Alchemy

by Marie S. Crosswell

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't want sex, Lestrade. I don't imagine I ever will. You know that. You've always known that. I can't give you what you're used to getting from your boyfriends. It wouldn't be fair to you, to keep you from having sex with other people when you can't get it from me."

  Lestrade breaks into an open-mouthed smile. "Are you serious?" she says. "That's what you think I'm after? You think I care more about sex than I do about you?"

  Sherlock doesn't reply, feeling uncertain and probably looking it too.

  "I just told you I'm in love with you. I could've shagged my date tonight, but I didn't because for the first time in my life, I don't want to shag men. No matter how nice they are or what they look like."

  "You want to shag me," says Sherlock.

  "No," says Lestrade. "I mean, of course, if you wanted it, I would make love to you. And I'm sure it would be lovely. But that's not at the forefront of my mind, Sherlock. That's not the point. It's not what I want most of all."

  "What do you want?"

  "You. Just you. The way you are, the way you've always been."

  The two women stare each other, the air in the room now thick with emotion and tension.

  "I don't want to lose our friendship," Sherlock says, her voice quiet and her heart pained. "I don't want to disappoint you, then see our friendship ruined because of it."

  Lestrade takes a few steps toward her. "I don't want to lose our friendship either," she says, matching Sherlock's hushed volume. "And we won't. No matter what happens, I'll always be your friend. Always."

  "You can't make promises like that. You can't predict the future or how you would feel if a romance between us failed. You could hate me, resent me, regret the whole experiment and want to put me in the past to move on."

  Lestrade makes another step forward. "I could never hate you."

  Sherlock looks at her and doesn't know what to do. Whatever she says, whatever she decides, she could lose Lestrade—whether now or later.

  "Sherlock," Lestrade says, her voice soft and low, reminding Sherlock of honey dripping from a spoon. "Do you love me?"

  "You know I do," says Sherlock.

  "Do you trust me?"

  Sherlock pauses, just for a second. "Yes. With my life."

  Lestrade searches her eyes and her face. "If I ask you to be my partner and you accept, our relationship would only change as much as you want it to. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. I would be happy just knowing we have each other—that we love each other. I don't expect you to be someone else. I don't want you to be."

  Sherlock doesn't move or speak, as Lestrade slowly comes closer, their eyes locked. Lestrade reaches her, moves right into her space until they're face to face and close enough to lean against each other. Sherlock looks down at her shoes, and Lestrade clasps her forearm.

  "It's okay," she says. "Whatever you decide, I'll be here."

  Sherlock looks into her eyes again, Lestrade's hand warm on her arm, even through the sleeve of her shirt. She can tell Lestrade means it, that Sherlock could reject her and they would carry on their friendship as usual—despite her pain and disappointment. Lestrade is one of the most loyal people Sherlock has ever met. Sherlock admires her for it, even if she doesn't understand it.

  "Kiss me," Sherlock says.

  Lestrade smiles, leans in, and kisses her on the mouth, still holding onto Sherlock's arm. They close their eyes until Lestrade breaks the kiss, and when they look at each other again, Lestrade's eyes gleam. Sherlock's never been kissed before, and she wasn't sure how she would feel about it. She's never wanted to kiss anyone, but standing in front of Lestrade now, feeling the warmth in her chest and belly, she looks at the other woman and wonders why they didn't do this sooner.

  "Kiss me again," Sherlock says.

  Lestrade grins, lifts her hands to cup Sherlock's face, strokes Sherlock's cheeks with her thumbs a little, then kisses her. A tender kiss, full of love. She holds it a little longer than the first one, then pulls back and looks at Sherlock.

  "Is this a yes, then?" Lestrade says.

  "To being your partner?" Sherlock replies. "Yes. I think it is."

  "Can we do this all the time?"

  "Kissing?"

  "Yeah, kissing."

  "I wouldn't mind."

  Lestrade smiles, her dark eyes shining with joy, and kisses Sherlock again, softer this time. Grateful. She pulls Sherlock into a hug, and Sherlock wraps her arms around her with fierce affection, shutting her eyes and burying her face in Lestrade's shoulder. Breathing in her scent. They hold onto each other for a long time, and Sherlock forgets about the murders and Moriarty and her water dreams. Just for a while.

