docwithablog | storyline one.

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storyline one.

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[ They've been underway for about fifteen minutes, the train hurtling north along the tracks towards Liverpool. At this time of the day, it isn't terribly crowded yet and they've managed to grab an unoccupied tableseat, Sherlock claiming the window and splaying out his coat onto the neighbouring seat, just to discourage anyone from getting ideas. Lots of free seats all around, people, no need to infringe upon his personal space. Like this, he's currently watching the landscape go by, gaze tracking back and forth. He's got the (unopened) pack of rosin in one pocket, still, fingers playing with it idly as he thinks over the facts of the case, such as they are.

On the face of it, it seems a relatively straightforward assumption that something criminal has taken place (and thus naturally, that's what the police assume because they're all incompetent to various but sadly persistent degrees). One, there's the message urging one Elizabeth to contact the police (the use of the word tell rather than call - intriguing). Two, there's the regularity of Staunton's existence, the total lack of excitement in his life on any known parameters - get out of bed in the morning, make ready for work, go to work, stay until late, go home, sleep, rinse repeat (meaning, a man of habits - though, if you're clever, you ask yourself why). No signs of any criminal connections or associates, no apparent enemies, perhaps except for his fellow violinists, many of whom seem openly jealous at his talents.

Not exactly any obvious reasons for disappearing into thin air, all in all. Boring as his life may usually appear (can't know for sure, not enough data, dangerous to presume), Staunton's certainly made himself a bit of a mystery. ]

[ At Euston Station, Sherlock had been waiting for him, all mysterious and all stupid cheekbones in his long coat, collar up and they must have seemed like something out of a noir-type spy film as John had walked over to him and handed him the small pack of rosin, no doubt looking like the most middle-class drug dealer in the history of -- Well, Sherlock could probably tell him, right? He's got the experience, supposedly. Not that John doesn't still have a hard time wrapping his mind around that fact, Jesus. One of many things about Sherlock Holmes, he's beginning to realise, that you just have to accept and move on from.

Like the way he'd just pocketed the rosin and turned on his heel, heading for the platform opposite. No explanations. Nothing.

For now, they're sitting at one of the tables in the train towards Liverpool, because someone from there has got himself killed or kidnapped or in some other way vanished and Sherlock's excited (not that he currently looks it, his eyes tracking the landscape outside the window as it hurtles by, zoom, zoom, zoom) while John's simply too damn unemployed at the moment to turn down a chance of doing something else than empty one more half-full storage box, not that he came with a lot of those to begin with, right? Christ.

Blink, blink. He licks his bottom lip and leans forward, folding his hands neatly on top of the table, looking over at Sherlock with an eyebrow that's on a slow, but steady rise. ]

Are you going to tell me why I had to cross town to get you this very particular and might I add not exactly cheap pack of rosin?

[ John leans forward and Sherlock catches the look on his face reflected back at him in the window before he speaks, his brain running a lightening-quick analysis along the lines of curious, questions, oh yeah, the rosin! Consequently, John's question is quite redundant but that's often the state of things and he's growing used to them as the days go by. The sudden change from a relatively constant state of being just him, alone to... well, the opposite. To questions being asked, comments being made. Sharing breathing space.

So far, he doesn't even mind.

Giving John a quick glance, he grabs the pack and puts it on the table between them. ]

All right. [ He nods at the rosin. ] Open it up and I'll show you.

[ He noted, of course, John's comment regarding the price of the pack, not exactly cheap, meaning he probably couldn't actually afford it. There's something incredibly interesting about the way the other man keeps following along, ignoring the disadvantages for the most part because, what? Adrenalin junkie? Yes, yes, aren't we all. He thinks about the coke currently squirreled away in one of the kitchen cupboards (should probably re-locate that particular stash, actually), about five years with little company except for the Yard (ugh) along with the odd dealer now and then. Mycroft, too, at the worst of times.

