Seduction and Deduction: Part Fourteen

Unbelievable. The first time that she had been to something civilised in ages and some tit had ruined it. They were in a suburban community hall, for Christ's sake! This was about as utopian as life could get. Dead people weren't supposed to randomly fall out of cupboards, much less face plant into a mediocre buffet. Janine's University Reunion had gone a bit Scooby Doo. She had accepted the invite on the premise of curiosity and gleeful anticipation in seeing that her former course mates hopefully looked older than her. But no, the police tape had gone up and the female population of the hall had been stuffed into the undersized loos. All because someone had decided to open the wrong door.

Now Janine was stuck talking to Fat Martha; a woman who had, since Freshman Year, prided herself on swallowing a cake a day. This normally would have been a gratifying experience, as standing next to her was enough to make anyone feel like Kate Moss. The problem was that, somewhere in the last five years, Fat Martha had become Thin Martha and clawed her way into managing a major pharmaceutical company. Frankly, she had never thought that she would be envious of Martha. It was an entirely disturbing feeling. What's more, the was-fat-now-thin cow had taken an overly keen interest in Janine's minor celebrity status. The conversation was about as picky as open heart surgery.

'So Janine, sweetie, tell me more.' The woman gushed, without a hint of baggy skin where her jowls had been. Clearly there had been some plastic surgery.

'Well, as I've told you, I've quit my job at CAM Industries and I'm looking for something a bit more exciting.' Janine smiled gently. If she was coy enough, she might be able to slip away after a few minutes. There were much more enjoyable people to be trapped in a toilet with. 'I'm just plodding along until I find what I want.'

'No, I meant about Sherlock Holmes. I bet the sex was fantastic, wasn't it?'

Wow. That was coming on strong. What had happened to the timid young girl with more self-esteem issues than a mouse? Probably several years of spinsterhood and a mid-life crisis.

'It's not something I like talking about.'

'You chatted about it on telly. And in the tabloids.'

'That was different. How's Terry?'

'It isn't and I divorced him. So are you planning on getting back together? I heard some rumours that you've been seen with him.'

'I think, Martha, that I made my position on that subject very clear when I did the One Show interview. I wouldn't touch Sherlock with a barge pole.' Janine said vehemently. She was just about holding her tongue; this was supposed to be chitchat, not an interrogation.

'Oh, good! Do you think that you could hook me up with him then?'

Janine almost laughed in her face; there was something hysterical about presenting Martha as a match for Sherlock. It would be like trussing her up in a ribbon and sacrificing her to the gods. The woman was looking at her with an expression which went beyond hope and had crossed the border into adulation. It could be so easy to crush that fantasy. Then again, Janine was in no mood to offer the detective something that he'd enjoy, and slightly less inclined to make an old acquaintance cry. At least, not until she absolutely had to play that card.

'That's not somewhere you want to go, honey. Take it from the last girl he dated.' Or rather, the only girl he had dated. Janine wasn't about to go into semantics.

'Oh, please! Everyone here knows that you lied about the abuse.' Martha cried, attracting the nods of several people whom Janine had never liked anyway. 'You were always a little creative with the details and I like a man with a firm hand.'

'Say what you like, but no woman deserves the likes of Sherlock Holmes.'

'Might I say that you sound a little protective, Janine? Are you sure that you've not been in contact with him at all?'

'Very sure.' Janine lied tersely. It would be best to walk away before she did something she'd regret. A catfight really wouldn't look good right now and Janine didn't fancy being speared by Martha's anorexic arse. Breaking the woman's plastic nose, however, was another matter entirely.

'You were a little quick there, sweetie. I think that somebody is protesting too much –.'

'Look, I'm still not going to set you up with my ex.' Janine cut her off. She had less conditional friendships to rekindle. 'You know his address – go round there, try to dry-hump him and see what happens. Other than that, Martha, piss off and choke on a meringue.'

