Chapter Text
"No Watson," Gregson asks as Sherlock walks in. He's used to seeing them together- the one time he didn't, Sherlock had been kidnapped. But he doubts that's what's happened here.
"Took the morning off," Sherlock replies, looking at the murder scene. "Something about a cousin falling ill. Shall we?"
"Yeah," Gregson shakes himself. "Jay and Amy Myrose. Their cleaning lady found them like this when she got here this morning. Preliminary times of death indicate that the suspect broke in after midnight, dragged the Myroses out of bed, forced them to give up the combination to their wall safe, and then," he trails off. "I gotta tell ya," he says quietly, taking a step closer to Sherlock. "Coming in here this morning was like wakin' up in the middle of a nightmare I thought I stopped havin' a long time ago." He's grateful that Sherlock replies just as quietly.
"Is that because of the uncanny similarities to the Wade Crewes murders in 1999?"
"You- you know about that?"
"I picked up the particulars of these deaths on my scanner app while I was taxiing over. Victims' arms bound with pile hitch knots, pillows strapped to their heads with belts. Have to admit, the similarities are striking."
"Yes, no, no, I know," Gregson stammers. He's so thrown, he doesn't care. "I just didn't think you'd know about Wade Crewes."
"Thirteen years ago he perpetrated three home invasions over three months. Each case a wealthy couple murdered in the middle of the night, contents of their wall safe emptied." She turns her head to look at him. "Eventually brought to justice by you." Gregson is flattered to hear the pride in her voice. "Something of a career-defining case. Of course I know about it."
"Question is, why copycat a home invader?"
Sherlock looks at him, confused. "You think this is the work of a copycat?"
"Well, it's either that or...some sort of weird coincidence."
"There is another possibility. But that depends entirely on what I find in the closet. Mind showing me the bedroom?" Gregson nods and heads for the stairs, leading Sherlock up them.
"What do you mean, 'another possibility,'" he asks her.
"It's easier to show you than explain."
"Explain what," Gregson bites, stopping and whirling on her. Sherlock looks back at him, calm. He sighs. "Sorry. I should know your...process by now. If it's easier to show me, I won't push you." They start walking again.
"I noticed something odd in the old case files when I looked them up on my way over here," Sherlock says. "Two of the safes that Crewes looted were located in the bedroom closet. The other was in an office, but he rifled through the bedroom anyway. In each of the cases, the woman of the house had a collection of expensive shoes." They arrive in the bedroom and Gregson gestures for her to go in front of him. Sherlock nods at him and does, heading to the walk-in closet. Gregson stands in the doorway and watches her, slightly confused. What do shoes have to do with murder? Does she think that that's how this guy's choosing the victims? "And in every case, one of those shoes was missing after the murder."
Gregson frowns. "Why would someone steal one shoe?"
"A fair question. My guess is that the perpetrator wanted something to memorialize the event. Something like," she trails off, then picks up a shoe. "One high-heeled Jimmy Choo," she dangles it from her finger. He looks- there's no match to it. "Wade Crewes told you that he worked alone in 1999. I think he lied. I don't think we're looking for a copycat, but rather someone who helped him do his work." Gregson stares at the shoe, mind working. Is she right? No, she can't be. There was never any evidence that anyone but Crewes did the '99 murders. If there was, he would have given them up in a heartbeat to shave time off. He walks away, leaving Sherlock.
Gregson briefs his people, giving out tasks. Holmes is uncharacteristically quiet, but he's glad for it. He's still mulling over what she said at the crime scene. She has to be wrong. She just has to be. It's just a copycat. When the briefing is done, Holmes approaches him. "A word, Captain," she requests. He nods, leading her to his office. "I suggest that you and I go to Sing Sing to talk to Wade Crewes. We now know there's a connection between the old murders and the new, and Crewes is the one man who can tell us what it is."
"Waste of time," Gregson shrugs. "He'd tell you he was partnered with the Taliban if it shaved time off his sentence. And we don't know there's a connection." She opens her mouth. "Oh. Right. The missing high heel," he says, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Don't people lose shoes all the time?" That had acid behind it. But he doesn't really care right now; it really does feel like he's in the middle of a nightmare.
"Not thousand-dollar ones," Holmes replies, and Gregson is relieved that she didn't take it personally. "I have to say, you seem strangely reluctant to pursue such a promising lead." The relief disappears, replaced by true annoyance.
"It's not a lead yet," Gregson uses his Captain Voice. "It's not an anything yet," he forces himself to soften his tone towards his soulmate. "Maybe you'll turn out to be right," he admits. "But talking to Wade Crewes is not going to get you there, I promise you." He watches her, but she doesn't betray much. But he likes to think he knows her style by now. "Don't go to see him alone. If it does turn out to be something, I'll take you. Promise me."
"I promise, Captain."
"Good." Sherlock must hear the dismissal in his tone because she leaves. Gregson sinks onto his couch, rubbing his face. "Fuck." He leans down and brushes his fingers over his ankle, where Sherlock's words are. They always brought him comfort when they were apart.
"Captain," Marcus says, and he looks up. Marcus looks at his hand, and Gregson follows his eye- his words are half-exposed. He tugs his cuff down and stands.
"Yeah, Bell?"
"We found threatening emails on the Myroses' computer."