Adrenalin is one thing, sure, but as he watches John expectantly, he suspects it might not be all. ]

[ All right, says Sherlock like John hasn't tried getting him to answer this particular question at least a handful of times already and it's been, what, an hour since the man texted him. As for evaded explanations, that's probably the current record, really, though John suspects it's a record to be broken and quite soon, too. As Sherlock fishes the pack out of his pocket and places it on the table between them, John looks at it for a long time (can't believe the thing cost him more than 10 quid, for God's sake, he could have had two pints for the same tenner), before finally raising his gaze and meeting the other man's expectant look. Open it up? It's rosin. You'd think he knows what that looks like, yeah.

Other eyebrow going up now, too, he inclines his head wordlessly and reaches for the pack, weighing it briefly on his palm before carefully, very carefully beginning to wrestle apart the cardboard edges. His fingers are easy and slow in their movements, peeling the flaps open without tearing them and finally ending up with a square piece of rosin enwrapped in wooden edges. He's seen these before, of course. Sherlock uses one for his violin, too - though, apparently not this specific type. He puts the packaging aside, in case they need it later, since he's frankly got no idea what the hell Sherlock will be showing him. What state the rosin will be left in afterwards. He's seen what the man does to the bloody human parts he takes home from Bart's, Jesus Christ.

Another long second, then he looks up at Sherlock again, expression open, genuinely interested. Show him, then. Show off. ]

[ He watches as John easily and methodologically (the hands of a soldier and a surgeon, steady, no apparent tremor) unwraps the rosin bar, its bright golden surface catching the light from outside. It looks rather nondescript; thus, it doesn't at all surprise him that the police showed no interest in it whatsoever. A violinist's tool and little else, isn't it? Idiots. With a nod, he reaches into his other pocket, rummages around briefly before coming up with a similar pack, though this one looks used, the cover worn and scratched in places. He peels off the lid and puts it on the table next to John's purchase. ]

Rosin, as the name implies, is made from resin. Some say it emits a pine-like smell which is ludicrous, really, considering the distilling process. All the same, well. [ He grabs John's rosin block and sniffs it loudly enough to make the lady on the other side of the aisle turn in her seat and give them a disapproving stare. Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, frowning. Then, he puts it down and grabs the other one. Same treatment. Sniiiiff, sniff sniff. A slow smile spreads on his lips. Yes, definitely a telling, telling difference here. ] All the same - it certainly shouldn't smell like roses and sandalwood.

[ He pushes the used block of rosin across the table. Leans back in his seat, gaze gliding upwards towards the ceiling. ]

I've checked his flat, of course. I found nothing there nor amongst his personal effects that might easily and logically explain why a star violinist would contaminate some of his most essential tech. You could argue that he likes the smell, supposedly, but whatever the substance might be could easily effect the properties of the rosin, leading to potentially detrimental effects on the musical experience. [ He shakes his head slightly. ] A bit of a wild risk, isn't it, for someone with such unshakable habits?

Edited 2020-04-13 21:09 (UTC)

[ Sherlock procures another pack of rosin from his pocket (does he always carry around essential evidence like that, seriously), peeling the lid off that one as well after having placed it on the table next to the pack John brought along. They look pretty much identical aside from level of wear. To John's no doubt untrained, idiot eye, mind you... A tight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth while Sherlock goes into semantics, though luckily not for long, John doesn't mind dictionaries but he prefers them dumber than this, let's be very real. Instead the man grabs the new rosin block and sniffs it non-too-discreetly, sounding very much the coke addict, actually, and John looks to the side, catching the eyes of an elderly lady on the other side of the aisle, his expression turning at least somewhat apologetic. Especially as Sherlock does it again with the other. Jesus. She huffs and very pointedly turns away, back to her needlework or whatever it is she's doing. Knitting.

It certainly shouldn't smell like roses and sandalwood. Looking down at the used pack as it makes its way across the table, John finally raises his chin and looks back at Sherlock. Well, he'll take his word for it. No, really, the more interesting question here is how the hell Sherlock gained entrance to the man's flat, he doesn't exactly come off as a type people would willingly buzz in, now, does he? There are times at three in the morning, honestly, when the man plays his violin completely uncaringly, when John desperately wishes he could leave him outside the locked front door, too. ]

So, someone else contaminated it? Someone who'd just, by the sounds of it, dipped his hands in a bucket of perfume.

