Sherlock Holmes in New York (pt 7)

[sunken_standard]

Title: Sherlock Holmes in New York

Rating: R for language, violence, allusions to sexuality, drug use

Pairing: Sherlock/ Irene Adler (past), Sherlock/ John bromance (or pre-slash, if you have your slash goggles on)

Warnings: Nothing extremely graphic, see rating.

Spoilers: All three episodes to be safe.

Wordcount: 24,400

Summary: When Sherlock tracks Moriarty to New York City, he's drawn in to helping an old friend. John isn't sure what to make of any of it.

Betas/ Britpickers: pantropia, herovillian, brewsternorth, marshmellowed


 

Continued from pt 6

Dr. Moran's office was on the second floor of a run down red brick building. On the first floor was an accountant and public notary. It didn't look like the kind of place to house a medical practice, but John didn't discount it entirely. He'd done exploratory surgery under a tent, so needs must and all that.

The door at the top of the stairs had a plaque bearing Moran's name, underneath that the office hours in white vinyl lettering. Some of the numbers were peeling off. Thursday's office hours were until noon, none on Friday or Saturday. Possible he had another office somewhere or picked up a hospital rotation.

Sherlock set about picking the lock. The door swung open in less than a minute. Sherlock quickly located the alarm panel and flipped it open. “Don't know why they even bother,” he murmured as he typed in the four-digit code. The warning chirp of the alarm stopped.

“That's amazing! How did you know the code?”

Sherlock was already halfway across the reception area. “Simple. It was written on the inside of the alarm cover.” He tried the door leading back to the offices, and finding it unlocked, stepped through.

John took a moment to look over the room. Pastel padded chairs, muted teal carpet, Monet prints on the cream-coloured walls. Bookshelves holding an array of battered picture books. Perspex magazine holders fastened to the walls holding pamphlets and photocopied fact-sheets. A plastic toy box in one corner, more toys on the small, low tables between the chairs. Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as he could tell.

He followed Sherlock, careful to pull his jumper sleeve over his hand when he opened the door. After his ASBO, he was cautious of leaving fingerprints. Sherlock wasn't in the filing area behind the receptionist's desk, so John crept back along the hallway. To his left was a lavatory. John ducked in and grabbed a handful of purple nitrile gloves, stuffing all but two in his pocket. He continued down the hall, pulling on the gloves. On the right-hand side was another door, closed. He assumed it to be an examination room. The door at the end of the hall was ajar, the sound of rustling paper coming from inside.

Sherlock was bent over the desk, rifling a stack of files.

“Anything?”

Ignoring the question, Sherlock ordered, “Grab the boy's chart.” He started opening desk drawers, bending to jemmy the lock on one of the bottom ones. “While you're there, look for Arthur Moore.”

John returned to the filing area, locating Nero's chart quickly amongst the wall of files. When he pulled it out, the one next to it fell to the floor. When he bent to pick it up, he realized it was full of blank paper. He put it back and pulled out another chart at random. Blank. Just to be sure, he pulled out three more. All blank.

He started back the hallway but was intercepted by Sherlock. “It's a front. This whole place is a front.”

“Not entirely.”

“The charts are blank!”

“Those are. There's a filing cabinet in his office with the real ones. He does see patients, just not very many.” He handed two file folders back to John as he walked out of the reception area and into the waiting room. They had the same colour-coded filing stickers as the charts. The top one was for Nero Adler. John opened it. Instead of medical records, it was a series of surveillance photos. The bottom folder was marked Arthur Moore. John didn't have time to look inside, as Sherlock was already disappearing out the door.