"I'll get Holmes." Gregson walks to the door, but he stops before he leaves. "Marcus." His Detective turns to look at him, dropping his hand from around his left wrist. "You'll meet them."
"Actually, I won't," Marcus admits. Gregson frowns. "My words are grey."
"Shit. I'm sorry, Marcus."
Marcus shrugs. "I was born with them like that."
"Marcus-"
"Let's go get Holmes."
They find her at the vending machines, glaring at them.
"What, it steal your money or something," Gregson asks. "They're finicky."
"You came to me for a reason?" She barely waited for him to finish talking before she spoke. She's pissed. After all this is over, he'll ask her what's up.
"Alright, CCS dug through the Myroses' laptop," Marcus starts. "They both got a bunch of threatening emails from the same anonymous account. We traced the IP address to a guy named Julian Walsh. Guy's a contractor. The Myroses hired him to remodel their kitchen-" he hands Sherlock a file without pausing "-and then fired him six weeks later. They filed a complaint about his work and withheld payment."
"And Walsh responded with anonymous threats," Gregson continues.
"We ran him through the NCIC. He did time for weapons possession and sexual assault. We're going to talk to him now." Marcus walks in the direction of the bullpen, probably to get his jacket.
"That's a lead," Gregson can't keep the smugness out of his voice. Sherlock's jaw ticks, and he realizes that she's grinding her teeth. "Hey," he says softly. "Stop that." She takes a deep breath and relaxes. "Look. If this guy's a rapist, you don't have to come with us."
Sherlock just looks at him. "I hardly think that Julian Walsh will try anything with two policemen in his home. And even if he is stupid enough to try it," she shrugs. "I box."
"Really," Gregson asks. Sherlock nods, and Gregson's impressed. She must have pretty good reach, now that he thinks about it. "You can use the department gym if you like. Better opponents." Sherlock's shoulders relax.
"Thank you, Captain."
"What's got you so stressed," he asks.
Marcus clears his throat softly, and they look over. "Do you want me to drive?"
"As long as the Captain has no objection."
"You can drive," Gregson nods. They walk out to the parking lot together. Sherlock slides into the back, sitting behind Marcus. Gregson gets into the passenger seat and Marcus drives them to Walsh's home.
When they get there, Gregson does the police knock. Walsh comes to the door and sighs. "All potatoes are mashed to your stomach," he says, resigned.
"They better be, it's the best kind of potato," Gregson says. Walsh looks at Marcus.
"Rabbits can't leap, only hop."
"Hopping seems to work for them just fine."
He looks at Sherlock. "Mr. Walsh, may we come in?" Walsh stills, frowning.
"Uh, sure. What do the cops want with me now," he asks, standing aside. Gregson lets Marcus and Sherlock go in front of him. Walsh checks Sherlock out, but Gregson glares at him. Walsh must feel it, because he glances at him before he drops his eyes and goes to sit on his couch. Marcus and Gregson stand in front of him, Sherlock hanging back against the wall.
"Do you know the Myroses," Gregson starts.
"Yeah, they hired me to work on their kitchen."
"But they didn't like your work, huh," Gregson asks.
"Guess not." Gregson nods at Marcus, who opens the file and starts reading one of the emails Walsh sent.
"When you least expect it, I'll be there to give you what's yours. A pair of pliers and a handful of rusty nails are the only tools I'll need." Granted, not the same way they were killed, and it doesn't explain the missing shoe Sherlock found, but it is a murderous threat. "Sound familiar, Mr. Walsh?"
"Ok, yes, I sent those emails. But that doesn't mean I killed anybody," Walsh says. There's something about him Gregson doesn't like, outside of being a murder suspect. Though that probably has something to do with the sexual assault conviction.
"Well, you talked about killing people and they wound up dead. I'm sure you can follow along," Marcus says.
"I don't know what you want me to say," Walsh says, sitting back. He's trying to appear calm, but he's nervous as fuck.
"Well, we'd be more inclined to believe you if you told us your whereabouts last night between 6:00 and midnight."
"I watched TV, and then I went to bed by 11:00. I live alone, but that doesn't mean I did anything." Gregson notices Sherlock start shifting on her feet. She actually walks to the doorway of another room and looks in. Gregson walks backwards to her.
"You with us here," Gregson asks her quietly.
"Yep," she says quickly. "I just want to see if this house has a basement." Gregson's confused, but she doesn't make him wait long. "Walsh has looked at the floor three times since we've been here. He's hiding something." Gregson nods.
"I'll cut this off and get us a warrant."
"And allow him time to destroy evidence? I don't think so."
"Holmes-" he starts, annoyed.
"Excuse me, do you have a lavatory I might use," she asks, stepping forward.
"Huh," Walsh asks.
"Bathroom," Gregson translates.
"Yeah, upstairs," Walsh says, pointing to the ceiling.
"Thank you," Holmes nods, walking off. Gregson approaches the interrogation, tuning back in.
"Look, Walsh, you see how this looks from our side," Gregson says.
"Yeah, I do, but I didn't kill anyone." Walsh opens his mouth to say more but is interrupted by sliding metal sounds coming from beneath their feet. "Shit!" Walsh takes off deeper into the house.
"Hey," Marcus shouts, giving chase. Gregson keeps right with him, wondering what the Hell Holmes is doing. Walsh throws open the basement door and the men see Holmes struggling with a cabinet.
