley.
Whoever had killed the Bishop of Basingstoke must really have hated him. His broken body was crumpled in the far corner of the alley, surrounded by a puddle of blood that had mixed in with the mud on the street, creating a nasty brownish-red paste. His body was charred from being set alight, but not too badly - he had probably been discovered because of the flames and then put out. He’d been beaten before being burned, mostly on his head, though the rest of his body hadn’t escaped punishment. There was no sign of a murder weapon.
Sherlock got straight to work, circling the body, examining every last little detail. He poked around in his clothing, dug in the mud near him, even sniffed the body. John left him to it, knowing that he could do a much better job of it than he, even as a doctor, could ever hope to do. The most he could do was determine the cause and time of death, and that wasn’t exactly a mystery in this case.
“We are looking for a short, strong, and well-built gentleman,” Sherlock said finally, turning back to his companion.
‘How do you figure?’
‘The footsteps in the mud are small but deep, suggesting that the man is small but not light. Additionally the bishop was struck repeatedly on the sides of his head and from the front, but only once from the top, hence a short man. He had to be strong to cause this much damage to his victim despite his size. The injuries appear to have been inflicted with a small but thick metal object and the footsteps were made by an expensive pair of shoes, which means the man is rich and likely carries a cane, topped with a metal ball - our murder weapon.’
‘That shouldn’t be too hard, not many people carry canes anymore.’
‘More than you’d think. Fortunately we know that this man found out about the bishop’s less tasteful pursuits, which means our killer has been here before, seen the bishop with the girl, and figured out what was really going on between the two.’
‘So a gentlemen who frequents the slums.’
‘Yes. A bit of a hypocrite himself, don’t you think?’
‘All men are hypocrites.’
‘How profound.’
‘Thanks. So what’s next?’
‘Next is finding out whether Lestrade has discovered what we have about the bishop’s “daughter.”’
Understanding dawned on John, as it had a habit of belatedly doing while he was on a case with Sherlock. ‘You knew the entire time, didn’t you. From the moment he mentioned the bishop’s daughter you knew she was a prostitute.’
‘Excellent deduction.’ John couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.
‘Then why did you tell Lestrade to search for the woman?’
‘He likes to feel needed.’
‘Does he now.’
‘Yes. He does. Text him, would you?’
‘You have a phone, do it yourself.’
‘I’m thinking.’
‘I’m sure you are.’ But John pulled his phone out of his pocket anyway. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Just ask what he’s found out about the woman.’
John complied.
Did you find out anything about the woman? -JW
‘Sent. Now what?’
‘Now we wait.’
She isn’t the bishop’s daughter, that much is for sure. -DI Lestrade
John showed Sherlock the text. He nodded. ‘I should hope he’s figured that much out.’
What is she, then? -JW
A prostitute, apparently. -DI Lestrade
Oh my. Have you actually found her? -JW
‘He figured out the prostitute thing.’
‘Good for him. Has he actually found her?’
John almost laughed at how close Sherlock’s wording was to his. ‘I don’t know, I’m waiting for him to respond.’
Not yet. The best we can figure she works at one of the places in Old Nichol. -DI Lestrade
‘He thinks she works near here.’
‘I could have told him that,’ Sherlock said impatiently. John refrained from pointing out that yes, actually, he could have and saved them all a little time.
‘So what do you want to do, then?’
‘We will engage in the activities which are customary around here.’
‘Which means...?’
He gave a brief smile. ‘It means we’re going whore hunting.’
*****
Three hours passed without Sherlock and John finding their prostitute. When John had first moved in with Sherlock Holmes, he’d never imagined it would lead to him running around the London slums searching for prostitutes. But that was life with Sherlock - everything you’d never imagined.
They must have stopped in every single questionable establishment in the slum - pubs, brothels, shady drug dealers...anywhere a bishop could go if he wanted a taste of the darker side of life. But mostly brothels. John had never been in a single brothel in his entire life and by the end of those three hours he never wanted to go in another one ever again. Ever. There were some things that couldn’t be unseen, even for a man who thought he’d seen it all in Afghanistan. He hadn’t. Oh no, not by any means.
‘Please let’s not go in another one,’ he begged Sherlock as they emerged from the darkened interior of yet another brothel into the light of day. Well, sort of the light of day; it was getting on toward five or six o’clock.
‘Feeling a bit thorny, are you, John?’ Sherlock had a mischievous glint in his eye. He, unlike John, wasn’t the least bit bothered by the abundance of prostitutes.