John had just set foot in the hallway when Sherlock came bolting back toward him, hustling them into the office and back through the waiting room. “Armed security guards on the stairs. It must have been a dummy code.” He pulled John back the hallway and into Moran's office. Sherlock worked the window open and they climbed onto the fire escape. It was rusty and clearly not up to code. John felt it begin to sway as Sherlock tore down the steps. With every footfall, the bolts holding it to the building worked their way farther out of the crumbling mortar. John was halfway down the steps when one of the security guards came through the open window, shouting. He vaulted himself over the side, hanging on the railing one-handed to slow his descent. He dropped to the ground and took off running. With a squealing groan, the fire escape finally pulled free of the building and tipped over into the alleyway behind it, dumping the first guard onto the pavement. A shot rang out, the bullet pitting the pavement just to his left. He rounded the corner he'd seen Sherlock disappear behind and sprinted after him. They wove through a series of side streets until they came to a main thoroughfare. They jumped the queue at the taxi stand to a few disgruntled shouts and piled into the waiting cab, panting. Sherlock gave the driver an address and collapsed back against the seat.

“Nice touch with the fire escape,” Sherlock said, chuckling.

“Felt a bit like Bond, there,” John giggled. They shared a laugh. When he'd composed himself, he asked, “Where are we going?”

Sherlock took the files from him, flipping open the one marked Arthur Moore. “Moran's house,” he said distractedly, as he became absorbed in the file.

“Nothing like walking into the lion's den then, is there?”

“Mm. Indeed.”

Streets passed in silence as Sherlock read through what appeared to be a legitimate medical chart. John studied the surveillance photos of Irene's son. Nothing seemed to stand out. It was just a boy, usually in school uniform, walking on the street or waiting for a train. Two other boys were with him in some of the photos. John assumed them to be Nero's schoolmates. The flipped the pictures over, looking for dates or locations. Nothing.

“So do you reckon Moran is a mob doctor, then?”

“Possibly. I do suspect that he has some expertise in the diagnosis and treatment of autism though, going by his notes. If this is a legitimate medical file, and I suspect it is, Moran has diagnosed Moriarty with Asperger's. Irrelevant, but interesting.”

Sherlock's phone rang.

“Are you going to get that?”

“No. If it's Lafferty, he'll text.”

The phone stopped ringing. Seconds later, John's phone rang. He fished it out of his trouser pocket and looked at the display screen. Irene Adler. “Hello?”

“Hey Doc... Are you with Sherlock? He's not answering his phone....” Irene sounded relaxed. High as a kite, more like.

“He's here,” Sherlock shook his head, scowling. John rolled his eyes. “He's a bit busy at the moment. Have you found anything on the tape?” John kept his gaze trained on Sherlock, who had gone back to perusing the file.

“Owls, man.”

“Owls. Really.” John kept his voice flat. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, man. It was freaky. I wasn't picking up on any background noises at all, right? But then, right at the end of the recording, there was this teensy little sound, like somebody starting to ask a question really far away.... So I isolated it and it sounded like Halloween....”

“Halloween.”

Irene hooted to illustrate. “I matched it up to species on YouTube. Great Horned Owl. They're some creepy- lookin' motherfuckers, ya know?”

John covered the mouthpiece of his phone with his hand. “She said there was an owl in the background-”

“I can hear her perfectly well from here. Tell her to sleep it off.”

“Was that Sherlock? Hey Sherlock! It was an owl!”

John winced and held the phone away from his ear. Sherlock plucked it from his fingers. “Irene-”

“Heya sweetie! Ya know,” she cut in. Her voice was still loud enough for John to hear.

Sherlock spoke over whatever she was going to say. “Is Lafferty there with you?”

“Psh. He's a pill. Oh! I forgot! There was a bonus track on the end of the tape. He went to go check it out.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “Where did he go?”

“Fifty-third and Third, tryin'na turn a trick!” She singsonged.

“When did he leave?”

“Ummmmmm... I just started peaking, but it was before that...”

“We'll be back soon. Keep the doors locked and stay away from the windows.” Sherlock slid the phone shut and handed it back to John. He ordered the driver to 53^rd and 3^rd.

