Chapter Text
Murder, in Watson’s mind, was a heinous act. Despite the circumstances of what led to such a crime, the sin of taking another persons life was unforgivable. Inexcusable, unpardonable, ugly. He was no stranger to death, even less so since taking up residence in 221b Baker Street where serial killers and multiple homicides were the obsession of his room-mate and closest confidant, Sherlock Holmes. Even still, killing made him shudder in disgust, and accompanying Sherlock to a crime scene was never particularly pleasant. Usually it was gruesome, bloody – an overwhelming stench of decay and rot.
He never thought such an unpleasant thing could look so beautiful, like a work of art. Just that thought alone made him feel conflicted in his own morality.
This was the fifth murder, the fifth victim left by a killer named le Bourreau des Fleurs after a French Assassin under the same alias with a similar style of… execution. The victims, who had nothing in common with one another in terms of lifestyle, profession or appearance as far as Watson was aware, were always cared for after death. They were dressed in fine robes, cleaned of all blood and dirt and placed – wherever the murderer had decided to leave them – in a modest, funeral position. In their hands, they would hold a bouquet. Their body, lying on a bed of petals. And in their mouth, a different flower placed delicately at their lips.
The only indication that the kill itself had been brutal was the rope burns across wrists, ankles and neck. But post-mortem, they were dressed up and treated with respect. Post-death, the killer seemed to display them like works of art.
And Scotland Yard were no close to finding out who was responsible.
The body in front of him now, Lestrade had said, was a woman named Ethel Harrison. She was a waitress – or entertainer, her job role was especially vague considering – for the Gentleman’s club named The Athenaeum, a private organisation with a members only invite to those who held a ‘brilliant mind’ above all else such as scientists and engineers. The organising committee consisted of Earls and Lords, although those of lower social standing had been permitted to join their club should their minds be of similar intellect.
Not much was known about the life of Ethel Harrison outside her work. She was unmarried, and never trifled with those she served. The consensus seems to be that she was inoffensive and unworthy of any real notice. The only one who noted her absence was her employer, who quickly wrote her off as another runner. With the country the way it was, those in the working class were known to vanish all too often. No one reported her missing, no one missed her in general. And here she was, treated with more dignity in death than she would have been in life.
Ms Harrison had been placed by the river, a place usually reserved for those of higher standing for picnics with their family. Sherlock had already named the flowers that she rested with the moment he arrived, and Watson had written them down immediately, hoping to find any sort of connection to the previous bouquets of death. His hope faded – once again, no connection. She was laying on a bed of Peruvian Lilies, in her mouth was a single Dahlia and she held three Snapdragons in her hands over her chest.
“The murderer must own a store .” Lestrade had suggested with a sigh, “He seems to have flowers at his immediate disposal.”
Sherlock laughed, but didn’t elaborate on why he thought Lestrade’s, rather fair – in Watson’s opinion – assessment was amusing. He was eyeing up the body in positive glee, taking in the crime scene as though it were his own personal playground. Frightfully, Watson feared that it more than likely was. Sherlock didn’t see the body of a dead woman, he saw a game. And the game was the only reason Sherlock still breathed.
“What do you make of it, John?” Sherlock asked. Watson wasn’t sure why.
That wasn’t true, Sherlock usually asked Watson his opinion so he could prove him wrong and come out with an excessive explanation to show how utterly brilliant he was. Watson probably shouldn’t have indulged him that much.
He coughed, “I think a young woman was taken by a serial killer and strangled, Sherlock.”
Sherlock gave a disapproving tut, “And what else?”
“Like the other four victims, she has been surrounded by flowers.”
Lestrade gave another deep sigh at this, “What is with the obsession? Does he think of himself as a funeral director? Why not place them in a coffin?”