"What the Hell are you doing," Gregson asks, coming down the stairs. Holmes moves it out of the way, and as Gregson comes around, he sees a door that would have been hidden. Holmes walks deeper into the basement to a set of tools, selecting a large monkey wrench.
"He lied," she gestures with it. "When he said he lived alone." Gregson looks back and sees Walsh run his hands through his hair. Marcus has his hand clapped securely on the man's right shoulder. Holmes starts hacking at the padlock.
"Keep him there," Gregson points at Marcus.
Sherlock gets through the door and a woman exclaims on the other side. Sherlock goes in, Gregson right behind her, gun drawn. There's a woman in just underclothes chained to a pipe. Sherlock drops the wrench and slowly gets on her knees, extending her hands to her. "Shh, shh," she soothes. "Politsiya," she says. Gregson knows 'we're police' in a lot of languages- this one's Russian. "Politsiya." Sherlock reaches back for him, and he understands what she wants. He flips his jacket out, showing the woman his badge. She laughs and nods.
"Arrest him," Gregson orders Marcus.
"Face the wall, now," Marcus barks, and Walsh does. Marcus handcuffs him. Gregson moves to approach them when he hears Russian.
"Captain," Sherlock says. Gregson looks back. Sherlock has the woman in her arms. "Katya wants you to stay." The woman says something. "You make her feel safe." Gregson nods, putting his back to the women and standing guard.
"Call it in," he nods to Marcus. "Does she speak any English?"
Sherlock translates. "Nyet." Gregson knows that one. Sherlock asks her something else, and Katya gasps. "Da, da, da." Gregson looks over his shoulder and sees Sherlock take out a set of lockpicks. She starts working on Katya's locks, making quick work of them. Katya kicks them away. Sherlock says something in a soft soothing tone. Katya spits on the chains and burrows into Sherlock. Sherlock takes off her suit jacket and puts it over her.
Sherlock pauses before she starts to sing a song in Russian. Gregson listens- it sounds like a lullaby. Katya sobs before she joins in. Gregson just watches them. Gregson marvels at her- Sherlock has changed a lot since the smart-ass kid she used to be. She's still a smart-ass, but time had softened her a little. She can relate more to people, in his opinion. Sherlock manages to keep Katya relatively calm until the medics get there.
Gregson and Sherlock lead Katya out, one on either side. Katya grabs his hand and says something.
"She says thank you."
"You're welcome," he nods. Sherlock translates and helps her onto the gurney. Gregson goes to a uni and gets an NYPD sweatshirt, coming back with it. Katya exchanges Sherlock's jacket for it. Gregson leaves them be, watching them from afar with Marcus- a uni took Walsh away.
"I can't believe it," Marcus says. "How did Holmes know?"
"She said that Walsh kept looking at the floor," Gregson says. "She thought he was hiding something about the murders."
"Turns out he was hiding a person," he scoffs. "Poor girl."
Sherlock approaches them. "Katya came to the U.S. to work as a prostitute," she starts, voice flat. "Her...handlers sold her to Julian Walsh a couple of weeks ago. She told me that he has been to...see her every night since then, and that most nights he slept in her room." She pauses. "Including last night."
They stare at her. "Walsh's sex slave is his alibi for the Myrose murders," Marcus asks, incredulous.
"I'm afraid it looks that way. Respectfully," she turns to Gregson. "I suggest that we bring everyone on the task force into a comprehensive review of the original case files."
"Are you really talking about the shoe thing again? I'm not gonna divert an entire task force for a missing high heel."
"Four missing high heels, counting the original crime scenes."
"Ok, I'm gonna let that disrespect slide because of Katya."
Sherlock takes a deep breath. "The original murder weapon was never recovered," she says, calmer.
"Yeah, Crewes said he dumped it in the East River."
"Let's go see if he was telling the truth, shall we?"
Sherlock gets in the backseat of Marcus' car. Marcus looks at Gregson. "Let's humor her," he shrugs. They get in the car and Sherlock directs them to the lab.
Sherlock gets out quickly, leaving Gregson hurrying after her. "Holmes." Sherlock doesn't answer, going down the stairs. "Holmes!"
"Myrose ballistics," she asks a technician.
"Hasn't been processed yet," he replies.
"Still. Where?"
The man provides directions. Holmes follows them.
"Holmes," Gregson puts as much order into his voice as he can. She still ignores him, putting on gloves and using tweezers to pick up the bullet. "What are we doing down here?"
"Ballistic comparison," Holmes says at last.
"You heard the guy, it's not ready yet," Marcus says. She holds up a paper that she had pulled out of her pocket.
"This is the original report from the original murders." She puts the bullet under the microscope.
"You're gonna do it by eye," Marcus asks. Gregson walks over to Holmes, Marcus following after a beat.
"The human eye is a precision instrument," she says, not looking up. She starts typing on the computer. "It can detect grooves and lands on a slug far more efficiently than any computer. Computer results are checked by the human eye anyway; I'm just cutting out a step." She pauses, looking between the screen and the microscope. She stands up straight and looks at Gregson. "In all of these killings, and in last night's murders, the slug had the same distinctive dent on the case head. It was caused by some sort of defect in the gun's barrel. The grooves and lands also show a steep twist to the left," she demonstrates with her hand. Gregson just looks at her. "See for yourself," she gestures.