They sat in contemplative silence until the cab pulled up to the curb. Sherlock launched himself out onto the pavement while John paid, already scanning for clues or Lafferty. Sherlock must have spotted something, as he was off crossing the street, narrowly avoiding getting clipped by the last car through the light.

A crowd was gathering around a cordon of police tape. There was a body, blood still fresh and red on the pavement. It was Lafferty. He'd been shot in the head.

“Sniper?” John asked, his Army training kicking in as he looked for the most likely vantage point and took note of the closest cover.

“Hard to tell from this distance. I suspect it was close range.” His eyes darted over the crowd. “There.” He took off again, John at his heels.

A young blonde man, barely out of his teens, dressed in tight jeans and a skimpy t-shirt, a lightweight olive drab jacket tied about his waist, took off running when he knew he'd been spotted. He tore around the side of the building, but tripped on the uneven brick of the courtyard beyond. Sherlock was on him in an instant, pinning him to the ground with a knee in his back. The man's left arm was held down by Sherlock's other knee. “John, in his waistband. Gun.”

John pulled on another glove, thankful he'd grabbed a handful. He eased the gun out of the young man's jeans and emptied the clip on the pavement, then kicked both away.

Sherlock had his hands in the man's shaggy hair, pushing his face into the pavement. “Where is Moriarty?”

The man laughed. “I love it when you take charge.”

“I don't have time for this. John, search his pockets.” Sherlock yanked the man's head back. “Where is the man that made you do this?”

“You know it's extra for two-”

Sherlock slammed his head into the brick. “Moriarty! How does he contact you?”

“He said you liked it rough.” The man spat blood from a split lip.

“Sherlock.” John held out a sheet of paper. On it were three photos. The top one was the photo of himself he'd posted on his blog. On the bottom were Lafferty (head shot like a driving license or badge photo) and Irene (half of a candid photograph, part of someone else's shoulder). Sherlock glanced over and then back to the man beneath him.

“John, give me your gun.”

John began to protest, but Sherlock trained a steady gaze on him. The man beneath him redoubled his efforts to get away. Sherlock let go of the man's head and took John's gun, jamming it into the space just below his ear, putting pressure on the man's jaw. “How do you contact Moriarty?” he asked in a level tone.

The man whimpered, but didn't speak. Sherlock thumbed off the safety.

“He contacts you, man! I never seen the guy, okay?”

Sherlock pressed harder with the gun. “How does he contact you?”

“There's a guy who gets us candy- oxy, percs, blues, the good shit. He's the one who gave me the gun and told me what to do. He said I only had to do one, whoever turned up first. Fuck! He told me not to run afterward, stay close because they wouldn't look. Don't kill me, please!”

Sherlock flicked the safety back on and brought the butt of the gun down on the man's temple. He got up and dusted himself off, handing the gun back to John.

“We have to find Moran.”

They hurried away from the scene. John asked, “So it was what? A trap? The song on the tape?”

“Obviously. He knew one of us would go to investigate.”

“How did he know about Lafferty? He made the tape before we even knew about him.”

“He's been keeping surveillance. He knew when we got the tape. The rent boy was probably milling around the scene all day waiting for one of us to turn up.”

“Wait, what rent boy?”

“The gunman. Worked for an escort service, not a terribly high class or discreet one, but not a streetwalker either. His eyebrows had been recently waxed.”

“How-”

“Don't be obtuse John, he said so himself. The army jacket was a nice touch. It would no doubt appeal to Moriarty's sense of humour to know that he actually killed a Green Beret. It's in the song lyrics.” Sherlock handed John his phone.

John skimmed the web page containing the lyrics. “Christ.”

They walked the rest of the way to Moran's penthouse flat, five blocks north of where Lafferty had been shot. Sherlock didn't even need to charm his way into the building to get what he needed. The doorman told them Moran had left for his hunting cabin in the Poconos for the weekend. Sherlock thanked the man and strode away, phone already in hand as he hailed a taxi.

“John, can you drive?”


Continued in pt 8