Sherlock stared between Lestrade and Watson in obvious annoyance, probably debating or not whether he would insult their intellect, before rolling back his shoulders and pointing down at the woman in question in a dramatic fashion. “Peruvian Lilies represent devotion or achievement. Judging by her clothing, I would guess achievement. This is not the wardrobe of a working class woman, so it stands into effect that she achieved something to earn her riches. The Snapdragons in her hands represent deception. Following on from the meaning of the Lilies, my guess would be that her way of obtaining the money was perhaps morally flawed – or at the very least, something someone took enough offence in to kill her.”
Watson took in the body with this new information. Yes – of course, Sherlock was quite right. She was wearing jewels that would have been far out of her pay and a flowing dress that looked as though it would belong among nobility. Even with savings, a waitress would not be able to afford such luxurious items.
“Lastly, the Dahlia.” Sherlock continued, leaning down. His face, Watson noted, turned somewhat sympathetic as he regarded young Ethel before he plucked out the flower from her mouth and held it up. “The Dahlia symbolises Good Taste. She knew what she wanted, and she took it. She was a woman with the mind of riches, but not the funds to live it.” He placed the flower gently on the ground, “Ethel Harrison was punished because she was a thief.”
Lestrade hummed, “A thief, you say?”
“The emerald around her neck belongs to a Richard Bartram. Or, it belonged to his deceased wife. He asked me to look for it, believing it to have been stolen while he wandered through the markets from his pockets. Mr Bartram is a member of The Athenaeum where Ms Harrison worked. It is highly likely she spotted the gem and took it as her own while working.” Sherlock glanced up at Lestrade, “May I return it to him?”
“Of course,” Lestrade said off-handedly. “So – the murderer is someone who she robbed?”
“Perhaps.” Sherlock said blankly as he removed the necklace, which Watson knew translated as: absolutely not, you complete imbecile. But as Sherlock wasn’t saying that out loud, he had a theory he would keep from Scotland Yard ears. Watson, too, stayed silent as his partner pocketed the necklace and stood, “If that is all? You know where to call on me if you have any further clues.”
Lestrade paid him no mind as he looked back to his notes, other than a mumble of acknowledgement.
“Greed.” Sherlock had said on their way back to 221B Baker Street, more to himself than to Watson. “That’s another sin. Two left.”
“Sherlock, you’re mumbling.”
Sherlock blinked at few times before turning his head and grinning down at him, “I’m thinking, John. I know it’s a rare thing for you, but do allow me time to process.”
Watson simply rolled his eyes, but the friendly shove and loud laugh Sherlock gave him showed there was some semblance of humour behind his words. Not that Sherlock didn’t mean them – there was only one person alive that Sherlock deemed his equal (and in some ways, perhaps his superior) in regard to intellect, but bringing him up would send his detective friend down a spiral of compliments and praise for the man, along with infrequent whines that he hadn’t been able to figure him out yet. Watson shoved the annoyance down.
He pondered over Sherlock’s words nonetheless. “Another sin, you said. Did the other deaths represent sins too?”
“It’s obvious.”
“For you maybe, Sherlock. We do not all have the mind like yours.”
“I know. It must be boring.”
Again, Watson just brushed off the comment, and left Sherlock to hum through his thoughts on the way back. Once his friend had collected his thoughts, he’d tell him.
It wasn’t long before Watson realised they were taking a detour, away from their home and closer to the market square. He didn’t question this course of action – Sherlock never decided on an action without a good purpose beforehand, or at the very least a hope for a case. It didn’t surprise John too much when they ended up outside a floristry. It was a rather rundown looking place, only improved by the beauty and kind fragrance that the various different flowers surrounding and within the store brought. Watson noted, with a quick glance, that not all of them were the type of flowers most mainstream florists sold.
“They came from here?” Watson questioned.
“It’s the only florist in London that has illegally imported flowers, my dear Watson. It has to be here.”
Watson didn’t bother to question how Sherlock knew this tidbit of information. It was easier that way.
As soon as they walked into the cramped store, and Watson wrinkled his nose in an attempt not to sneeze at the mismatched collection he was brushing against, they were greeted by an elderly lady. She was hunched over, eyes sallow and cheeks gaunt. As was the state of many individuals in London, even if their business was something that would be sought after.
