The Devil's Chord

Chapter One

Doctor John Watson was going to throttle his friend, Hippocratic Oath be damned.

It didn’t matter that their cab driver would witness the crime. John could pay the man off by giving him Sherlock’s stuff. A win-win.

“You solved a thirty-year old cold case during breakfast and the murder of a political activist before tea.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “And I’m not even counting the fake diamond you so kindly revealed to that poor woman.”

Sherlock pocketed his mobile. “If he truly loved her, he would have purchased a genuine gemstone. Isn’t that how it goes with you sentimental lot? I did her a favor.”

John’s lips thinned. “Haven’t you done enough for one day?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” The world’s only consulting detective and the biggest prat on the face of the planet thumped the barrier separating them from the cabbie. “Forget Baker Street. Take us to Stryder & Chapel.”

Their driver made a u-turn. Apparently, they were now on their way to visit an expensive law firm.

“Aren’t you at least going to tell me about the voice-mail?”

“No, I don’t believe I will. You’re clearly not interested.”

Sunlight shone through the cab window and cast a halo around Sherlock’s dark, curly hair. Oh the irony. John glared. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Unswayed, his bloody-minded friend refused to speak for the remainder of the drive

***

“Do no harm,” John muttered as he followed Sherlock into a conference room.

There were too many witnesses here anyhow. Far too many to pay off. Although, if anyone here knew the detective, they'd likely cheer John on as he punched him.

Rows of dark wooden chairs encircled a podium. A stout, spectacled middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion and expensive suit stood behind it, rifling through a large stack of documents.

A few people already seated glanced their way then returned to their quiet conversations. Sherlock chose a seat in the back and John, praying for patience, sat down beside him, the cushion surprisingly comfortable for such a posh looking chair. His face reflected back at him in the polished marble flooring.

“What are we doing here?”

Sherlock’s gaze flicked from one attendee to the next. “I’m deciding whether we take this case or not.”

“And what exactly is the case?”

“Murder, hopefully, or we wouldn’t be here.”

He frowned. “We’ve done missing person cases before.” In fact, they’d rescued a kidnapped journalist a few months ago.

Sherlock drummed his fingers across the arm of the chair. “Yes, but only when desperate. Homicides are far more interesting.”

“Right, because taking a case where you might save the victim instead of identifying their killer is boring.”

“Precisely. Kidnappings are irritatingly predictable. It’s always a family member or close friend committing the crime.”

More people entered the room. A family of four chose the front row, while several groups of two’s and three’s took up the remaining seats.

A dark-haired man eased into the row in front of them and let out a sharp hissing breath as he sat. He cast a beseeching look at the woman beside him. “I promise you, this is it.”