John resisted a slight urge to slap Sherlock across the face and instead replied, ‘If by thorny you mean incredibly uncomfortable, then yes, I am, good job noticing.’
‘This is the last one, I promise.’
‘You said that an hour ago.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. You did.’
‘How odd.’ And with that, he pushed open the door to yet another shady establishment.
This one appeared to be a pub, though not the type either of them was usually a patron of. A wooden sign over the door announced in cracking paint that it was called the Red Rat. The interior was darkened and smoky, the only light coming from candles on the bar. Men sat at the rickety wooden tables downing beer from dingy mugs and watching the women onstage. They were dancing. Provocatively. So much for it being a pub, then.
‘Sherlock,” John said uncomfortably. “Can we hurry up in here?’
‘Why?’ Sherlock asked, half-tauntingly. ‘Too many women?’
‘Too many scantily-dressed women.’
‘I would have thought you would be used to that after our encounters with Ms Adler.’
‘Look, can we just do what we need to and get out?’
‘We will spend as much time in here as we need to find our woman.’
John groaned. He was beginning to think Sherlock got a kick out of seeing him uncomfortable.
The women onstage finished their number. The men applauded, and John suspected they’d see some of them leaving with some of the women later on tonight. If they hung around that long. He would have prayed they didn’t, but he had a feeling God didn’t answer prayers where Sherlock Holmes was concerned.
Sherlock approached one of the girls. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.
She turned. ‘Hello, handsome.’
‘I am not interested in your services. I need answers, and I’m hoping you can give them to me.’ Talk about a flat-out rejection.
‘Answers? To what questions?’
‘Have you ever had any...unusual customers in here?’
‘We get all sorts in here. Old men, young men, poor men, rich men...’
‘All sorts. Well, then, I suppose you could have had a bishop?’
The girl’s eyes widened. ‘This is about that bishop, the one what died last night, isn’t it! I swear Annie didn’t kill ‘im!’
A hint of a smile played about Sherlock’s lips. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t think Annie did it. She might know who did, though. Where is she?’
The girl pointed toward the stage. ‘Back there somewhere, I guess.’
Sherlock pushed past her and headed in that direction. ‘Thank you,’ John told her as he followed him.
There were a lot of girls backstage, maybe fifteen or twenty. And they were all dressed a lot like the girl they’d just been talking to - in other words, hardly dressed at all. ‘Excuse me,’ Sherlock said. ‘Which one of you is Annie?’
The girls, who had been chatting, immediately fell silent. Finally one of them stepped forward, a small girl with pretty blonde curls and blue eyes. It wasn’t hard to see why the bishop would have chosen her. ‘That’s me.’
‘May we speak to you for a moment?’ She looked nervous but nodded and took a hesitant step toward Sherlock and John. Sherlock led her away from the group of suddenly nervous girls, and John tagged along, feeling inexplicably like a third wheel. ‘You were seen last night with the Bishop of Basingstoke,’ Sherlock said when they were a good distance out of anyone’s earshot. ‘He was found dead not long afterwards.’
Poor Annie was trembling. ‘I didn’t kill him, I swear!’
‘Don’t worry,’ John said soothingly, ‘we don’t think you did.’ He shot Sherlock a glare, trying to warn him to be nice to her. It was probably a lost cause, but it was worth a shot at least.
‘We don’t,’ Sherlock confirmed, ‘but there are others who do.’
Yeah. Lost cause.
‘Look,’ John said, ‘we just have a couple of questions for you, okay?’ He felt like he was talking down to her just a little bit, but she couldn’t have been a day older than sixteen. H3 wondered how she’d ended up as a prostitute.
Annie nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘Last night at approximately twelve thirty, you were with the Bishop of Basingstoke, yes?’
‘I was with a customer. I dunno who he was, do I?’ Annie answered petulantly.
'Annie,' said Sherlock in a scarily serious voice, 'as I said, there are people out there who think you killed this man. If you do not want to be arrested or possibly killed, I suggest you tell us everything you know.'
Annie looked frightened out of her wits, and John didn't blame her. Instinctively he put a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. 'He was just a customer,' she said in a shaky voice. 'Yeah, he was a bishop, but it doesn't matter to us what our customers are as long as they pay. I did my job, he paid me and walked away. I didn't see anything suspicious. Actually I didn't see anything. Or hear anything, before you ask. I didn't kill him and I don't know who did so would you please leave me alone!' Her voice had risen about an octave and several decibels while she was talking.
