THE BAKER STREET TRIO (SHERLOCK X READER)

Chapter 33: The Empty Hearse

Sherlock turned away from the window. “Do you want to solve some crimes?” He asked.

“What is it you think we’re doing here?” Y/N asked.

“No I mean―” The doorbell rang. “That crime.”

“A client.” Y/N said, smiling. “You’re back for two seconds, and they’re already flooding in.”

--
“Well, absolutely no one should have been able to empty that bank account other than myself and Helen.” Mr. Harcourt, the client, said.

Sherlock stood up from his chair. “Why didn’t you assume it was your wife?”

“Because I’ve always had total faith in her.” Mr. Harcourt said.

“No, it’s because you emptied it.” Sherlock said. “Weight loss, hair dye, Botox, affair.”

Y/N held a business card out towards Mrs. Harcourt.

“Lawyer.” She said.

“And your pen-pal’s emails just stopped, did they?” Sherlock asked.

The woman who’d come in a few minutes before began to cry. Sherlock let go of her hand, and walked over to where Y/N sat, jotting down a few notes.

“Stepfather posing as online boyfriend.” He said. “Breaks it off, breaks her heart, she swears off relationships, stays at home and he still has her wage coming in.”

Y/N put down her pen, enraged.

“Mr. Windibank, you have been a total―”

“This one has us all baffled.” Lestrade said, tearing crime scene tape from a doorway.

For their latest crime, Sherlock felt the need to leave the flat and delve into the Yard’s unsolvable cases.

“I don’t doubt it.” Sherlock said.

The three investigators descended into a moldy basement. A skeleton sat behind an ornate wooden desk, dressed in a suit. Lestrade flicked on two CSI lights, and Y/N and Sherlock got to work.

The body smelled of cedar and new mothballs, and Y/N could detect races of fire damage. Sherlock pulled out his phone, researching.

The floor rumbled, shaking dust loose.

“Trains?” Lestrade asked.

“Trains.” Sherlock confirmed.

Y/N examined the bones more closely.

“Male, 40 to 50.” She said. “But the skeleton can’t be more than six months old.”

Sherlock opened a hidden compartment in the desk and pulled out a book. He blew dust from the cover, revealing the title: How I Did It by Jack the Ripper.

“It’s impossible!” Lestrade exclaimed.

“The corpse is six months old. It’s dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It’s been displayed on a dummy for many years, in a case facing southeast, judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire damage sale a week ago.” Sherlock explained.

“So the whole thing was a fake?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes.” Y/N agreed.

“Looked so promising.” Lestrade complained.

Sherlock was already on his way out the door, reading a text from another client. Y/N gave Lestrade a smile and followed her detective out of the door.

Y/N pressed the doorbell of a flat in Surrey. Instead of a bell, it blared “mind the gap, mind the gap.” A heavyset man in his mid-thirties, Howard Shilcott, opened the door. Sherlock held out the Chullo he and Mycroft had deduced earlier that morning.