She turned her back and barged her way to the toilet exit, leaving a flurry of animated gossip in her wake. Janine well and truly resented Martha and her assumptions, even if they may have been correct. She had been content with being the almost-foreigner who had been nicknamed Leprechaun Knickers for half of her degree. Now it seemed that everyone under the sun wanted to dissect her, even if they hadn't spoken to her in ages. Janine was fast remembering why she rarely socialised with other journos; in spite of moving onto new things, they all remained a bunch of astronomical cockwombles. She hurried past Stupid Kate, eschewed an offered glass of champagne from B.O. Brian and finally managed to find some space. It was close to the outline of where the body had been, but it was better than nothing. At least nobody would bother Janine for a little while.

She dragged a chair up to the lurid blue-and-white boundary, straddling it backwards. The cheap plastic screamed as Janine fell into a comfortable lean. Two police officers huddled in the corner; each offering her a glance of recognition but not seeing fit to move her along. Resting her chin on her forearms, Janine surveyed her macabre little kingdom. Traces of russet had bled into the ageing floorboards and the tang of dried blood flirted with her taste buds. A broken door banged repeatedly into the sad and upset buffet, drawing the eye to the scene underneath. The crude chalk outline looked more like a chubby stick-figure than an actual human being, its arm outstretched, desperately grappling for a nearby upturned prawn ring.

A year ago, this sort of thing would have downright disturbed her; now Janine found it kind of funny. Aside from the whole Agatha Christie-esque "dead person in the vol-au-vents" situation, the expression on Iwan Llewellyn's face when he had opened that cupboard was priceless. The strapping self-professed ladies' man – now terminally single and working as a builder in Clapham – had screamed like a five-year-old and not been seen since. The rest of the terrified onlookers had been splattered with Iceland's finest before squabbling over who got to call the authorities. Although, Janine supposed, those were normal reactions to a corpse. Meanwhile, her immediate thoughts had been "shit place to die, mate" followed by "thanks for fucking up my evening", which were logical yet completely inappropriate. She'd make a great serial killer, these days. But that was beside the point.

The point was that Janine was tired. Tired of murder, tired of people and tired of her shitty little existence. She was going to turn into a bitter old maid who had shot all of her cats and resigned herself to an ironic death in a piss-soaked flat. That was what her new reputation deserved. Every time she tried to pick up the pieces, the universe would throw her a colossal curveball. All because she had broken away from a rather good little setup of one-nighters and made a couple of bad decisions. Yes, things might blow over, but Janine was almost ready to give up. She even knew someone who was selling kittens.

Her sulk was cut into by the screech of a police radio. She glared at its source; vaguely aware that the conversation of the two officers had descended into urgent whispers. One was looking curious, and the other slightly scared. The youngest nodded in Janine's direction, blushing heavily when she caught his eye. She knew those expressions from somewhere, and she didn't like it. However, before she could fully twig the situation, the officer had bounded over.

'Don't worry Miss, he's outside with DI Lestrade. They shouldn't be more than five minutes.'

He couldn't have been more than twenty; this fresh-faced, fidgety little policeman who was positively beaming in anticipation. It was like the eternally young teacher conundrum, Janine mused idly. He'd probably been done for graffiti or smoking behind the bike sheds less than a month ago, before being dragged into upholding the law. And then she backtracked. Something about what he had said was setting off alarm-bells.

'Excuse me?' The words practically tiptoed off her tongue.

'Mr Holmes is on his way. I thought you'd like to know, being as you're here waiting for him already.'

'Oh. Er, yeah...' Bollocks. Of course he'd turn up. This had to be at least an eight. Janine scanned the immediate area, instinctively looking for a backdoor and wondering why she hadn't left as soon as the body fell out. She didn't want to deal with him right now, but she was not going to have a panic attack.

'Everything okay, Miss? He's apparently having a go at forensics for moving the body, but I'm sure he'll calm down once he sees you.'

'You think so?' Janine let out a short bark of laughter. She couldn't blame the guy for trying to be helpful; it was her own bloody fault that she was here. Maybe being a hermit would have more benefits.

'Oh yeah, definitely.' He enthused, seeming slightly embarrassed that he was talking to a real woman, let alone one who had anything to do with Sherlock Holmes. 'I mean, you er – helped him out with that drugs bust didn't you? One of my mates was working that night and he said you were pretty good, Miss.'