[ Withdrawing his hands, letting them drop to his thighs and flexing them restlessly against the fabric of his trousers, John purses his lips slightly. Maybe they're looking for a woman. ... Obviously, they are looking for a woman already, but someone besides her. With a frown, he looks to the side, out the window, landscape a blur of colours on the other side of the glass panels. Who wants to hurt a violinist anyway?

A slight huff. There are times, supposedly, when he can think of at least one person, of course. ]

Edited 2020-04-14 03:40 (UTC)

[ As seems to be his habit, John picks out one of only a few, likely scenarios with apparent ease, his lips pursed in thought as he looks away, out the window. Sherlock watches him for a moment in silence, slipping the two packs of rosin back in his pockets. Though they've known each other only for a short while, he's starting to anticipate both the questions - of which there are many, generally - and the quality of them. Like most other people, the man's hardly any good at spotting essential details around him but he listens which is quite a... sensible personal characteristic.

Not just steady hands, no, but a steady approach to processing information, too.

Albeit slow. Can't help that, the world is slow. ]

If need be, I'll take it back to the lab for testing. [ He mirrors John (implicit social behaviour, a sign of friendliness or empathic competence in certain contexts, manipulative in others; the usual polarity), looking out of the window, fingers of one hand tapping restlessly against the table top. ] Evidently, Staunton's not as lonely as people claim.

[ Then, there's Elizabeth, supposedly with a surname similar enough to Overton that a quick slip of the finger would result in the wrong recipient getting her messages. Tell the police - tell them what, exactly? What would she know and why would she need urging to pass it on to relevant authorities? The keyword in this particular case, he thinks as he watches the world go by outside (houses, backyards, empty trampolines and swing sets, meaningless details, just one continuous flow of visual noise), is "secrets". Personal, private secrets. ]

[ A hmm, mostly a non-committal sound to affirm that he's heard what Sherlock said. Probably not necessary, after all, does the man even care, he regularly walks off in the middle of people's sentences as it is, but John is actually at the heart of it all still very pleased 1) to have found a place to live, violin and all and 2) to get to stretch his legs a little, crutch-free, so perhaps he's simply meant to lead by example here as they do it in the Army. Be the bigger man, if you can't have the bigger gun and Sherlock's the one with the guns in this particular context, apparently. Obviously.

The man was known to keep to himself, then? Sort of an archetypical, almost romantic perception of a talented artist, the friendless genius. Outside, the suburbs are blurring together into an indistinct mess of colours and shapes and he blinks, turns his head to look at Sherlock who's tapping his fingers against the tabletop, mirroring John's previous position, lost in thought. Wait, didn't he write -- ]

If he were, I'd have said it ran in the family with how you couldn't get a hold of his via either phone or e-mail. [ The whole train compartment shakes on its hinges as the tracks give somewhere and John frowns, waits for Sherlock to take an interest in him again, well aware that might be a while. Luckily he doesn't actually mind waiting, knows something about staying at his post, has done his fair share of that already, yes. He looks at Sherlock's fingers, quite big, now that you mention it -- tap, tap, tap. He's restless. The real question in regards to Sherlock Holmes is, of course, when is he not? ] I thought only a certain type of people tended to stay off the grid that way.

[ The data's too incomplete for any serious hypotheses at this time and consequently, he saves his preliminary analyses for later (1. parents estranged, keeping secrets that may require police intervention, lonely not by choice but by circumstance, 2. lonely by choice, someone willfully trying to sabotage his career and he's left to get away from the conflicts and 3. disappearance driven by outside forces, criminal reasons related to unknown circumstances). At John's comment, he shrugs. ]

Going by the evidence so far, speaking to his family is imperative. [ He fishes around for his phone. It's squeezed into his trouser pocket and he shifts around a bit, elbows and hips all over the place for a moment before he manages to get it out. ] Everything else is guesswork. [ He opens his notepad app and brings up his most recent, unfinished article, a small blog for his website on the historical development and scientific process regarding blood splatter analysis. Gaze slipping away from John and fixing on the screen, blocking out the other man quite efficiently from view, he adds, voice a murmur: ] Mustn't indulge.

