Murder with Lens: A Sherlock Holmes Case (221B Baker Street Series) by S.K. Lloyds Page A
Authors: S.K. Lloyds
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Young said to Lestrade. “It’s a fundamental part of their psychology, and has nothing to do with you.”
“You’ll pardon my saying that’s bollocks.” Lestrade told her as he passed. “If these guys don’t trust us, well, no one’s born not trusting other people.”
John smothered the grin he felt, turned, and nodded goodbye to Reese. It gave him pause to see the girl so emotionless and still, framed by her blacked-out room. Lewis made himself comfortable in a chair by the door.
Sherlock was well down the hall. In fact, John had to run to catch up with the man. “We lose them in the building. The Homeless Network will know where Delov is.” He glanced at John. “I knew it from the moment Reese said ‘park’. However, the network will evaporate at the first sign of police.”
“You are police.” John told him happily.
Sherlock didn’t appreciate the reminder, and grimaced, “Yes. I’ll need to divest myself of that at first opportunity. What about you? Are you hungry? Should we stop by the house for the Browning?”
“If we’re going alone then… yes.” John admitted. “And I could really use breakfast.”
Sherlock’s glance was clever, “Wouldn’t want you passing out mid-apprehension.”
“Wouldn’t want you getting shot,” John added a belated, “again.”
***
‘Molly. Need the microscope a little longer. -SH’ Sherlock wrote on Molly Hooper’s blog, sat back, and watched John sprinkle tabasco on his eggs.
Sherlock lifted his curled finger off his lips to say: “Smells wretched.” He backed up a page and frowned at the pinkness. Most of her real estate was devoted to frolicking kittens. So fluffy. So insubstantial. In many ways, that was Molly. Why was she so interested in him? Such a handy and inconvenient thing – he couldn’t fathom it. He needed her to be. And he wished she wasn’t. He hated needing her. He hated her pushing; her entrapments; how her gambits forced his hand. But needed her. He’d come to detest the smell of Molly’s Sung perfume. But when he thought about that fact, his mind presented him with the memory of chocolate and black cherries, and he felt a small twinge. A kick of appetite.
John interrupted his devolving thoughts, but then he was good at keeping a man from dwelling. He said, “You ate a whole bottle of tabasco last time you refueled.”
“Quite right. It was the only way I could stomach the tins of mushroom,” Sherlock told him. When John looked green around the gills, Sherlock felt rewarded. He turned aside and grinned.
And Sarah knocked at the living room door, even though it was open, and then walked into the flat. Sherlock didn’t particularly want to see Sarah right then. She waggled her fingers at him, and Sherlock ignored the action. He had busied himself nosing around in Lawrence Waters’ cell phone. He eventually closed his hands around it and held it cupped under his chin.
John, however, shoved over to make room for Sarah. She laid a plastic container on the coffee table and tapped it with her fingertips. “Date squares. I know how you love dates.”
“Luckily, Sherlock doesn’t like dates.” John chuckled.
“He eats anything.” Sarah told him. “Nice try.”
“Would you believe double-entendre?” John asked, “Want some scrambled eggs?” She stood straight and the sun through the windows made a sheen of her hair. Beautiful!
Once she joined him on the couch Sarah picked up some of the bacon and bit into it with a satisfying crunch. It was mouth-watering, really. John had no idea how Holmes could stand going so long without food, and even less notion how he went without companionship. When he looked at Sarah, the idea was too lonesome to imagine.
“I talked to her.”
He blinked, “Who?”
“Sofia.”
“Oh! Yes, Sofia.” There was a cramped bookshop, an empty dorm room, several CIA agents, a girl genius, and a decapitated body between John and Sofia now. “How is she doing?”
“She’s sorry.
“You’ll pardon my saying that’s bollocks.” Lestrade told her as he passed. “If these guys don’t trust us, well, no one’s born not trusting other people.”
John smothered the grin he felt, turned, and nodded goodbye to Reese. It gave him pause to see the girl so emotionless and still, framed by her blacked-out room. Lewis made himself comfortable in a chair by the door.
Sherlock was well down the hall. In fact, John had to run to catch up with the man. “We lose them in the building. The Homeless Network will know where Delov is.” He glanced at John. “I knew it from the moment Reese said ‘park’. However, the network will evaporate at the first sign of police.”
“You are police.” John told him happily.
Sherlock didn’t appreciate the reminder, and grimaced, “Yes. I’ll need to divest myself of that at first opportunity. What about you? Are you hungry? Should we stop by the house for the Browning?”
“If we’re going alone then… yes.” John admitted. “And I could really use breakfast.”
Sherlock’s glance was clever, “Wouldn’t want you passing out mid-apprehension.”
“Wouldn’t want you getting shot,” John added a belated, “again.”
***
‘Molly. Need the microscope a little longer. -SH’ Sherlock wrote on Molly Hooper’s blog, sat back, and watched John sprinkle tabasco on his eggs.
Sherlock lifted his curled finger off his lips to say: “Smells wretched.” He backed up a page and frowned at the pinkness. Most of her real estate was devoted to frolicking kittens. So fluffy. So insubstantial. In many ways, that was Molly. Why was she so interested in him? Such a handy and inconvenient thing – he couldn’t fathom it. He needed her to be. And he wished she wasn’t. He hated needing her. He hated her pushing; her entrapments; how her gambits forced his hand. But needed her. He’d come to detest the smell of Molly’s Sung perfume. But when he thought about that fact, his mind presented him with the memory of chocolate and black cherries, and he felt a small twinge. A kick of appetite.
John interrupted his devolving thoughts, but then he was good at keeping a man from dwelling. He said, “You ate a whole bottle of tabasco last time you refueled.”
“Quite right. It was the only way I could stomach the tins of mushroom,” Sherlock told him. When John looked green around the gills, Sherlock felt rewarded. He turned aside and grinned.
And Sarah knocked at the living room door, even though it was open, and then walked into the flat. Sherlock didn’t particularly want to see Sarah right then. She waggled her fingers at him, and Sherlock ignored the action. He had busied himself nosing around in Lawrence Waters’ cell phone. He eventually closed his hands around it and held it cupped under his chin.
John, however, shoved over to make room for Sarah. She laid a plastic container on the coffee table and tapped it with her fingertips. “Date squares. I know how you love dates.”
“Luckily, Sherlock doesn’t like dates.” John chuckled.
“He eats anything.” Sarah told him. “Nice try.”
“Would you believe double-entendre?” John asked, “Want some scrambled eggs?” She stood straight and the sun through the windows made a sheen of her hair. Beautiful!
Once she joined him on the couch Sarah picked up some of the bacon and bit into it with a satisfying crunch. It was mouth-watering, really. John had no idea how Holmes could stand going so long without food, and even less notion how he went without companionship. When he looked at Sarah, the idea was too lonesome to imagine.
“I talked to her.”
He blinked, “Who?”
“Sofia.”
“Oh! Yes, Sofia.” There was a cramped bookshop, an empty dorm room, several CIA agents, a girl genius, and a decapitated body between John and Sofia now. “How is she doing?”
“She’s sorry.
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