Once Upon a Time Ch 5

“Thistles?”

“What?” Sherlock turned to John.

“Thistles; they’re thistle flowers.” John said pointing to the three stems drooping lazily in Sherlock’s hand. “I know; they used to grow outside my house.”

Sherlock gingerly plucked one flower away from the trio and examined the stalk, careful not to touch the spiky extensions protruding dangerously from around the flower itself. Lestrade eased a flower away from Sherlock as well, and examined it mulling over his extensive memory to see if he could recall any times a flower was found at a crime scene, or if he could recall the word ‘thistle’ ever being used.

John waited patiently for the two men to finish their observations, glancing every now and again at Mrs. Rutledge who had stood up to get more crackers from the kitchen but the little flowers caught his eyes like little purple stars and dragged his attention back to the one lone flower caught in Sherlock’s iron grip; forgotten and ignored.

Thistles have no real petals, instead they have long, narrow tentacle-like protrusions that open similar to a flower, but have no real symmetry. The ‘petals’, although soft, look as sharp as needles. The rest of the flower is protected by bristles and more spikes, which makes the flower impossible to touch and very unattractive to look at.
John stared at the flower; a burst of creamy color that sat upon a throne of sickly-green thorns and was briefly reminded of his childhood home, where the thistle flowers grew in hordes and dominated his yard, making it impossible for him to roll around in his yard, or even run barefoot.

He had the distinct, unpleasant sensation that he had forgotten something important.
“The stems were cut, not just plucked.” Sherlock said tossing the flowers back into the basket carelessly. “They were placed in the basket on purpose, probably to leave a message.”

Lestrade gazed at his flower for one second more, but realized he wasn’t coming up with any ideas and tossed his flower into the basket after Sherlock.

“What message?” he asked.

Sherlock clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly, almost greedily with a lurid gleam flashing through his blue eyes.

“I have no idea.” He announced proudly.

John rolled his eyes. He knew that there was nothing Sherlock loved more than a good puzzle, and hated nothing more than being bored. The more pieces to the puzzle there were, the longer it would take to solve, and the longer Sherlock Holmes would be unraveling the mysteries and fleeing from his constant bane of boredom. At the moment he must have been over the moon with joy.

“Well, it looks like we’re going to need to search the house anyway.” Lestrade said scratching the back of his neck dejectedly. He was having a rough day, and it felt like no matter what he tried to do, all his efforts seemed wasted.

“Good.” Sherlock said pulling his phone out of his pocket and jamming the shiny black screen with his thumb.

“No, not good.” Lestrade attempted to explain, but he just shook his head. Sherlock wasn’t listening and he didn’t have the energy to try and argue his view of human decency to someone who couldn’t care less either way.

“Come on John.” Sherlock said looking up from his phone. “We’ll be of more use at Baker Street than here.”

“What?” John asked confused.

“Home. I want to go. Now.” Sherlock said carefully and slowly.

“But don’t you want to…” John began to ask if Sherlock wanted to have a longer look around, but at that moment Sherlock emitted a low noise of frustration and John gave up trying to understand his friend’s motivation and settled for just following him until it all started to make sense.

John turned and waved goodbye to Lestrade just as Mrs. Rutledge came out of the kitchen with a new platter of crackers.

“Leaving so soon darlings? I just found some crackers. I’m sure Anne will be back any time with some proper biscuits, and then we can have a fine chat over biscuits and tea.”
Lestrade looked at the women with a faint expression of horror, and turned back to Sherlock and John.

“You have to keep me informed when you find something Sherlock; it’s my case and I’m letting you work it.” Lestrade said in a pleading tone following John out into the hallway.

"And when I know something you’ll be the third person I tell.” Sherlock said kicking an umbrella that someone had left out in the hallway of the apartment, and looking up disinterestedly from his phone. The umbrella clattered to the floor, but Sherlock did not stop for more than the half-second necessary for him to move his foot out of the path of the troublesome obstacle. John had to stop, bend down, pick the umbrella up, and prop it against the wall where it had been innocently waiting and by the time he looked up Sherlock was gone.

John glanced at Lestrade who had let his head sink into his hands.

“I’ll keep you informed.” He promised the haggard Detective Inspector.

“Much appreciated.” Lestrade said, though his eyes did not reflect the sentiment.
 
John found Sherlock outside, leaning against the cab he had called to take them back to Baker Street. His nose was still buried in his phone.

“You know, we’re single handedly maintaining the cab industry in London. Together we must be buffering the whole cab economy.” John said.

Sherlock grunted.

John climbed into the cab and waited for Sherlock, who was still leaning against the side of the cab with his nose still buried in his phone.

“Are you coming or what?” he asked.

Sherlock grunted.

“Would you stop grunting and come on?”

Sherlock grunted twice.

“Whatever you’re doing, can’t you do it in the cab?”

Sherlock didn’t make a sound, but stood very still, determined not to move from where he was leaning against the cab with his nose still buried in his phone.

The cabbie, in his infinite kindness leaned out his window and addressed Sherlock in the most condescending and bitter tone he could manage under the circumstances.

“Hey pal, the meter’s runnin, y’know?”

Sherlock grunted in reply.

A few seconds later the cabbie’s remark seemed to register and Sherlock unburied his nose from his phone and stood up straight, no longer needing the support of the cab. He still absentmindedly stroked the screen with his thumb, scrolling the white webpage he was on, but he didn’t look down at it until he was in the cab.