[ With that, he starts tapping away at the screen. ]

[ John hasn't exactly been around Baker Street for long. How many days now, seven, ten? Barely two weeks and he already knows from hard-lived experience that this happens, sometimes. This thing, where Sherlock goes from relatively normal human interaction to suddenly being completely unavailable, mentally, if not physically. The man's gaze dropping, like now, to the phone he had to fight to fish out from his trouser pocket, hidden away underneath an unknown number of coat layers, Sherlock looking more octopus than man as he battles it loose from its hiding spot. And like that, you're just out of the picture again. John leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest and just stares at him, halfway entertained, halfway irritated.

Okay, so it's a principle. At least when no fortune cookies are involved, mind you, that you can't guess, because guessing is imprecise, biased, presumably and he feels like he's back at Bart's again, handing in dissertations and papers with so many quotes in them that you'd need a couple of pages worth of references to cover it all. A sigh. Fine, they'll talk to the family, see what they have to say before they think any further ahead. John shakes his head, looks out the window again. Well, before Sherlock thinks any further ahead, all John's got to do is hang on for dear bloody life.

After all, he's seen Sherlock's blog entries. Little studies on their own, awfully long, no one gets through that drivel unless they need to secure a high mark on something and even then, Google's probably going to be a quicker, if not quite as accurate help. Do university students even care about accuracy anymore? Hell, they didn't in his day, they probably still don't.

Sherlock cares, however. Which is undoubtedly what makes him the world's only consulting detective, yes. ]

[ After a less than eventful visit to Staunton's family home, an immense villa on the peninsula of Wirral in Heswall, they'd gone to visit Elizabeth Overstowe, a retired teacher living in a small townhouse in central Liverpool. Though his parents hadn't been forthcoming in any way whatsoever (newly rich, constructed a business empire from scratch, extremely private and apparently willfully ignorant as to the existence of their only son), one of the old maids of the household had caught with them on their way out, telling them to look up Mrs. Overstowe who'd "know of the boy if anyone does, she's always been there for him". Sherlock, on his part, was happy to have one theory confirmed. Estranged doesn't even begin to cover this.

Their visit to Elizabeth Overstowe has left them quite winded, though, seeing as they had to actually flee the premises. Those things happen but then again, she hadn't been at all forthcoming with any useful information so he doesn't really care. They're currently half-running down a small street lined with shops when he spots a coffee house on the corner. He comes to a complete stop, somewhat abruptly. ]

John! [ He points at the coffee shop. It's a relatively popular chain but it doesn't look crowded right now and he really needs to think. Gaze scanning the windows quickly (young couple, infatuated, too busy staring into each other's eyes to be disruptive; two students, university-age, heavy-looking bags, here to study and nothing else; old lady with a tiny dog) he nods to himself. It's fine, it'll do.] Coffee break!

[ Without further comment or elaboration, he crosses the street and heads for the narrow stairs leading to the entrance. ]

[ Most likely, he should be concerned with the fact that they got bloody well caught lurking at some nice, old lady's bedroom window and actively had to flee the place, running half across Liverpool with an angry neighbour at their heels. Because it's stuff like that, always getting into bloody trouble, which makes Sherlock seem completely at odds with the rest of the world, normalcy, whatever you want to call it. However, a good run was probably just what the doctor ordered, shit, after their visit to Staunton's childhood home which albeit much grander and richer than the shoddy Chelmsford townhouse he grew up in, still reeked of all the same problems and pretty much the same outcome, too.

So, John has spent most of their great escape thinking and wishing that he just -- wouldn't, really.

Suddenly, up front, because Sherlock happens to have much longer legs than him, the other man comes to an abrupt halt and yells his name, waving his arm at a coffee house across the street briefly before -- yes, as you'd expect, crossing the street and quite simply calling it a break all by himself, leaving John to desperately try and catch his breath (Army shape's seeping out of him, isn't it) while stumbling after Sherlock towards the coffee shop, catching up to him approximately two steps and a flight of stairs from the entrance. ]

Great! Good, very good. [ Coffee. Better than beer which is what he truly craves right now, go figure. ] Are you actually going to ingest something this time around?