Sherlock looked crestfallen, like a kid who had been expecting a puppy for Christmas and instead had gotten an ugly sweater knitted by his aunt. ‘I’m sorry we bothered you, Annie,’ John said, before Sherlock could say anything even bordering on nasty. ‘We’ll leave you now. Thank you for talking to us.’ He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and dragged him off, past the bar and the corseted girl who winked at him and out into the warm evening.
‘There,’ John said, slightly breathlessly. ‘We found what we were looking for. Can we please go home now?’
Sherlock was silent for a moment, staring off into the distance, no doubt thinking hard. ‘No,’ he said finally, and then, before John could protest, added, ‘first we’re going to get some dinner.’
John couldn’t disagree with that. They had been so busy tracking down their prostitute that they had completely forgotten to eat - or, more accurately, Sherlock had. John had been painfully aware all day that the last thing he’d had to eat was his usual morning toast and coffee, but he knew better than to ask Sherlock if they could stop for lunch while they were on a case. John was just glad he had at last remembered that he was, in fact, human and thus had to eat.
They hailed a cab and Sherlock instructed the cabbie to drop them off at his favourite Chinese restaurant. He was silent the entire cab ride, resting his chin on his hand and staring distractedly out the window. John wanted to ask him what he thought of the case so far but was smarter than to interrupt him when he was thinking or deducing. So he stared out the other window instead, letting his mind wander from the day’s events and on to what he was going to have for dinner. Broccoli beef sounded particularly appetising at this point, and dumplings of course were a must...
‘Text Lestrade for me,’ Sherlock said abruptly, breaking into his musings about food. ‘Use my phone this time. Left coat pocket.’
John rolled my eyes but reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Just tell him what happened.’
Found the prostitute. She knows nothing. SH
Too bad. Any other leads? -DI Lestrade
John paused, thumbs poised above the keypad. ‘He wants to know if you have any other leads.’
‘Three,’ he replied without looking at John.
‘And what would those be?’
‘I’ll let you know when it’s time to follow them.’
Three. SH
Mind telling me what they are? -DI Lestrade
Later. SH
Lestrade didn’t respond to that, and John could practically feel his irritation even without the other man there.
The cab stopped at the curb in front of the Chinese restaurant. John paid the cabbie despite his insistence that Sherlock pay the next time, and stepped out with Sherlock close behind him. The neon lights and paper lanterns were a welcome change from the smoky lighting in the Red Rat, not to mention there were considerably fewer prostitutes here. They entered the restaurant and sat down at their usual table. Sherlock was a regular here, and John accompanied him often enough that all the waitresses knew them. Granted, most of them were convinced that the two of them were a couple no matter how many times John told them they weren’t, but they were pretty Asian girls and it was hard to stay annoyed with them.
‘Annie the prostitute didn’t kill the bishop,’ Sherlock said as he took the seat across from John. The waitress, who had just walked up to the table, gave him a strange look but said nothing. ‘The duck and an order of dumplings,’ Sherlock added, handing the menu to the waitress without even looking at her, then picked right back up where he’d left off. ‘She didn’t even see the murderer. We need to look somewhere else.’
‘I’ll have broccoli beef and egg rolls, please,’ John told the waitress as he handed her his menu as well. Her name tag said Mei. John smiled as apologetically as he could at her to make up for Sherlock’s rude behaviour, and she smiled back shyly before walking away. When he turned back to the table, Sherlock was smiling smugly at him. ‘What?’
‘She’s pretty, John.’ He said it teasingly, as if he knew John noticed it. Which, of course, he did. And John had.
‘Shut up. What were you saying about the murderer?’
There was only one surefire way to stop Sherlock once he’d started making fun of John and his love life, and that was to get him deducing. It had yet to fail him, and this time was no exception. ‘It wasn’t the prostitute. Obviously. I was hoping she would know something, but no matter, I still have my deductions to go on.’
‘Yeah, what did you say he was? A short gentleman with a cane?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What’s the plan, then? Find a rich neighbourhood and start knocking on doors? “Hello, we’re with the police, did you kill the Bishop of Basingstoke?” Because that will work well.’
‘Of course not. Do I look like an idiot?’
‘Sometimes,’ John muttered, and hoped he hadn’t heard that. ‘What is the plan, then?’
‘The plan is to go talk to some of the parishioners at the bishop’s church and see what they know.’
It was as good a place to start as any. John was beginning to get the sinking feeling that this was going to be a very long and very frustrating case.