Gregson looks in the microscope, then the screen. His heart drops. His eyes might not be as good anymore, but even he's convinced. Fuck. Holmes is right. This isn't a copycat.
"Now, you can wait for the computers to confirm it if you like," Holmes says quietly. Gregson straightens to find that Marcus has walked off and is waiting at the door. Gregson looks at her. "Wade Crewes lied to you about dumping the murder weapon. Wherever it's been for the past thirteen years, it was used last night to kill the Myroses. This is no longer a theory, Captain. It's a fact that these cases are indelibly linked."
"I'll call the task force together." Sherlock nods. Gregson walks towards Marcus, expecting Holmes to follow him. She does not. He looks back in confusion. "Are you coming?"
"I'll make my own way back; I have an errand to run."
"Now?"
"Unavoidable, I'm afraid."
Gregson nods and leaves with Marcus. As his Detective drives, he stares out his window.
"It's not your fault that Wade Crewes didn't tell you that he was working with someone," Marcus says. "The Myroses' deaths are not on you." Gregson doesn't answer. The rest of the drive is silent.
Gregson walks into the precinct and finds a familiar figure at his secretary's desk.
"What are you doing here," he asks Terry. She turns.
"I figured maybe you could tell me that. I got a message to come here to review the Wade Crewes murders." She looks just as confused as he feels.
"I didn't call you," he frowns.
"I did," Holmes says, approaching them. Marcus wisely leaves. "Ms. D'Amico was your partner when you investigated the original murders in '99. Surely she might help shed light on the situation." She turns to Terry. "Nice to meet you."
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes," she extends her hand.
"You're not a cop." Terry doesn't shake it.
"Consultant."
Terry looks at Gregson disapprovingly. Gregson's used to that- most cops don't believe in consultants. They're seen as crutches. "You need a consultant?"
"She's also my soulmate." Terry's eyes go wide.
"I'll just sit in the conference room," Holmes says, and she leaves.
"Tommy, you met your soulmate?"
"It was in '01, after the Towers. I was sent to Scotland Yard to observe their counterterrorism task force, we crossed paths."
"Captain, we're ready," Marcus rescues him from more questions. They go in the conference room.
Gregson lets Marcus lead. When he finishes, Gregson gives out the orders. "I'm going to go talk with Crewes, see if I can't shake his tree. Holmes, with me." She nods. "Garrity, Ramberg, you grab a couple'a guys and start digging into some old case files. Bell, I want you to look into the suspects from '99. We're done here." The task force breaks, and Terry leaves without a word. Holmes sticks around.
"Not to pry," she starts.
"I have a feeling you're going to anyway," he growls lightly.
"Did everything end well between you and Detective D'Amico? You didn't greet each other, you didn't say goodbye," she says. He glares at her.
"Leave my old partnership alone."
"You once told me that I could always come talk to you." He pauses before he nods. "I would like to offer the same to you. Soulmates go both ways."
"I'll keep that in mind." Gregson leaves and Holmes follows him. He silently drives to Sing Sing. Holmes doesn't try to talk.
They go through the checkpoint and Gregson flashes his badge. He stops in the lobby, whirling on Holmes. "You observe. Don't ask questions, don't say a word," he orders.
"But-"
"Observe."
Holmes sighs but nods. He leads her to the visiting area. She goes to sit beside him, but he backs her up to sit at a table further back. "Stay here."
"Captain-" He cuts her off with a glare. She sits and Gregson goes to his table, standing. Wade Crewes is escorted in. He's clean-shaven now, with short hair and glasses. But Gregson knows that underneath that grooming, he's still the same scumbag he used to be.
"I wasn't sure if you and your partner would show up here," Crewes says, voice pleasant. He sits down. Gregson props his foot up on the bench.
"You were expecting us?"
"Of course. We get newspapers in here. I was actually expecting you and Detective D'Amico, Detective. Oh, wait. It's Captain now, isn't it?" He looks at Holmes. "You seem a little young to be a detective."
"I'll cut right to the chase," Gregson says, lowering his foot and stepping between them, breaking Crewes' eye contact with his soulmate. "What's the name of the guy you're working with?"
"I gave up anger a long time ago," Crewes says, cool as could be. "It was one of the only rational responses to the irrational situation my life had become." Gregson scoffs. "But you, standing there, accusing me," he trails off. "Well, I think that's the perfect test of my progress, isn't it?"
"What exactly do you have to be angry about," Gregson asks.
"As we both well know, I'm an innocent man. I spent years thinking about how to prove it, and when I finally gave up the quest, the world decided to prove it for me. It's like the man says. The strongest of all warriors are these two, time and patience." Gregson furrows his eyebrows and frowns.
"Tolstoy's War and Peace," Holmes says. "Your file says you were functionally illiterate when you confessed to the murders." Gregson glares at her. What did I fucking say?
"I had plenty of raw intelligence. What I didn't have were parents or a school system that gave a damn about me. And my confession, well. I gave that after my Legal Aid lawyer told me it was the only way of avoiding a guaranteed life sentence. He wouldn't take the time to prove my alibi." Gregson hears the hint of the old Crewes there. That anger, that cockiness.
"Carla Figueroa? Please. She recanted the second we asked her to make an official statement," Gregson replies.