[ John comes up panting behind him and Sherlocks throws a quick glance at him before entering the shop. The other man looks understandably winded (invalidated home from Afghanistan doesn't exactly imply top shape, does it) but apart from that, there's also something distinctively... dark, perhaps, about his demeanour. Has been, really, ever since they left the Stauntons'. For someone who can shoot a man without even a wobble, it ought to take more than a couple of rich idiots with superiority complexes to throw him off. Data for his John!file, isn't it. In it goes. He steps inside the coffee shop and speaks over his shoulder: ]

Never on a case. Feel free to have something yourself.

[ With that, he heads for the table he's had his eyes on since crossing the street. It's a corner table, small, just big enough for two and cramped in between the wall and the window. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it over the chair before slipping into his seat, his long legs crossed beneath the table as he staples his fingers under his chin. Like this, he goes over the facts of the case quickly, mind running through all possible scenarios and arriving at the same, basic conclusion: she must know. She knows. He could, potentially, head back to London, admit defeat and analyse the rosin, though it'll take forever getting anywhere useful with it - and then, who knows what might happen to Staunton who's still well and truly missing with too few people truly caring about his whereabouts? And more importantly, the case! The answers!

No, they'll have to go back to Elizabeth Overstowe. He can't see any better way from here. ]

[ Stopping in front of the counter, unattended as they're obviously the only newcomers currently, the few other customers in the coffee shop already appearing stocked up on beverages all-around, John glances after Sherlock with a frown. He hadn't eaten anything at Angelo's either, so apparently they've just encountered another principle which, along with the fact that the man's a poor eater on the best of days anyway, should kick John's medical training into gear, but honestly, he can't rightly be bothered. Though, you might at times have your doubts, the man is pushing his, what, mid-thirties (John actually doesn't know his exact age, now that he thinks about it), but under any circumstances -- what Sherlock Holmes puts in his mouth is really none of his business. Christ.

Abusing his credit card just a tad further, he buys himself a tall black coffee -- to go, because who the hell knows, exchanging a few pleasantries with the waitress who's speaking in a very distinct and very adorable Scouse, before making his way over to the table Sherlock's picked out, easing himself into the empty seat opposite him and stretching out his legs as much as can be done with the other man's long stilts crossed, knees absolutely everywhere. John's bump against his briefly as he shifts from one buttock to the other, trying to find a comfortable position and when Sherlock doesn't react, John raises an eyebrow, taking a long, thirsting drink of his coffee.

Okay, he's at a disconnect again. Lovely. ]

Dead end, it seems. Nobody's talking.

[ Another sip of his coffee ]

[ He's midways through planning a stakeout by Overstowe's house - need car, binoculars, streetmap to memorize the roads in the area, probably something for John to eat as they can't possibly stop for that - when John speaks, pulling him out of his thoughts. Oh. Oh, he's - here. With a cup of coffee and a rather obvious declaration. Sherlock glances at his cup, then at his face, noting for some reason that he can't possibly fathom that there are traces of coffee on his bottom lip. Blink. Blink. What was it - oh yeah, dead end. Well. ]

He wrote her. [ His voice is sharp, a hint of frustration underneath. ] He wrote her because she's his, what, sole parental figure? Must have taken some effort to work up such a level of trust, considering the way his actual parents have treated him. [ He frowns. ] But why would he write her? Tell the police what? [ Pause. He thinks for a moment, gaze growing distant, before he re-focuses on John: ] I need you to do some research for me while I gather supplies. Get an overview of crimes committed throughout Liverpool over the past week and a half - the more detail the better, though I suspect anything involving our friend has been anonymised into near obscurity.

Research, sure. [ He licks his bottom lip and repeats, mostly to commit it to memory -- crimes in Liverpool, past week and a half. ] I can do that.

[ He could look it up on the Internet, naturally, knows that's basically Sherlock's preferred method of researching everything from the weather in Cardiff to bus plans, but since the man's asking him to do it and spreading out a newspaper, running down a comparative amount of pages is how John has worked with data since his school days, they're going to do it the analogue way. Though, he will probably have to Google the way to the library... Alternatively, he could ask the waitress. Get himself another charming round of Scouse for his efforts. Yeah.

