Susan Bones
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Chapter 3
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“We’re not doing that, Sherlock.”
“Don’t be silly, you know it’s the most sensible thing to do at this point.”
“Crashing a funeral?!”
It was the following morning: Sherlock was ready and at the door - only waiting for John to fly into action with him, “We’re not exactly crashing, are we? It’s a public event, it’s in the papers.”
John shook his head in disbelief, “I would argue that showing up to interrogate Amelia Bones’ mourning relatives might be considered in poor taste.”
Sherlock shrugged as he flew down the stairs, “We don’t have the luxury of time to account for poor taste. And I’m not forcing you to come long if you so strongly object.”
“Of course I’m coming, you git,” John called after him, “Someone has to make sure you don’t get punched in the face.” John paused. “Although, I think I’ll allow at least one punch today, considering the circumstances. We’ll stop after five punches.”
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As the taxi was en route to Brompton Cemetery - where Amelia Bones’ funeral service was to take place - Sherlock’s phone went off and snapped him out of his musings. He whipped out his phone to view the message.
(10:37:22) You missed the morning deadlines. Cheers. - MH
“I’m assuming this is Mycroft following through on his word?”
Sherlock glanced over to see John pulling up an article from The Daily Mail on his phone.The headline shouted: LOCKED ROOM “MURDER” RULED SUICIDE: STUMPS CELEBRITY DEERSTALKER DETECTIVE HOLMES.
Sherlock took a moment before pocketing his phone with a little more violence than usual,“Mycroft has always been determined to get his way. Lestrade has served his purpose as far as this case is concerned. We’re on our own now.”
John knew better than to push the issue any further. The rest of the car ride was spent in silence between the two.
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They pulled up to the Brompton Cemetery not a half hour later. After having quite some difficulty in finding the service, they came to a stop halfway up a small hill upon spotting around ten people gathered around a small graveside. There were no bells and whistles - no pictures of the deceased. It was a funeral that was clearly meant to be done and over with.
All of the attendees were wearing long black cloaks.
It seemed that the event was just about over: people were saying their final goodbyes to one young woman in particular before walking away, and by the looks of her, she couldn’t have been over seventeen. John had a feeling that this was Amelia’s niece.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that that girl over there is none other than Miss Susan Bones,” Sherlock kept his voice low.
“I assumed as much. All of the attention is focused on her.”
“Well, clearly, yes. But there’s also —”
“Sherlock,” John hushed him, “remember where we are. It’s not necessarily a crime scene.”
Sherlock huffed, but acquiesced and fell silent.
A few minutes later, the final guest stepped away from Ms. Bones. Sherlock waited for that guest to clear some distance before calling out to her, “Susan Bones?”
Susan abruptly turned to face them, eyes wide at hearing her name called by an unfamiliar voice. Sherlock saw that she was immediately suspicious of the two of them, something to be expected when one is approached by strangers. She cleared her throat, eyes shifting around, “Yes?”
Sherlock immediately lifted the pitch of his voice and cracked an awkwardly charming and apologetic smile, “My condolences and deepest apologies for your loss. My name is Samuel Jones and this is my colleague, Oliver Thompson. For clerical purposes, there are a few questions we’d like to ask you - ”
“You’re Sherlock Holmes.” Susan cut him off.
“We - oh.” Sherlock took a moment to recognize that she had, indeed, just said his actual name. This fame thing, thanks to John’s blog, was getting quite annoying.
He immediately dropped the facade, and reverted back to his normal ‘Sherlock-isms’. “Yes. Yes, I am. And this is John Watson, I’m sure you love his blog.” The venom in his last statement almost made John laugh.
Susan furrowed her brow. “Blog?"
John lost that laugh real quick, “Oh, um. Nevermind.”
“I was told you were consulting on my aunt’s case. Dr. Hooper mentioned you when I went to pick up…” she trailed off. The fraying on the sleeve of her cloak had suddenly become very interesting to her.
John broke the silence, “If you can spare a few minutes, we… well really, he has a few questions for you about your aunt. I know the timing isn’t ideal, but your assistance would be an immense help to the progress of the case.”
Susan let out a bitter laugh, “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s just a few questions, really shouldn’t take any more than -”
“It was suicide.” Susan cut John off with an alarming level of authority for a seventeen year-old, “The case is closed. What more could you possibly need to know? And furthermore, what authority do you have to be further investigating a closed case, and as private citizens?”
“Oh, come now.”Sherlock couldn’t help but scoff, “Don’t tell me you believe in all that tabloid trash -”
“I believe that my aunt is dead.” Susan spat, raising her voice just enough to shut Sherlock up, “And what’s more, you have the audacity to think I’d consent to another interrogation immediately after her funeral? Howdare you.You have no business talking to me and I will not answer any of your questions. Good day.” With that, Susan turned on her heels and marched away from the two men.