"Well, of course she did!" There he is. Coming out to play. "Carla was married. If she admitted she was with me during the murders that would be the end of that, wouldn't it?"
"We found your fingerprints at the scene of the third murders in '99, remember?"
"You mean you put my prints at the scene of the third murders in 1999. You and I both know that evidence was planted. Worked out pretty well for you, didn't it, Captain?"
Gregson glares. "I'm not even going to respond to that."
"The next time you and I speak to each other, we'll be standing on the courthouse steps after I'm exonerated of every charge against me."
"We'll see about that. We're done here," he directs to the guard, who escorts Crewes away.
Holmes comes around and sits on the bench, looking up at him. "What was that about?"
"What was what about?"
"He seemed truly sure those prints were planted." Gregson bristles.
"If you're saying that I-"
"Of course I'm not." He settles. "But I'm just wondering why he's latched onto that."
"It was the only physical evidence we had," Gregson replies. "The rest was all circumstantial, but solid."
"I don't doubt that."
Gregson takes a moment to calm himself down, and Holmes just watches him.
"Come on, let's get out of here," he invites.
"I'd like to make a pit stop before we go back to the station."
"Another errand," Gregson asks.
"Of sorts. But this one, I'd like to do together." Gregson nods and they get back in the car. Holmes holds her phone between them, Google Maps already pulled up. Gregson follows the electronic voice to an address.
"10-20 31st Avenue, Astoria, Queens," Gregson says, confused. "You wanna tell me why we're here?"
"Last known address of Carla Figueroa." Gregson freezes. "I thought we might see if there's any truth to the notion that she recanted Wade Crewes' alibi to save her marriage." Gregson glares at her. "I'm just being thorough," she holds up her hands.
"Go right ahead," Gregson growls. "I'm just telling you, I'm not gonna be here when you get back."
"Why are you so unwilling to even consider the possibility that Crewes is innocent?" There it is. What he knows she suspected for days, but never said out loud. "Is it pride?"
He puts his hand on the back of her seat and leans in. "Because I worked the case. You didn't."
"That's precisely why my input is so valuable," Holmes says, gaze steady. She's not the least bit afraid of him. He's grateful for it. He doesn't want to scare his soulmate away.
"Look. We put Crewes away on good evidence. His prints were all over a mug that got broken when he was killin' the last two victims."
"The same mug he accused you of planting?" Her voice is quiet and Gregson actually hears pain in her voice. "When he said that, you swallowed twice before responding. And when you did, your vocal tone was markedly different. If I wasn't watching you, a man I have the highest respect for, I would say that that response was that of someone with something to hide." Gregson leans back, but she chases him. "Captain, talk to me!"
"There's nothing to talk about."
A hand lands on the roof of his car, and Gregson looks. "My dad's going to go ape if he sees you two making out in our driveway," the young man there smiles and shrugs. "Just saying."
"We're not," Holmes says. "We're police. We need to speak with Carla Figueroa."
The kid looks down. "My mom died four years ago. Leukemia."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Gregson says.
"My dad's inside, if you want to talk to him," he offers.
"No, no. It had to be her. Thanks. Sorry to bother you," Gregson says, and the kid walks away. Gregson pulls out.
"Well, if she was lying, her secret died with her," Holmes sighs.
"You're lucky I'm not making you walk, Holmes." She's quiet. "And she wasn't lying. Wade Crewes put on a good show today, I'll give him that. But if you really want to know why I won't waste my time trying to find out if he's innocent, I'll give you the tapes. He held his tongue, but he couldn't help gloating about it. That's the real Wade Crewes." They're silent the rest of the drive to the police station.
Gregson gets the old interrogation tapes together himself, putting them all in a box. He walks to Marcus' desk, where Holmes is leant over, writing something. He drops it in front of her, and she snatches her fingers back before they're crushed. "Go home and watch them."
"Captain-"
"Go. Home." He goes to his office. He stays there the rest of the day, and no new leads come. He goes home, frustrated.
The next morning, Holmes barges into his office. He still hasn't forgiven her for yesterday. "I've been struggling with something."
"First of all, good morning to you too. And second of all, Sherlock, I know I told you you could come talk with me any time, but you've really chosen the worst time to do it."
"Why did you give me the tapes?" Gregson looks at her, coffee halfway to his lips. "Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice?" Notice what? But his police instincts tell him to stay silent, and they rarely steer him wrong. "The mug. The one that you handed to Wade Crewes during your second interrogation of him." Mug? What mug? We give suspects drinks in disposable cups. Then he remembers- they had run out of cups that day. He only remembers because he had to walk all the way to the break room to get a mug. "It was the same mug that your people found at the third crime scene." He wants to ask her what she's talking about. He wants, he wants. But he has to find out for himself. "I need you to understand, I take no pleasure in pursuing this line of inquiry, but I am obligated to pursue the facts. And the fact is that you and Detective D'Amico had possession of that mug before it showed up at the third crime scene." He hangs up his coat and loosens his tie. She pauses, watching him, and only their breaths fill the silence. "As I said yesterday, I have the utmost respect for you," she whispers. He tightens his tie again. "If evidence was planted, I'm sure it was the result of frustration. A mistake that the perpetrator or perpetrators no doubt wish to take back, especially now that it seems Wade Crewes may well be innocent." He takes a sip of coffee, trying to wet his dry throat. "You know I'll find out the truth and the truth may well be just...compromising."