The coffee's nicely strong, nicely hot and the scent of it's filling his nostrils as he takes another long drink, considering Sherlock's final comment. Why would whatever they're looking for in regards to Staunton be any more anonymised than the rest? Oh. Well, he can probably think up a reason or two, right? Contrary to his family dirt that was secret to exactly no one, these are people who can pay their way out of most pickles.

Eyebrows knitting together, he licks his bottom lip again and throws it out there: ]

Would look bad for his parents, I suppose, that Godfrey's got himself into trouble.

[ It takes John a second to catch up but as always, he complies immediately and without question. Like that, he's... quite uniquely valuable as a case partner, really. Sherlock watches his thinking process, always very visually obvious on the other man's face, as he sips his coffee, licks his bottom lip (it's a thing he does pretty consistently meaning there's a pattern to it, meaning more data for his file) and offers his analysis. Would look bad for his parents, he says. Sherlock smiles briefly, feeling a burst of satisfaction. Unlike most other people, John does what he can with the available facts and though he doesn't always get it right, he tends to make... educated attempts.

Another reason why he's a great case partner thus far. ]

You have one hour. [ He sits back in his chair, straightens up - and then gets to his feet, grabbing his coat off the chair in a swirl of fabric. No time like the present, after all! ] I'll text you.

[ With that, he looks the other man over briefly once more (posture relaxed, mood alert, strong coffee for a solid burst of energy, it's good, they ought to get somewhere today, even if they don't make it all the way to the end) before spinning on his heel and leaving the coffee shop, dodging an incoming guest and ascending the stairs in one, fast jump. On his way down the street, he answers a text from Overton (not yet, will keep you posted - sh) before pocketing his phone once more. ]

[ You have one hour. I'll text you.

And so, like that, Sherlock Holmes is off again in a swirl of coat fabric and a glimpse of cheekbones, obviously done thinking for the time being -- if you can ever expect that man to be done thinking, come on. The clockworks are perpetually turning in his head, John's beginning to understand. Probably why he's up all night playing his bloody violin and not sleeping like normal people. John was warned and still didn't see it coming, fault's on him, he'll take it.

As he disappears down the stairs, the waitress staring after him curiously, John remains at the table only for a few seconds longer, eventually inclining his chin with a slight head shake, slapping his whole palm lightly against the tabletop twice and pushes himself to his feet, walking over to the counter with his half-finished coffee in one hand. The waitress smiles at him brightly. Good coffee, she asks.

Very good, he says with a strong tug at the corner of his mouth, half-smile growing. Listen -- scan the tag on her blouse, though don't stare too overtly, Miranda, could you tell me where the nearest library is?

She could, as a matter of fact. Along with the address and directions, she also writes down her phone number and he pockets the slip of paper with a slightly wider smile this time around. Okay then, some things are actually worth breaking a little sweat for, it seems. ]

[ It's almost midnight. They've been sitting in this car -- a steel grey BMW M5, because apparently everyone and their mothers in Liverpool likes big sedans to go with their hooligan behaviour, for seven and a half hours now, their stakeout only interrupted briefly by a very one-sided lunch break around six and whatever stints John has otherwise required in order to go take a leak. Apparently, Sherlock Holmes has a bladder made from bloody iron to match the stupid cheekbones, yes? Jesus Christ. He huffs out a breath, turning to the next page of the book he bought at the grocer's, some cheap mystery novel, like John Watson is currently in need of any more bloody mysteries... Anyway, he had a feeling this was where things were going, so he brought entertainment, hoping he wouldn't need it. Seeing as exactly nothing is currently happening further up the street in front of Overstowe's house, however, it might have been a good call on his part, after all.

Skimming the page, he turns to the next. ]

Oh, by the way. [ While he has filled in Sherlock on the major crimes he could sniff out from the headlines in the various local papers, things like an identity thief who'd bought a new condo in the name of the man whose identity he'd snatched and now the landowner is fighting a bitter fight to ensure that the victim has to pay up front or a still unknown man redistributing stolen goods in Toxteth, he suddenly recalls something that had seemed pretty minor to him at the time, minor enough that he hadn't actually copied the article, though he does remember what it said. ] There was a brawl in front of a pub in Ropewalks last week. Seems to fit the profile.