She beamed up at Sherlock as though he were an old friend, holding out her hand. “Ah, Mr ‘olmes! I thought you’d be stoppin’ by.”
“Afternoon, Agnes.” Sherlock greeted with a smile, taking her offered hand and laying a light kiss to it. The woman preened under the attention.
“‘eard about that girl down by the river.” Agnes said, pulling her hand away to hold to her chest instead, “Terrible stuff, it is.”
“Yes.” Sherlock responded, although his tone doesn’t hold nearly as much sympathy. “Don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?”
Agnes smirked, holding out her hand once more, palm up this time. “Pretty penny, Mr ‘olmes. You ‘ave to know that.”
Sherlock laughed, loud and proud like always, before shoving his hands in his pockets. He rummaged around a bit before pulling out a single coin, dropping it in Agnes’ hand. She rolled it between her fingers, holding it up to the light, nodding in approval and pocketing it herself.
“Lil’ street urchin came in from the street, askin’ about those flowers just like you said. Got money from this rich noble, ‘e said.” Agnes explained, frowning as she spoke. “Wanted me to deliver them, ‘e did. Said no, course. Don’t do ‘ouse visits.”
“Of course.” Sherlock said understandingly, “Where can I find this boy?”
“Kid Jimmy? Ah, you’ll find him down by the courtyard, Mr ‘olmes, tryin’ to sell ‘is fake jewels.”
Sherlock grinned at the new lead, looking through his pockets again and pulling out another coin. Agnes lit up seeing it, holding on to Sherlock’s hand for a brief second when he passed it to her. “Thank you. We will take our leave now!” He said, giving her an enthusiastic wave. Agnes brushed him off before turning back into the store and Watson made a move to follow Holmes, slightly surprised by the quick and pleasant exchange in regard to a murder case.
When they reached the cramped street, Sherlock stretched his arms above his head. He hummed, taking in the busy road before making a small noise of understanding and heading off again. Watson followed.
“So?” He asked, awaiting explanation.
Sherlock tilted his head down to regard Watson. “Weeks before death, each victim has received two of the same flowers.” He started, tone taking on the more serious note that was reserved for discussing a case. “This place is the only one in London that sells both, regardless of year. It was a good guess that when the murderer picked his next victim, he’d order the same flowers again. But he never comes in personally, always pays others to buy the flowers and deliver them personally, and never through legitimate means.”
“We find his next victim before he kills them.” Watson chipped in, understanding flooding through him. “Work out what the pattern is.”
Sherlock tutted, “I know what the pattern is. We use the next victim to make a trap, John.”
Watson stopped in his steps for a moment, mulling over Sherlock’s words. Sherlock watched him stop, whistled, and carried on to his chosen destination. There were many moments, working with the infamous detective, that made Watson question his own morality. Sure enough, Sherlock was always on the side of good and his methods nearly always caught the bad guy. But… but letting someone be bait? Putting someone at risk? Surely the next victim will be terrified. Would it truly be fair to ask them for such a thing, instead of simply protecting them.
He had no real time to debate this, as Sherlock was beginning to get lost in the crowd, and Watson had to jog to catch up with him.
He found him quickly enough in the Courtyard that Agnes had mentioned. There was a large market taking place, all with poorly held together stalls and a mismatch of items that would usually be frowned upon. Watson found his place next to Sherlock as he was scanning through the crowd, letting out a little ‘a-ha!’ when he had seen what he was looking for.
The two approached a booth on the corner, manned by a child who couldn’t have been older than 12. The scrawny boy looked up at them with a toothless grin, holding up a rather poor selection of ‘gems’ for them to inspect. Sherlock held up a hand to stop him.
“It’s not your jewels I’m here to buy, kid.”
The child’s eyebrows furrowed, lip sticking out in a petulant pout, “Move along then, sir. Don’t got all day.”
“I’ll pay for information.” Sherlock told him.