Gregson lowers his mug. If Holmes was a guy, not his soulmate, and not his consultant, he would have decked her. "Every cop gets offered a few perks," he starts, trying to keep his voice level. "Free lunch here, free gym membership there. I never took a single one, and I sure as hell never planted evidence." He looks straight into her eyes, willing her to believe him.
"Well, then. Could you or your former partner please explain to me how that mug showed up at the crime scene?"
Gregson opens the door. Holmes stands there for a second and then walks out. He shuts it behind her, trying not to slam it. He turns his head, watching Holmes walk out of the bullpen, closely followed by Watson. He puts his mug down on his desk and lays his hands flat against it to stop them from shaking. He needs to talk to D'Amico. He calls her.
"What gives," D'Amico asks, approaching him on the street, far away from the 11th. "Tommy, we can't just talk at the precinct?"
"Not about this." Her face hardens. "You planted that mug, didn't you?" She's silent. "Yeah," he says, quiet. "We knew it was him but we couldn't nail him. So after the second time we brought him in, you used the fact that we ran out of cups to your advantage. You kept the mug for insurance. Always good to have a trump card."
"I always assumed you knew that." Gregson's heart drops. It's one thing to think it, but to have her actually say that she did it?
"I knew it was convenient, piece'a evidence to turn up like that. I chalked it up to our good fortune because I thought we had our guy!"
"We did!"
"Well, I was a Hell of a lot more sure about that then than I am now! 'Cause someone's out there killing someone with the same murder weapon, Terry." He pauses. "What if we were wrong?"
"If that's true- and that's still a big 'if' as far as I'm concerned- there are ways around that!" He stares at her.
"I'm not here to plan a cover-up. If we put an innocent man in jail, I'm not keeping quiet about it."
"Alright, let's just forget about the fact that I could go to jail," D'Amico shrugs. "You worked that task force in '99. How do you think that's going to play for your career?"
"I'll be done," he shrugs. He's accepted that. "Doesn't matter. If I let this happen on my watch, I'm owning up to it." He opens his car door. "Fair warning, partner." His phone starts to ring and he gets in the car. "Gregson."
"Captain," Marcus says. "Another murder. Three bodies this time. Looks like the same M.O."
"Address?"
Marcus dictates and he writes it down in his notebook, putting it in his GPS. He drives off.
Gregson stares at the murders he could have prevented. Three more innocent people that would be alive now if he had put the right man in jail. He reaches into his pocket and takes out his phone, calling Holmes.
"Captain," the woman picks up.
"I need you right away." He pauses. "It's happened again. A triple this time. Neighbor saw the bodies through the window."
"I'll be right there. And Captain, I think I might be able to tell you where the murder weapon is." Gregson's heart does a funny thing- it feels like it's simultaneously trying to leap into his throat and sink into his stomach. He swallows with a 'click'.
"What?"
"I'm in Victor Nardin's motel room, and there's an old gun of the correct caliber hidden beneath the floorboards."
"How'd you find him?"
"Chechen football. He's a rabid fan, there aren't that many bars that stream it live. There are three, all in Brighton Beach, all within walking distance of one Mayweather Hotel. I called and asked for one of his known aliases. Don't worry, I disguised my voice."
"How?"
When she replies, she does it with such a perfect New York accent that it makes his head spin. "A New York accent isn't hard to fake, Captain."
"I'll get a warrant." He hangs up. Sherlock makes it easy and hard for him at the same time. Luckily, he's learned which judges are friendly and which aren't over his career. "Judge Harrison," he greets.
"Tommy Gregson. How can I help?"
He explains the situation, conveniently leaving out the whole 'breaking and entering' part. Harrison signs the warrant.
"Amazing work on your detectives' part, thinking of looking up Chechen soccer."
Sherlock comes in the door, and she and Gregson lock eyes. "Thanks, Your Honor."
"You're welcome, Tommy. Goodbye."
"Goodbye." They hang up, and Sherlock makes her way over to him in that purposeful yet meandering way she has when in a crime scene.
"Michael and Elizabeth Willis," he starts, voice just loud enough to reach Sherlock from where she's standing against a bookshelf. They left their last meeting in a bad place. He wouldn't want to be around him, either. "Everything about their deaths is consistent with the others'."
"And the third body?" Sherlock's voice is just as quiet. He almost winces. She's angry with him or worse, disappointed. He didn't push it in '99, and now his soulmate thinks he's a dirty cop.
"Houseguest Garret Ames. I don't think the attacker knew he was there. After the Willises were shot, there was a struggle. Ames was trying to get away. Almost made it, too." Ames' body is just inside the back door. Poor guy. So close to surviving. Gregson aims an imaginary gun at the spot Ames would have been standing. "Killer shot him from right here." He sighs, dropping his arm. "Add another three to the tally."
"It's alright, Captain," Sherlock reassures, surprising him. "I know this is difficult." You got that right.
"Well, at least CSU got us some evidence. They picked up cigarette butts from across the street." He walks over to a table and Sherlock follows him. He points and Sherlock picks up the evidence bag. He doesn't know what she's looking at, they're just butts. "Hopefully we'll be able to harvest some DNA. We put a BOLO out for Victor Nardin and we got a warrant for his hotel room. If the gun you saw is the murder weapon, it's beginning to look like an open and shut case." Sherlock looks at Joan.