“221b Baker Street.” He said sternly.

“Yes sir.” The cabbie muttered under his breath “weirdo.” He added some seconds later in an even quieter tone as the cab pulled away from the curb and pushed its way into the London traffic.

This happened to be the same cabbie that had dropped them off at the hospital that morning. He recognized the strange couple as soon as he had pulled up to the apartment, but wisely said nothing, because he thought it was one hell of a creepy coincidence and he really did not want them to remember him. Coincidences like that never happen in real life, and hopefully, the cabbie thought, they will never happen again.

John watched the buildings crawl by his window as they crept forward through London traffic. Each cream, white and beige building hid a person, each person hid a family, and each family hid a story. John wondered; in a half-dreamy, half contemplative fashion, if he were to remove the roofs from each house and to peer into the lives of every person in London for a short time, what would he see?

The cab drove by a man in a large gray overcoat talking on his phone. John almost looked right through him, and probably would have ignored him altogether if he hadn’t been in an introspective frame of mind. He observed the man, and tried to gather up everything about him. Not an old man, but with salt-and-pepper hair and more worry creases than a man his age should have. Laugh lines around his mouth made deep parenthesis into his face and the gold ring on his finger shone like a sun when it caught a flash of light.

“I wonder what his life’s been like.” John thought as the man was swept away by the wave of gray buildings that surged as the cab experienced a temporary increase of speed.

For some reason, acting off of some instinct John turned to face Sherlock. Sherlock however had retreated into his Mind Palace and had left a note on his shoulder, torn out of his pocket note book in haste.

John picked up the paper, yellowed with artificial age (experiment) and read the snatch of a sentence.

“Mind Palace, BRB.”

Sherlock’s eyes were closed and his hands were held up in an almost reverent salute, fingers stretching towards the sky and curling in random patterns. Suddenly he would wave his hand and with a flick of his wrist banish a thought or memory to someplace deep, deep, deep within his subconscious. Somewhere where it could never bother him again.

John would normally leave the room and let Sherlock frolic around his thoughts for a time, but the cab was moving and he had no desire to leave so he sat and watched him work with his invisible thoughts until Sherlock had a sudden revelation.

He suddenly flinched, as though he’d been hit with something hard; his face, which until then had been screwed in concentration, melted into a visage of exasperation and relief. He jolted again, causing the cab seat to groan slightly with surprise and he turned to John.

He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Instead he pulled out his phone and began to compose a text.

“What’ve you got?” John asked.

“Scotland Yard.” Sherlock said.

“Oh.” John waited patiently for Sherlock to explain himself, content with being left in the dark while Sherlock pulled all of the pieces together in his mind.

Sherlock sent the text and settled back into his seat, puzzled, but on the whole satisfied. It wasn’t often he had something weird like thistles appear in a case, but it made catching the killer easier. He’d make sure to do his own private searches while Lestrade was combing the computers at the Yard.

“Scotland Yard what?” John asked, recognizing the far off look in Sherlock’s eyes as a sign that soon his thoughts would carry him away.
“Hmm?”

“What did you mean by Scotland Yard? What’s so significant about the Yard that you had to text Lestrade.”

“Oh,” Sherlock waved his hand around importantly “Simple. Thistles are the national flower of Scotland. And there are three feet in a yard.”

John arranged the information in his mind, and then suddenly it all clicked. “Scotland Yard.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock mused.

“So what does that have to do with anything?”

Sherlock scoffed “Think John, think! This man runs up to Scotland Yard with a body and basically challenges the police to find him. He’s being very brash and very up front about it, don’t you think? And now he leaves a message which can only mean Scotland Yard. It’s obviously a personal vendetta against the whole police force. All Yarders.”

“So…” John looked up and locked eyes with the cabbie, who had been watching them through the mirror as he became drawn into their conversation.

“So, we’re not looking for a normal criminal. This man feels that he is smarter than all of Scotland Yard, and he’s set out to prove it. This seems bitter, so I’ll say that this man attempted to join the police but wasn’t accepted. Probably due to his arguable scores on the various mental health exams. This is not only revenge, but also a chance to flaunt his pride and show what a good cop he might’ve made if he’d been on the right side of the law. He’s crafty, dramatic, and he probably knows all of the standard police tactics as well as how to divert the entire police force if necessary.

“He knows all of the Yard’s weaknesses and he’s just psychotic enough to exploit them. I’ll bet this won’t be his last murder either. No, no...” Sherlock broke off until his voice was a mellow hum.

“No, he’s too clever to get caught. Clever, clever, clever… he’ll kill again and this time he’ll make it even more obvious. He’ll be laughing as the police scramble to solve the murder. He thinks he’s clever.”

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to glow as he brought his hands up to his chin and calmly pressed each fingertip together.

“That’s the frailty of genius John, it needs an audience.” He said with a chilling finality.

“The only thing is…I guess you never know whose watching.” John said turning to look out to the city that he had been scrutinizing. It seemed a duller place after their conversation.

The cabbie was too happy to let them out. They seemed nice enough, but they dealt with killers and such things that he preferred not to think about. Plus they were weird. It wasn’t worth the fee to deal with a few odd balls for a few minutes. Sure he could use the money, and sure the conversation was good, but the last time he’d picked up a couple of blokes chatting about the Yard and bodies, someone had started shooting up his cab, and he’d almost become one of those bodies.

No, thank you. The next time a man in a black belstaff coat hailed him on the streets he would just keep driving.