The kid paused, eyes trailing down both adults with a look of distrust. “Ain’t got none.” He replied, clearly unsure.
“Someone paid you to go to Agnes’ flower emporium, didn’t they?”
The kid – Jimmy, that’s what he thinks Agnes called him – brightened at the name, “Oh, yeah. Yesterday, sir. Don’t remember the names, was all fancy like.”
Sherlock nodded, “What did this person look like?”
Jimmy shrugged, “Dunno. Kept his hood up, had a scarf covering his mouth. Thought he hated the idea of breathing in our air or something.” His expression turned into something more sour briefly, and Watson was reminded of the prejudice among the Upper Class once again, “Spoke weird though.”
Watson leaned forward in curiosity at this, “Weird?”
“Yeah. Not our English.” Jimmy pointed at them as he continued, “Not even yous lot fancy words.” He gestured their attire once, before flipping his hand away. “Was like… rolling. All pretty, like.”
Sherlock and Watson exchanged a look, although there was more understanding on Sherlock’s face than there was in Watson’s. Typical that, and Watson knew he would simply have to wait for Holmes to give him an explanation when they were out of public eye. When Sherlock turned his gaze back to the child, he asked, “One more question, do you remember who he was going to send the flowers to?”
Jimmy nodded, “Course sir. I know the man he’s sending them too.” He informed them, and his eyes lit up slightly as he seemed to think on the recipient of these flowers. “Comes down here quite regularly, helping us out with his brothers. He’s a good sort. Helps my little sis with reading when he’s got the time.” His voice is far fonder talking about this man than he has with either of them.
Sherlock blinked, before prompting, “So?”
“Moriarty.” Jimmy said with a smile. “William.”
Watson’s eyes immediately narrowed in on Sherlock for a reaction. The man his best friend so admired was the new target of a serial killer. Sherlock’s eyes were slightly wide, as he breathed the name, “Liam?” to no one in particular. It was a name that no one else called the Mathematics Professor, as far as Watson was aware. Especially not in such awe. Or worry, perhaps, given the current news.
“You know him sir?” Jimmy said, oblivious to Sherlock’s probable inner turmoil. “S’good. He deserves flowers, I think.”
Watson didn’t have enough of an opinion on him to say whether or not that was true, but he hadn’t heard anyone badmouth the middle Moriarty brother. He seemed a kind sort. Easy on the eyes, patient in his attitude, intelligence oozing off him but no arrogance – unlike Sherlock, who liked to throw his ridiculously logical brain into any conversation to make others feel rather inadequate. It seemed unusual to Watson that such a supposed pleasant man would be the victim of a serial killer who was apparently murdering people for wrongdoings.
What could William James Moriarty possibly have done wrong?
Sherlock silently dug in his pocket once more and pulled out a small bag that jingled as he threw it to Jimmy. Jimmy stared down at it in wide eyed surprise before grinning up at the two men with so much joy, Watson felt overwhelmed by it. Sherlock simply brushed off the thanks and began to take his leave. Watson tipped his hat at Jimmy, who bowed enthusiastically in return, before following the detective. The relief on Jimmy’s face was palpable, and John knew he wouldn’t be telling Miss Hudson why Sherlock was going to fail meeting rent this month. It was for a good cause.
Watson glanced up at his friend as he reached him, face set in contemplation.
“You alright, Sherlock?” He asked gently.
And then Sherlock Holmes did something completely unexpected given the recent development. Something that made John Watson take a small step back and consider his friend as though he were a tad insane. He laughed.
“Couldn’t be better!” Sherlock told him, smirking widely, “A case that involves Liam, John! Finally – I’ll save him from this murderers clutches and impress him even more! He’ll be so pleased with me, Watson!”
Watson stared silently. He couldn’t imagine William would be pleased with his own death warrant.
Sherlock didn’t seem to care, as he wrapped his hand around Watson’s wrist and tugged, in an attempt to speed him up. “Come, we must let him know he’s marked for death.”