  *~*~*

  Sherlock's watching the fire burn in the sitting room fireplace, alone in 221B. She's not sure where Watson is or when she'll return. Lestrade, no doubt, is at Scotland Yard, perhaps working on the homeless serial case or something else she hasn't mentioned to Sherlock. Sherlock almost hopes Lestrade isn't working on the homeless serial, because unless a miracle happens to her outside of Sherlock's presence, she won't be doing anything but banging her head against the proverbial blank wall.

  Someone rings the building doorbell on the ground floor, and the buzzing reverberates into 221B. Sherlock pauses, looking at her own flat door and listening for Mrs. Hudson to answer the visitor. After a sufficient silence, she hauls herself up out of her chair and goes downstairs, hearing the doorbell a second time before she reaches the foyer.

  One of her trusted homeless informants is waiting on the Baker Street doorstep.

  "Eliza," Sherlock says.

  "Holmes," says the girl, in her Cockney accent.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I have information—about the murders."

  Sherlock feels a jolt of energy zip through her body. She steps back to make room for Eliza, opening the door wider.

  They go upstairs to 221B, and Eliza sits in Sherlock's chair before the fire, where she sat the first time she visited.

  "Tea? Water? Food?" Sherlock says, already standing in the threshold between kitchen and sitting room.

  "Can I have it all?" Eliza replies, familiar enough with Sherlock to know she doesn't have to be polite.

  Sherlock nods and heads into the kitchen. There's still hot water in the kettle, because she brewed herself a cup of tea a little while ago, and she pours it into a clean mug, steeping a chamomile tea bag. Eliza likes chamomile tea best. Sherlock adds sugar and cream and takes it to Eliza, who smiles and holds the mug with both hands.

  Sherlock returns to the kitchen and pokes her head into the refrigerator. "How've you been?" she says.

  "Fine," says Eliza. "Were you worried?"

  Sherlock takes the leftover curry from dinner two nights ago out of the fridge and dumps it onto a plate before sticking it in the microwave. She pours Eliza a glass of water as the food heats up and takes it to her with the plate.

  She sits in Watson's chair and folds her legs up on the seat, watching as Eliza sets her mug on the stack of books at the foot of her chair where Sherlock deposited the glass of water and begins to eat. Sherlock sips at her own tea again, now lukewarm, and gives the girl a minute to enjoy herself.

  The fire crackles beside them, and Sherlock thinks about how the warmth must feel better to Eliza than it does to her. It isn't cold outside, just cool enough for a light jacket, but living outdoors day and night, constantly exposed to the elements and without anywhere comfortable to rest or sleep, would leave any woman wanting for warmth.

  "To answer your question, no," Sherlock says. "I wasn't worried about you."

  Eliza just looks at her, chewing.

  "I've had too much on my mind to worry about any of my street contacts in particular. Good to see you're alive and well, though."

  "Do you know who's doing it?" says Eliza. "The murders."

  "No," Sherlock replies, almost ashamed.

  "Yeah, I didn't think so. I thought I would've hea
rd something by now if you did." She reaches down over the arm of her chair for the glass of water and drinks a couple gulps. "What I have to tell you, I've known for two days, and I would've come sooner but...."

  Sherlock stares at her, blinking, noticing the way Eliza averts her eyes and the hint of apology in her tone. "You weren't sure about me," she says.

  Eliza looks up at her again, clear-eyed and almost surprised. "I wasn't sure it was safe," she says. "Because he might be watching. I didn't have any doubts about you."

  Sherlock doesn't answer, feeling a strange mix of relief and disbelief. She hadn't thought about the killer watching Baker Street. Members of her homeless network rarely visit her at home, and the crime scenes have all been at a considerable distance from Sherlock's neighborhood. She wouldn't be surprised if the killer knows where she lives—it's easy enough to find her and Watson now, through their previous clientele—but she hasn't noticed any suspicious activity on the street since the first murder. Her brother has surveillance on the building and would've alerted her if she had a stalker.