She stumbled to her feet, mildly aware of how dramatic this action must have looked. Her newly departed chair upturned and clattered to the floor. Really? Did the whole world have to know? If this naïve little police-kid had some inkling of recent events, then it was probably on Youtube by now. And there was the panic attack. Janine could feel it gnawing its way through seven layers of skin.

'Really? What did he tell you?' She exhaled sharply through her nose. The perverted little twat was still beaming at her.

'Just that you were invaluable in identifying the suspect.' The officer flushed a cowed shade of red, clearly aware of exactly what Janine was referring to. Not his fault, she forcibly reminded his credit, he had told a white lie to make her feel better. 'I think what you did was really impressive, personally.'

'Um, thanks.' Janine flashed the kid a hasty smile, trying to appear less twitchy than she actually felt.

'You want me to walk you out front? I've heard that he can be a bit of a prick to work with.' And there was the apology. At least he was a kind and thoughtful pervert.

'You have no idea.' Janine muttered, before clearing her throat. 'I'm fine, thank you. I'll go out in a minute. Just – just do me a favour and don't tell them I'm in here already.'

'If you're sure, Miss? I don't mind hanging around if you want me to.' The level of optimism in his eyes was almost hilarious; he clearly wanted to watch the shit hit the fan, and the Consulting Detective would tear him apart for his trouble. But she couldn't do that to the kid. He was too innocent.

'It's fine.' Janine almost snapped. She fixed him with a hard stare; daring him to stay as the last vestige of her self-control was poisoned by a shameful sense of dread. 'Save yourself. This isn't something you want to get mixed up in.'

If the police-boy was confused, he didn't let on; just smiling gently when his colleague gave him the order to clear the area. Janine took a couple of dawdling steps as she watched them retreat. Then she closed her eyes, placed her hands behind her head and fully commenced her meltdown.

Shit, shit and double shit. Janine's memories of last week's night-time adventures were hazy at best; she had woken up at 4pm the next day, upside down on her bed, fully clothed with a box of noodles resting on her stomach. However, she could recall a latter portion of the evening, specifically involving a certain detective and an alleyway. Janine had made it her mission to scourge the moment from her brain; a stray thought was enough to make her cringe. It had been a mistake. It was his fault, if anything. She had been completely out of her mind. Janine could have gone through every excuse known to mankind, but the fact was that Sherlock was heading her way with alarming swiftness. She could hear his voice thundering down the corridor, louder and louder.

'Only a moron would re-employ Anderson. He is a gullible imbecile, prone to obsessive tendencies, and has the forensic skills of a foetus.'

'Yeah, well he's my mate. I thought it was only right that I put in a good word for him. And The Empty Hearse was your fault, Sherlock.'

'Two of your most senior officers dupe you into believing that I am a fraud and you issue a warrant for my arrest, sparking a manhunt which, in part, forced my hand on the roof of St Bart's, and you accuse me of facilitating a conspiracy cult?'

'He was right, though.'

'Shut up. We are still left with the fact that Phillip removed the corpse from the crime scene, before my arrival!'

'On my orders, and only after he'd completed his investigation. Some of us actually have to earn our wages from this, you know.'

'If you could call Anderson's work an "investigation". It is a miracle how London survives on the stupidity of Scotland Yard.'

'Well, you weren't around for two years and it's about a fifty-fifty chance that you'll turn up these days, so we make do. Speaking of mates, how's John?'

The exchange rumbled towards Janine like an oncoming storm, making her feel slightly sick as words transitioned into white noise. From her unlucky vantage point she could see the DI scampering behind Sherlock, whose stride was about as clipped as his attempts at small talk. It violently occurred to Janine that she was almost in his firing line. Her eyes darted, panicked; surely he hadn't seen her yet? She didn't want to be here, or to discuss whatever had occurred in that back alley. She certainly didn't want to face facts; not now, possibly not ever, and certainly not with him. There was an alcove to her right. Somewhere safer than here. And so, Janine did something for the first time in her life; she hid.

Apologies for doing a Moffat/Gatiss - I didn't mean to go radio silent for as long as I did, but PM me if you want my reasons. I've had to split another chapter here, and I'll do my best to get the other half online sometime within the next three weeks. Reviews will always be adored. :) MC. xx