"What is it," Joan asks. Sherlock puts the bag down and walks to where the killer had stood to shoot Ames.
"You said the killer shot the houseguest from here?"
"Yeah," Gregson says. What are you doing? She holds out her arm, also holding an imaginary gun. He steps close to whisper to her. "Listen, I know you got your theories about what happened, but I just want you to know that if Wade Crewes is innocent, I'm not going to hide from that." Sherlock sighs and looks at him.
"Sorry, Captain, could you just give me a moment?"
Gregson stares at her. He can feel his temper rising but forces it down. "I'm tryna tell you something important here."
"Yes, but I wouldn't fall on my sword just yet." Gregson's confused. First she accuses him of planting evidence, then when he says he'll own up to his actions, or inaction, she waves him off? What the fuck? His phone rings, and he answers it, looking away.
"Gregson."
"We've got Nardin," Marcus says.
"Really?"
"He came back to his hotel room. Got him without a fight."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. We're bringing him back to the station."
"Ok, yeah." He hangs up. "That was Bell. Nardin returned to his hotel room. We've got him in custody."
"Excellent," Sherlock says. Finally. The only thing she's said today that makes sense. "That should make it easier to confirm that he didn't do this." Sherlock walks away.
"What," Gregson demands. He follows Sherlock, Joan following him. She goes directly to his car and opens the passenger door. He closes it before she gets in, and she looks back at him. "Tell me."
"It's easier to demonstrate, Captain." He almost protests, but she just leans in. "Trust me," she smiles.
Gregson looks at her eyes. There's excitement there. "I do."
"Good. Now let's prove Nardin innocent."
Gregson drives them to the station. He watches Sherlock pick up a fruit from the mostly-untouched bowl and walk to Interview One. Joan hurries after her and Gregson moves to follow them when he hears Sherlock's voice. "Victor Nardin. Think fast."
"Ah," he hears a cry. Gregson stops, more puzzled than anything else.
"What are you doing," Marcus demands. Yeah, I'd like to know that too.
"This man is innocent. Detective Bell, a word?"
"Why she hit me," Nardin's accented voice shouts.
"Stay right there," Marcus orders, and shuts the door behind him.
Sherlock walks past Gregson and opens his office. "Sure, you can use it," he says, passing her. Marcus, Joan, and Sherlock file in behind him.
"Do you see," Sherlock asks.
"See what? You assault our perp with an orange and that somehow convinces you that he's innocent," Marcus demands.
"I was testing a hypothesis I began to form while I was in Victor Nardin's hotel room." Sherlock sits on the couch. Gregson realizes that he's rarely seen her sit before. She sits with her back ramrod straight and her hands folded on her lap. Old money, old manners. "It was odd. Everything was out of alignment. All his toiletries lined up on the left side." She stands. "The same was true of his bedside table, his desk." Gregson just watches her, hand on his chin from where he's leant over his chair. A chair, he muses, in an office I probably won't have once this is over.
"So he favors his left side. Big deal," Marcus shrugs.
"Agreed. Out of context, an utterly mundane detail."
"What is the context," Gregson asks.
"That's the question, Captain. There were also distinctive blue dots on the ceiling above his bed, like the kind a racquetball makes if it's repeatedly thrown upwards." Joan stands as Gregson waits for the rest.
"He was strengthening his depth perception," Joan says quietly. "But if you saw all that, then that means," she trails off. Gregson looks at her expectantly.
"Means what," Gregson asks.
"He's monocular," she replies. Gregson just shrugs. "He's blind in one eye." Gregson straightens. Then that means... he lets himself hope.
"His right eye, to be exact," Sherlock adds.
"The same side you threw at," Marcus realizes.
"The man can hardly pour his orange juice accurately, let alone hit a moving target at twenty feet," Sherlock nods.
"If she's right, it'd be hard to pull off," Gregson admits to Marcus.
"In the dark, with adrenaline coursing through his system after a fight, I'd say it was impossible."
"But we've got evidence," Marcus protests.
"Ah, right. The cigarette butts. Tell me, how does a smoker put out cigarettes when they're standing on the street," she asks.
"Step on 'em," Gregson shrugs.
"Exactly! You flatten it. The cigarettes you found were ground out, as if they were put out in an ashtray. Someone could have easily taken the butts out of Nardin's tray and put the gun under the floorboards before they left."
"Oh, so now Nardin's been framed, too," Gregson gestures, coming around his desk. He's getting sick of hearing about planted evidence.
"I think that's a fair question. The only obvious culprit would be the one man who stood to benefit from someone else being implicated in the crimes." Gregson realizes what she's getting at, and she must see that because she nods.
"Wade Crewes," they say at the same time.
"But," he starts.
"He's working with someone on the outside," Sherlock says. "Someone with whom he shared the location of the murder weapon and the details of the murders in '99. By law, he has access to his case files. He could see a list of suspects' names, pick the most promising one."
"You've spent the last seventy-two hours insisting Wade Crewes is innocent," Gregson says, raising his voice.
"What I've been insisting is that there's a connection," she approaches him. "We were both wrong. It's not a copycat, nor is it someone who committed the crimes with him back in '99. It's a protégé. The framing of Nardin is the final stroke in a plan that culminates in Wade Crewes walking free!"