Unsatisfied with how things were going, Sherlock stepped forward, “We know of the connection between your aunt and the Riddles.”
Susan froze.
Sherlock waited for a response from her but none came; he furrowed his brow a little, puzzled by her reaction. A few seconds ticked by in silence, and Susan remained frozen, facing away from them.
Sherlock’s impatience got the better of him, “We’re not from Scotland Yard, Susan. We were involved with Scotland Yard, but our further work on the case is no longer part of the official investigation with them. Now if you don’t mind, we have some questions for you.”
Susan hesitantly turned to face the two men. Her eyes were full of unmistakeable terror.
“… You two… you’re not muggles, are you?”
Sherlock’s mind came to the most severe of halts… muggles? The fact that he couldn’t even confirm if that was an actual word in the English language was enough to give Sherlock more than a moment’s pause.
“Muggles -?”
“Why are you asking me about Tom Riddle?” she spat viciously.
Tom. Sherlock latched onto the name. Tom specifically. Was it the father? The son? Why did a name incite such a fear in this woman? In addition, how did she even know of the Riddle case? Clearly there was a stronger connection here than he originally had thought there would be.
“Tom -?”
“Sherlock, wait.” John had noticed Susan’s body language was starting to get defensive: Sherlock’s tactics of bold-faced interrogation were putting her on edge.John stepped towards her slowly, and with extreme care, “Everything’s alright, Susan. We’re just here to talk. We want to help you, and we just want to ask a few questions about your aunt -”
Susan continued to back up, “This isn’t about my aunt - this is about Harry Potter, isn’t it? It’s always about Harry Potter.”
“Harry…?” Sherlock began to ask.
“Why else would you be asking about V-… about him? I won’t help you — ” She reached inside her cloak, hurriedly grasping for something…
“Susan — ”
Susan pulled a stick out from the inside of her cloakand clutched it with a vice-like grip. Immediately, Sherlock thought of the stick found with Amelia Bones. For some reason, he felt just the slightest bit threatened by that single stick.
She kept the stick aimed at the ground but the warning was still clear, “DON’T come any closer to me!” her tone getting a little more frantic.
“John. Stick.”
John looked —indeed, it was just like the one Amelia Bones had. Even though it was just a stick, it was clear to John that he needed to calm her down and fast. Who knows what she would do with it.
“Susan, put the stick down, we’re not here to hurt you —”
This (miraculously to John) caught Susan off-guard, “Stick?! Did you really just —”. Then, something clicked in her mind, “…You’re not Death Eaters.”
John shook his head with the utmost bewilderment, “What —? No. Don’t even know what that is… Death eaters? … that just sounds deeply unpleasant. Um… see him?” He gestured over to a visibly perplexed Sherlock Holmes (a rare sight to behold, especially in public), “I’ve never seen him like this. Ever. We legitimately have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Susan shifted her eyes between the two of them, still not wholly convinced, “… Seriously?”
“Quite. I-If I may…?” John, seeing that she wasn’t going to start stabbing them with her stick, slowly pulled out his phone from his back pocket. He pulled up a website as he spoke, “That blog we mentioned earlier? Here.”
John extended the phone to Susan. She flinched at the gesture but regained her composure and tentatively took the device from John.
John let out a small sigh of relief, “We know your aunt was murdered, and we know you know that too. There is a correlation between the Riddle family case of Little Hangleton and your aunt’s case - but it seems you already knew that too. Um… this is all a bit awkward now, isn’t it?”
Susan was staring at the phone like it was a piece of moon rock - it seemed completely foreign in her hand. Sherlock studied her, hawk-like. John shifted uncomfortably.
“Sorry for clearly scaring the living daylights out of you. You could punch Sherlock in the face? I know I’d quite like to at times. Probably would be easier than… impaling him with your… stick?”
Susan suddenly shoved John’s phone back into his hands. Her face was deathly pale.
“Oh… Oh God - I’m…” Her voice wavered; her hands were shaking, “I-I’m so sorry… I… I have to —”
And with that, Susan Bones ran. Away from them, further into the heart of the cemetery. Awkwardly shoving the stick back in her cloak and her hair flying every which way. But then she stopped, and just as quickly pulled out the stick again and, this time, aimed the stick directly at Sherlock.
“What is she —?”
No sooner had John muttered that, Susan had decided to pocket the stick and run away again. This time, Sherlock sprinted after her.
“Sherlock!” John ran after the two.
Sherlock dodged trees and gravestones, keeping his eyes on Susan. Susan checked behind her to see them in hot pursuit, and immediately began looking around for other avenues to escape. She made a sharp change in course, hoping to throw Sherlock off her trail. Sherlock navigated the change in course with little added effort. She seemed to be aiming for a nearby mausoleum — Sherlock continued to follow in hot pursuit, slowly gaining on her. Right when she reached the mausoleum, she made a hard turn right behind the structure. It was not five seconds later when Sherlock rounded the same corner of the mausoleum and immediately skidded to a halt.