  Eliza scoops more food into her mouth, the smell of the curry still reaching Sherlock's nose over the smell of the fire. She washes the mouthfuls down with tea and says, "I saw him the other day. Or I think I did anyway. The bloke wasn't right. You know that feeling you get, when you run into something awful? Like skin crawling, yeah? That's what I got, when I saw him. I thought maybe he was a pimp. One of those real nasty ones. But now, I changed my mind. I think he's your man."

  Sherlock leans forward, setting her elbows on her knees, laser-focused on Eliza now. "Where?" she says. "Where did you see him? What did he look like?"

  "You know the HTB church on Brompton Road?" Eliza says. "In Knightsbridge?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "I popped 'round there Wednesday morning for the weekly breakfast and saw him. Most of the people who show up, I recognize, even if I don't know them. But I'd never seen this bloke before, and he just wasn't right."

  Holy Trinity Brompton on Brompton Road is one of the oldest Anglican churches in London, the original of four sites in the HTB church group. The church runs a drop-in shelter for the homeless on Wednesdays. It's an odd location for a homeless assistance program, in the middle of wealthy Knightsbridge where rich people and tourists do their shopping. Anyone the church helps isn't staying in the district on a regular basis. The serial murderer couldn't have staked out the area randomly, looking for victims. He must've run an internet search for churches serving the homeless and chose that one for some reason, though he evidently decided not to kill anyone he saw at the shelter.

  "What do you mean, he was there?" Sherlock says. "He's homeless?"

  Eliza nods. "Yeah. Except, he wasn't like the rest of us. Part of me thought, oh, maybe he's new to this, you know? Recently joined. Drug addict or something. He wasn't too clean, like you, but he was still different somehow. I don't know how to explain it."

  "Describe him."

  Eliza continues to eat, talking out one side of her mouth. "Tall," she says. "Taller than you, by a bit. He was thick in the shoulders, like beefy. Maybe that's one reason why he stuck out. Men who've been on the streets a while are bony. They don't look like they work out, you know? Your man wasn't hungry, either. All he had was a coffee. None of us turns down free food. Who does that? Even if it's shite, it's something hot to tide you over. But all he had was a coffee. And he didn't speak to anyone, just sort of stood back and watched. He was there for thirty minutes. I checked."

  "I need to know more about his appearance," Sherlock says, trying not to sound urgent. "Hair, eyes, distinctive marks, clothing. He was white, yes?"

  "Yeah. I didn't get close enough to see his eye color for sure, but they weren't dark. His hair was grown out a bit, I guess? Longer than yours, on the sides. I'd say it was a dark blonde or a very light brown. He didn't have any markings that I could see. He was wearing long sleeves."

  "Did you hear him speak?"

  Eliza shakes her head.

  Sherlock wilts a little. An accent or distinctive speech patterns could help identify the mystery man. But she moves on quick. "Did you see him talking to anyone at length? Or watching someone in particular?"

  "No," Eliza says. "He was watching the room and the door, every time someone new came in, but I don't think he was focused on anybody in particular. And nobody tried talking to him, except maybe the church people. He was just weird and standoffish."

  "And you haven't seen or heard of him since?" says Sherlock.

  "I tried asking my mates and some of the other people I know on the streets if they'd seen him or met him, but negative. It's like he's a ghost or something. London's a big city, but it's not like us to move around a lot, over long distances. If he really is homeless, he's got to have territory, and I don't see why he would've come to Knightsbridge if he lives in East London or wherever, you know?"

  "So maybe he isn't homeless." Sherlock looks away, still leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "Maybe he's pretending to be, to gain his victims' trust. And stay invisible."

  Eliza watches Sherlock, the empty plate and fork in her lap and the mug of tea in her hand. "Why would someone hate us that much?" she says, her voice quiet.

  "It's not about you. He hates me." Sherlock looks at Eliza again. "And he's targeting homeless because you're easy victims. He also might know I talk to you."