[ Next page. Another lady dies. Very sad. ]

[ He watches the house carefully, as he's done for the entire duration of their stake-out. It's getting progressively obvious that Elizabeth Overstowe is nothing if not a woman of quiet, unassuming habits. So far, they've watched her hang out her washing to dry - water the roses in her flowerbed out front - and accept deliveries by her door, having apparently chosen to forego grocery shopping. All in all, nothing of note; but then again, there wouldn't be, would there, at any sensible time of day? He thinks about Staunton's message again. Tell the police. Tell them. Gaze slipping from the house to the street (cars lining the parking spaces, most of them taken except a few at the opposite end, street lights on, only a few people out and about at this hour, though the busier mainstreet further down is bustling with activity - quiet area, this, comparatively, good place to hide away once your terrible parents have thrown you out for the second or third time), he blinks as John's voice intrudes upon his thought process.

There was a brawl he says. Eyes narrowing, he glances sideways. ]

You didn't think to tell me that earlier? [ An exasperated exhalation. ] What happened? Any arrests?

[ Just as he finishes his last question, the front door opens. His gaze snaps back to the front of the house. After a few seconds, Elizabeth Overstowe steps outside carefully, glancing to all sides and looking distinctively uncomfortable (hunched shoulders, arms crossed against her upper body, gaze jumping from place to place, body movements erratic) before heading for her small Fiat Panda parked right by the pavement. He breathes out slowly. Notes what he can from this distance (clothes: unchanged from earlier in the day, practical and unremarkable; boots, not shoes, insulated and heavy-looking, good grip for slippery or muddy roads; scarf half-covering her face and a coat just a fraction too hot for the weather - accessories: bag over shoulder, filled with... cardboard boxes, small, several stacked on top of each other, probably not groceries but something else, something of practical value) and pushes the key into the ignition. ]

None. Everything was resolved -- [ He notices the shift of Sherlock's attention before he notices Overstowe who's finally venturing into the wild, the way his eyes (which are a rare case, naturally, of sectoral heterochromia, what did you expect, normal eyes, come on) snap back to her house, her pathway, her car in time with the woman making her way over. She's dressed for some kind of weather, certainly, colder than what they're currently under, a pair of heavy boots on her feet and a warm coat hanging around her frame. Bag over one shoulder. Not doing the shopping at this hour and probably not with her bag already full of stuff, no. John continues: ] -- on location.

[ Sherlock pushes the key into the ignition and John looks out the window quickly, before finally abandoning his book, turning in his seat to dump it in the back of the car. Then, quite calmly, though his heart's already racing and apparently there are things better than sex, like really getting your adrenaline pumping this bloody hard (he remembers missions in Helmand, a mix of dread and excitement in the pit of his stomach, hands working fast and working well), he buckles up with little to no hurry whatsoever. Better not be spotted by the poor lady, after all. If he has to end this night on a note of performing CPR on her because their stalking adventure lands her in cardiac arrest, he's going to sore as hell. ]

Just a couple of rat-arsed drunks quarreling, they wrote. Nothing to pursue.

[ He waits until the small car's nearing the end of the main street before turning on the engine and pulling out, having parked with easy access to the road. Slowly, carefully, he sets off after Elizabeth, taking the time to anticipate her movements and keeping a solid distance. She's moving quickly through the city centre, each turn and twist executed with a high degree of familiarity. She knows her way around, yes, and more importantly - she knows exactly where she's going. He takes a moment to reply to John's comment, brain running two distinctively different tracks simultaneously. ]

Nothing indeed. [ Exactly as expected. ] So, what do we have, John? Staunton, a seemingly boring man with a seemingly boring life, disappears without any warning or explanation, despite being up for a huge gig - [ Checking his watch. ] - in precisely 20 hours. His flat looks untouched, his suitcase unpacked, and his family doesn't find his disappearance even slightly worrisome as they'd rather pretend he doesn't exist. Elizabeth Overstowe knows him very well indeed and has always taken care of him. He writes her in a panic, asking her to tell the police something of note - not call, mind, but tell - meaning there's either an on-going case - [ He frowns. ] - unlikely - or something soon to be reported. It's something personal or he wouldn't have inconvenienced her. It's also of at least some importance to him, seeing as he's left his job to hang in order to attend to whatever it is. [ Pause. In a low voice, almost a mutter: ] Whatever, whomever.