Susan Bones was gone.
Sherlock looked around, completely disoriented. There had to be a trail, a clue, anything…
But there wasn’t.
If Sherlock was one to jump to silly conclusions, he might have said that she had vanished into thin air. Although, if truth be told, he wasn’t entirely ruling that possibility out…
He heard John’s slight wheezing and the pitter-patter of his footsteps slowing to a stop. “What the hell just happened? Where is she?” he panted.
“I’m…. I’m not entirely sure.” It was one of the few times in Sherlock’s life where he might have actually meant that statement. “She… she turned the corner….”
John was not at all comforted by the fact that Sherlock was as lost as he was. He let Sherlock continue to search in his panic for a few minutes before speaking up, “I guess we should go then.”
“… Sure.”
Bewildered by the events that had just transpired, both men wandered back the way they came in silence. At least, in silence on John’s end.
“She asked only about Tom Riddle.” Sherlock started, “Both the father and the son were named Tom, but seeing as the elder has been dead for well over fifty years, we must conclude that she is referring to the son. But why? The Little Hangleton case is far too old to be connected to anything current, the son would have to be well over seventy years old by now and there are absolutely no records of what happened to the younger riddle. But Susan’s reaction and consequential gibberish are irrefutable evidence of a stronger connection to the Riddles…. And who is Harry Potter? How does he fit into all of this?”
“I’m not sure,” John replied as they made it back to where their taxi had dropped them off not that long ago. “Maybe Mycroft was right to tell us to leave it alone.”
He could sense Sherlock tensing up out of frustration. “Mycroft is rarely right, and he certainly isn’t about this.”
“Sherlock, y’know, sometimes Mycroft actually does have your best interests in mind. This might be one of those times.”
A hardened female voice interrupted them, “Spare some change, sir?”
Sherlock and John whipped their heads over to see the same homeless woman who was right outside Amelia Bones’ residence approaching them from the street. Looking between the two of them, it was clear she only had counted on talking to Sherlock.
Sherlock, naturally, picked up on the source of her hesitation, “He’s alright, tell us what you’ve found.”
She scooted over closer to them, and took a final few seconds to scout out the surrounding area before speaking. “Nothin’ on the Riddles or this Amelia Bones, but there’s somethin’ else of interest. The whispers on the streets - they grow in numbers, and they repeat the name of Harry Potter. Many in awe, others in worry, but some in murderous delight. “Harry Potter’s days are numbered,” they say. “Harry Potter will be dead before long”. I’ll keep my ear to the ground… for another fifty pounds.”
Sherlock immediately pulled out a few folded bills for her. “Find out more, especially about this Harry Potter. And follow a woman named Susan Bones - she just left from here headed North East - auburn hair, caucasian, slight freckles, around 16 or 17 years old.”
“Sure that isn’t too much you’re giving her, Sherlock?” John murmured.
The woman shot John a scathing glare as she pocketed the money from Sherlock, “This information ain’t cheap, son. And your friend here knows I’m good. I’ll find you on Baker Street same time tomorrow.”
And with that, she stalked away down the street, her wandering eyes immediately on the task at hand.
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(15:45:08) “Muggle”. What is it? - SH
(15:49:24) Mycroft. - SH
(15:52:33) Susan Bones accused me of being a “Death Eater” …
(15:52:48) What does that mean? - SH
(15:55:50) Mycroft. - SH
(16:03:28) Mycroft. - SH
(16:24:30) I can get John to bother you too. - SH
(16:37:02) Mycroft. - SH
(16:40:19) Mycroft. - SH
(16:43:41) Who is Harry Potter? - SH
(16:44:00) Never heard of the word. - MH
(16:44:07) And leave the poor girl alone. - MH
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True to her word, the homeless woman was back the next day, but not with good news. It seemed that Susan had disappeared from the greater metropolitan area of London overnight. Furthermore, she could not find any other information about Harry Potter, nor any clues as to who he even was. And despite Sherlock’s best attempts, his future efforts proved to be as futile as hers.
But Amelia Bones’ case would prove to only be the beginning.
More and more, the cases Lestrade would bring Sherlock became strangely unsolvable - they made Amelia Bones’ case look like child’s play. Missing persons cases popped up all over the United Kingdom, in addition to a sharp spike in murder cases bearing similarities to the Bones case.All were unsolvable, and Scotland Yard was beginning to look like it was being run by incompetent fools (though Sherlock would have claimed to have known that years ago).
Naturally, the media pounced. And of course, Sherlock wasn’t spared.
Headlines and opinion columns emerged of how Scotland Yard’s darling detective couldn’t even help the incompetent agency with the rise of crime. This didn’t go over well at all with Sherlock, as John witnessed one night when he came home from Bart’s to find Sherlock perusing said headlines on his phone.