"We've got five dead bodies," Marcus says. Gregson and Sherlock look at him. "Who would be willing to do something like that for a guy like Crewes?"
"I confess to not knowing."
"Then you've got nothing," Gregson says, heart sinking to his stomach again. With all this information, all these theories, the most important lead is out of their reach. They need the accomplice. "Believe me, no one wants you to be right as bad as I do," he says to Sherlock. "But all you've got is circumstantial evidence that might or might not mean that Nardin's been framed by Crewes' mystery partner. And if you are right, we better identify that partner fast because it looks like the plan's working. Nardin will eat the charges, and Crewes. Will. Walk." He sits behind his desk.
"Captain," Sherlock starts.
"Don't waste your time talking to me," he tells her gently. "You do your thing and find that partner while we work it from our end." Sherlock nods and leaves his office, followed by Joan.
Gregson and Marcus work until dark. "Captain," Marcus says. "There isn't anything here. Holmes will get something, in the meantime I'll go over this again. You go home." Gregson nods and does.
"Tommy," Cheryl greets him. She must see something in his face. "What's wrong?"
He sits in his chair at the dinner table and loosens his tie. "You've seen the news about how Wade Crewes could be innocent?"
"Yeah, I've been meaning to ask you about that," she says, putting a plate in front of him. Steak and potatoes. His favorite. He cuts into it and takes a bite, but he doesn't taste it. He sighs. "Tommy, what is it?"
"He might be, he might not be. Holmes seems to think that Crewes and someone on the outside are working to frame a guy we have so that Crewes walks free."
"Holmes. Your soulmate." Cheryl's voice is icy. "Who could be working with Crewes?"
"We have no clue."
Cheryl comes around and puts her hands on his shoulders, gently kneading. "You'll find something. I know you will. Now eat." Tommy nods and does. And slowly, he starts to taste it.
Tommy's just about to go to bed when his phone rings. He looks at the caller I.D.- Sherlock.
"Yeah," he answers.
"Captain. I believe I've found Crewes' accomplice." He smiles.
"How?"
"Well, do you remember how he quoted Tolstoy?"
"Sure." He doesn't, but that's not the point. "So?"
"He was illiterate when he went into prison, now he's reading 1,400 page books often enough that he can quote them from memory. Someone taught him how to read."
"Holmes, cut to the chase, it's late."
"I believe that Sean Figueroa is Crewes' son."
Gregson is stunned. "I'm coming."
"No. I will go with Detective Bell in the morning. You are going to stay at home, with your wife. And tomorrow, you will stay in your office. And then, once we have proof, we will go and we will speak with Wade Crewes together." Gregson knows that Sherlock's right.
"Alright, Sherlock."
"Goodnight, Captain."
"'Night." He hangs up.
"What was Holmes doing calling," Cheryl asks. "Did he find something?" Gregson very carefully never uses pronouns around her- she assumes that Sherlock is a man.
"Yes." He smiles, facing her. He wraps his arms around her waist, and she seems pleasantly surprised. "The accomplice."
"That's great, Tommy!"
"It is." He kisses her. "Let's go to bed."
The next morning, Gregson tries to focus on paperwork while Sherlock and Marcus are interviewing Figueroa. Someone knocks on his open door, and he looks up, grateful for the distraction. "Joan," he greets. She smiles and sits in the chair across from him. "How you doing?"
"I think I should be asking you that question." Gregson drops his pen and takes off his glasses.
"Nervous," he admits. "Excited. But mostly nervous."
"Do you trust Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll be fine." Gregson smiles softly. His phone rings. He looks at it and smiles wider.
"It's Sherlock." He picks up. "Gregson."
"Sean Figueroa confessed to everything. And we have our evidence."
"What is it?"
"The shoes." Gregson will let the smugness slide. He sits back in his chair and puts his head back, relaxing for the first time since they found the Myroses.
"Thank Christ."
"Detective Bell and I are going to get them now, if you'd like to join."
"Address?"
She tells him and he writes it down. They hang up.
"See," Joan asks with a smile.
Gregson laughs and nods. "Yeah." He picks up his jacket and puts it on, walking out of his office.
He could kiss Sherlock when she shows him where Figueroa said the shoes were and they turn out to be there.
They go to Sing Sing, just the two of them. Wade Crewes comes in, smug as could be. Gregson takes the shoes out one by one, putting them on the table. Crewes' face falls further with each one.
"What are those," Crewes asks.
"Your trophies," Sherlock says. This time, she and Gregson are side by side. "From each of the crime scenes in 1999. Thousand-dollar shoes."
"Your son told us where you hid them," Gregson continues. "Same place you stashed that pistol."
"What are you talking about? I don't have a son," Crewes denies.
"His name is Sean Figueroa, and he has quite a compelling story," Sherlock says.
"Five new murders, Crewes. Sean's going away, and you're getting five new conspiracy charges."
"No. You framed me." Gregson can see the old Crewes coming back and steps in front of Sherlock, backing them up when Crewes slams his hands on the table. "You bastard, you framed me!" The guards drag him off. "I'm only in here because of you! You bastard, you framed me," he says, before his voice fades. Sherlock steps out from behind him and leans against the table.
"Satisfying," she asks. He smiles.
"You have no idea."
Sherlock smiles back.