  Sherlock drinks her tea, even though it's almost cold. She's already scanning suspect photos in her brain, though the description Eliza gave of the man doesn't tell her enough. She stands up and sets her mug on the mantle next to the framed photo of her and Watson that Watson insisted on taking and displaying. Sherlock moves to the bookshelves on the left side of the fireplace and retrieves the pack of cigarettes she keeps hidden behind The Chemistry of Powder and Explosives. She pulls a cigarette from the pack and lights it with the metal lighter she keeps in her pocket, taking her first drag and exhaling with a sense of relief. She quit years ago but sometimes, circumstances call for a smoke.

  "I'm sorry I don't know more," Eliza says, looking at her. "I almost followed him, but—"

  "Don't apologize," says Sherlock, meeting her gaze. "What you've told me is valuable. And it's a good thing you didn't follow the man because he might've killed you."

  Eliza pauses. "What now?"

  Sherlock puffs on her cigarette. "Spread the word on the streets there may be an imposter in your midst and ask your associates to report any newcomers they meet to the rest of the regulars. If you haven't already done it. And be careful, Eliza."

  Eliza continues to watch Sherlock in silence, looking worried—though maybe not for herself.

  Sherlock reaches into her trouser pocket for the knife and offers it to Eliza. "Here," she says. "Make sure nobody sees it, or someone might try to steal it from you."

  Eliza takes the folded up knife and looks at it in her hands. It's one of several pocket knives Sherlock owns, not her favorite or most expensive but a good, sharp, reliable knife. The stainless steel handle is carved to look like tree bark. Eliza pulls the knife open and looks at the three and a half inch blade.

  "I can't take this," she says, looking up at Sherlock. "It's too nice. And I don't even know what to do with it."

  "I would bet you know how to use that knife if you have to, better than any untrained housed woman," Sherlock replies. "And it's not too nice for you. Don't be ridiculous."

  Eliza looks down at the knife in her hands again, with disbelief and humility on her face.

  Sherlock takes a drag on her cigarette and looks away from the girl. They're both quiet for a minute, the silence broken up by the sound of the fire.

  "I'm sorry," Sherlock says.

  Eliza snaps her head up to look at her. She doesn't know Sherlock half as well as Watson or Lestrade or any of the people Sherlock works with, but she's still caught off guard hearing her apologize.

  Sherlock slides her eyes back onto Eliza. "For bringing this man into your streets," she fi
nishes. "And for not having him already."

  "It's not your fault," Eliza replies. "You really shouldn't blame yourself."

  Sherlock just looks at her.

  Eliza folds up the knife and tucks it into one of her pockets.

  *~*~*

  Victim number three dies two days later in East Ham. Sherlock, Watson, and Lestrade gather around the corpse at nine in the morning, under an overcast sky that threatens to wash away evidence. This one is the grisliest yet: blood matted in the victim's blonde hair where the back of her skull was bashed in, violet bruises ringing her neck, clothes ripped off from the waist up and Sherlock's name carved into her back, the letters big and jagged with anger. She's lying face down in the mud, but she was killed on her back, then flipped over for the cutting.

  Sherlock knows her. She was a member of her homeless network, a paid informant and data collector. She said her name was Daisy, but that could've been a street alias. Sherlock had enlisted her help a few times, not nearly as often as some of her other homeless assistants but enough for her to feel responsible to the young woman in a way she didn't to the first two victims.

  Watson and Lestrade watch Sherlock with quiet grimness, as she straightens up and steps back from the body.

  "I'm sorry," Lestrade says.

  Sherlock doesn't look at her or Watson, feeling too heavy to be furious. She snaps the latex gloves off her hands and makes a decision.

  "I know this is bad, but I'm asking you not to do anything you'll regret," Lestrade tells her.

  Sherlock knows what she means: don't go back to the Black Horse basement. Don't fall back on drugs. Don't get smashed tonight and go looking for the bastard where he can find his next victim.

  Sherlock turns away from Daisy and Watson and Lestrade, crumpled gloves still in her hand, and heads for the road.

  "Sherlock," Watson calls out. "Where are you going?"

  Sherlock doesn't answer.

  *~*~*

  She goes back to the first crime scene, in Southwark, not far from the Thames. The mud has dried into a smooth, firmly packed solid ground with just enough give for Sherlock to leave light footprints. There's no trace of the murder scene from last week, but she remembers where the body lay. The sky is overcast again, but there's no rain. She can smell the river in the near distance.