“Pity that these idiots are actually paid to share their worthless opinions. Their entire profession is pointless and parasitic.” Sherlock huffed, and violently threw his phone at the sofa.
He snatched up his violin, and spent the rest of the foggy evening plucking away at it.
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(03:02:11) Happy New Year, Sherlock. - MH
(03:02:59) Keep your head low for the next few months. - MH
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When summer arrived, things of an unusual nature began to permeate the tense atmosphere that had been plaguing London in recent times. During his commutes to and from work at Bart’s, it came to John’s attention that, for as stifling hot as London could get in its summers, there was a more pronounced population of the city wearing black cloaks.
Missing persons cases were still just as regular to find in the news, however these cases seemed to never land on Lestrade’s desk. Sherlock moped at how the interesting ones never got passed along to him, and John rather suspected that Mycroft has some hand in fielding the cases. Talk of Amelia Bones and the Riddle Family had certainly subsided at 221B Baker Street, but John had no doubt that those were the thoughts gnawing away at Sherlock’s mind at every moment’s chance.
As a matter of fact, John was certain those were the thoughts occupying Sherlock’s mind right now, even though he was busying himself with studying the latest hoard of body parts procured by the one and only Doctor Molly Hooper (John couldn’t remember if this week it was fingers, toes, or ears). John could have sworn that Sherlock had already run identical tests exactly a month ago (even on the same parts of the human anatomy), but he didn’t have the heart or energyto point that out to him. Even worse, he was worried that Sherlock already knew he was running the same exact test.
It was a rare stretch of time that Sherlock and John weren’t running around London, so Mrs. Hudson had taken to making them dinner on some evenings. John rather enjoyed having her around, for she made an excellent partner for watching television. Sherlock was not an excellent partner for watching television. Rather, he was excellent at making Mrs. Hudson worry excessively about the condition of their kitchen.
“Sherlock, dear, you’re not destroying my countertops are you?”
He didn’t bother to look up while responding, “Not at all, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Good. Give that a rest for a minute, and come watch the Prime Minister’s speech with us?”
Sherlock snorted under his breath. “Please, Mrs. Hudson. It’s just one large circus, there’s no value in anything related to politics.”
“You’re just bitter your brother runs the whole damn show.” John chimed in from his chair.
“Ooh! Quiet, boys - he’s speaking!” Mrs. Hudson turned on the volume. John turned his attention back to the television where a handsome, yet clearly exhausted, man was situating himself at his podium.
The Prime Minister looked rather pale as he addressed the cameras, “It is with great sadness that I announce our very own Herbert Chorley will be stepping down permanently from his position as Junior Minister. While he has been a valuable asset to our administration, his family feel that it is best for him to remain at home permanently as his condition has not improved.” He spared the slightest of glances over his right shoulder before turning back to his speech. “While we had hoped that this — ”
“Those two in the back.” John and Mrs. Hudson jumped at the sudden presence of Sherlock’s voice right behind them. “On our left side of the Prime Minister, the two men without ties… they’re new.”
John looked a bit closer, and indeed (as always) Sherlock was right. There were two men in the corner, almost begrudgingly allowing themselves to be filmed. One was a towering figure that John believed rather resembled an old lion in his demeanor - his shrewd eyes piercing through his mane of hair. The other, who was just behind the formerly described man, sported long black hair and beard speckled with silver hair. There was something about the second man that seemed a bit distant.
“Interesting characters.” John agreed, “I wonder if Mycroft might know them?”
Sherlock stalked back to the kitchen without responding.
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(20:18:56) Who are the two new men in the PM’s entourage? - SH
(20:19:15) I didn’t know you had acquired an interest in politics. - MH
(20:19:40) Mrs. Hudson was watching. New friends of yours? - SH
(20:21:34) Mycroft, the silence is tiresome. - SH
(20:23:01) Yes… Yes it is. - MH
(23:49:25) Stay safe. - MH
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A few weeks later, the disappearance of Charity Burbage piqued Sherlock’s interest, but much to his disappointment it never landed on Lestrade’s desk. Few cases did nowadays, and even fewer that were sent to Sherlock. In the latter days of July, violent and unpredictable lightening and thunderstorms travelled from Surrey to Devon.
It seemed as though the world was unravelling - an invisible force of nature was wreaking havoc both seen and unseen, but definitely felt by all. And all the while, people watched and waited for when this darkening storm would hit them. Would they be next? Their neighbor? Their hometown? What freak occurrence would tear their community apart this time?
But unlike the others who waited in dread, the inhabitants of 221B were jumping at the gun with anticipation. War was near; they could feel it in their bones. A war greater than either of them had ever faced before. Each day that passed only brought Sherlock and John closer and closer to battle.
Then, August 1st arrived.
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