[ She takes a left-turn up ahead, seemingly headed... back towards mid-town? Odd. ]

[ You should think the man's done this before which, let's be real, he probably has, pulling out slowly, carefully only once the old lady's small car is nearing the main street further down. John glances sideways at him, watches while Sherlock manages to take them through what must be an unfamiliar city centre (unless he happens to have all of Liverpool crammed inside his head, too) while simultaneously summarizing the case down to the last detail and how does he multi-task that effortlessly? It's taken John literally years to perfect asking for a scalpel when in the middle of cutting people up. Christ.

Overstowe appears to not only be intimately familiar with the many turns of midtown as a general thing, but it's obvious she's perfectly familiar with whatever destination she's headed for, too. John mulls over Sherlock's presentation of Staunton's disappearance for a moment, focusing on how there seemingly has been no break-in in his apartment (no obvious signs of theft or an attack, only the rose-scented rosin) and neither has he simply opted and left, because his suitcase has been left untouched behind. What can make a man take off with only the clothes on his back, ditching a huge work opportunity like that? What makes you misdial a text asking an old friend from the past for help? Very strong feelings, presumably. ]

We're back to that, then - someone else is involved? Someone he's personally connected to and whose, what, hands smell like roses? [ Up ahead, Overstowe starts backtracking. Don't tell him they've been made already... His gaze shifts between her darkened rear window and Sherlock's face, half-lit by a passing car's headlights. ] The lonely violinist.

Edited 2020-04-16 03:51 (UTC)

[ Overstowe turns left at the next intersection, finally heading away from city centre. Sherlock keeps them at a distance, the BMW growling with every touch to the speeder. Not the most inconspicious car, is it, the chosen favourite of the Liverpool public? It's also low-set, bulky and has an ugly nose but what can you do? He inches forward, maintaining a steady speed and forcing himself not to slow down whenever Overstowe makes a turn up ahead, waiting to act until he's well out of her rearview mirror. ]

Yes. [ Left turn, right, straight ahead, next intersection. Is she speeding up? ] Question is - when is a brawl not a brawl?

[ Overstowe makes a sharp turn to the right and he realises only once he follows her that there's something peculiar about the sudden increase in her pace. She isn't hurrying along for the sake of getting anywhere faster - she's trying to lose them. With a frown, he turns off down a parallel road, knowing that they'll intercept her further down. She's a tiny old lady, surely she isn't actually stealthy enough to throw them off their game. However, they're stuck mid-town again which is a sure sign she isn't going where she's supposed to go at this point; the boots tell a different story.

Lips thinning, he sneaks the BMW forward, catching sight of her taillights as she turns left right before passing them. He waits. Follows, slowly. ]

When -- it's premeditated assault?

[ Now that he thinks about it, it's peculiar the paper would even touch down on a brawl with no arrests, what, nothing of greater importance takes place in Liverpool? It's a big city. You can't make him believe that, except they almost did and joke's on him, presumably. Good thing he managed to remember the article in due time -- and good thing Sherlock's so damn clever.

Frowning, John watches as Overstowe is most definitely quickening the pace up front and if she hasn't clocked them at this point, she's a very speed-enthusiastic old lady which fits with exactly nothing else they've discovered about her so far. Sherlock seems to have picked up on it as well, obviously, what did you expect, and turns down a parallel road all but inching down towards the crossroads where they're supposedly going to intercept her again. Sherlock catches on to her once more as she makes a left before spotting them, her taillights showing the way.

Really, John's mystery novel is cheap in every conceivable definition of the word compared to this, shit. Staunton got attacked which may have led to his sudden disappearance and Sherlock's pretty much going full-out MI6 on their escaping witness. Beats anything you can think up for kicks. ]

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