Chapter Text
John had been to his fair share of clubs in the galaxy, but there was something distinctly...special about this one. It smelled, well, it had a distinct smell to it and perhaps if it had been entertaining guests as it usually did, it may have looked more appealing. The central round bar was the first thing John noticed, the asari dancer on the platform above it, the second. She fidgeted clearly uncomfortable with the half dozen c-sec officers pacing around the club.
“What can I do for you boys?” A rather smug brunette man with a military hair-cut greeted them as they entered. His jaw tightened and eyes narrowed, expression instantly changing once he noticed Sherlock.
“Fist,” Sherlock’s lips turned up slightly, “How’d your last transaction of red sand go? Pleasant, I expect. That is a new pistol, is it not?” At that, Fist mirrored Sherlock’s smirk.
“Why Sherlock,” He said with enough contempt to get across how much he didn’t like having him there, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why you ask? Back to your old habits?”
John was perplexed. Old habits?
“Alright, cut it out,” Lestrade waved his hand in agitation, “We’re not here for you, Fist. We’re here about the commander. We need to speak to your bartender and some of the patrons here. I’m certain this would not be a problem for you.” John was astounded to see how swiftly the relaxed demeanor of the c-sec officer change to that of unquestionable authority.
Fist didn’t seem particularly bothered by Lestrade. He merely nodded, gesturing to the scene behind him, “Just don’t harass any of my customers.” As if suddenly losing interest in his interaction with Fist, John watched amused as Sherlock’s eyes locked on the crime scene, an expression of glee shaping his face. Without another word and a last glance at his company, he was marching over with an air of importance about himself. John snorted momentarily forgetting that a dead body sat not a few feet away though Lestrade didn’t seem to mind.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say his enthusiasm for murders is underappreciated by the c-sec officers.” John commented, watching intently as Sherlock crouched over the slumped form of the dead commander, who appeared to have been a drunk whom merely fell asleep in the corner of the bar. Sherlock lifted what appeared to be a glass drink in his gloved hand and took an exaggerated sniff. John heard Lestrade’s exasperated sigh.
“You have no idea.” He stressed, looking all the part tired from what must have been a significant amount of time associating with the man, “But believe it or not, you’re lucky he’s taking on this case. He overheard Sally telling me what happened and of course took it upon himself to get involved,” He seemed to be troubling over a thought before he spoke, “Do you really think something big is going on here?”
John kept his eyes on Sherlock, who was at this point, moving on to glaring at the dead man as if affronted by his mere means of death, “I couldn’t tell you anymore from what I know and have seen in my brief experience,” He said stiffly, “The attack on my ship and her crew was executed flawlessly, masterly planned and there was a clear motive. This wasn’t a mindless ambush by ex-alliance or mercenaries. Something that well-orchestrated can only be working at a larger objective.” Before the conversation could deteriorate into something John wasn’t comfortable with, the conversation was interrupted.
“Commander!” Sherlock barked, “I need your assistance.” John physically jolted at the call, but nonetheless obediently walked over, shoulders set as if following an order from a superior. When he was close enough, Sherlock regarded him silently before speaking, “You have a medical background.”
“I-“John frowned, “How did you know that?”
Sherlock hummed in triumph, “Even at a distance, I could see you assessing the cause of poison. Discoloring of the skin, swollen glands, bloated face, all symptoms acknowledged, am I right?”
John, to his own surprise, nodded. It was an automated response, conditioned in emergencies and endless times of crises he faced in the last decade. How Sherlock could notice that from yards away was-, “Quite impressive.”
Sherlock seemed to freeze, eyes darting at him as if not sure how to take the compliment, “Well-“ He cleared his throat at a loss for words.
“I’ve seen this before.” John spared Sherlock the embarrassment of recovering from the statement. At this close range, he could smell the tang of copper and strong alcohol. He noted the form of the dead commander, “This wasn’t a violent death. The man would have fought and collapsed. Instead, he slumped over as one does when they fall asleep.” His eyes briefly met Sherlock’s to see if he still had his attention. He got a nod to continue, “His killer did not want to cause a scene, either because they needed a quick escape or they aren’t the type that do well in a shoot-out.”
“My dear Commander Watson, no wonder there are men trying to kill you.” John started at the unexpected reciprocated compliment. Sherlock ignored his reaction, raising his voice for Lestrade and the other c-sec officers to hear “What we’re looking for is a killer who would have been able to slip in and out without raising suspicion. Someone who either wasn’t capable of using firearms or would have caught too much attention if they were seen carrying. Any thoughts Lestrade on what kind of suspect that could be?”
Lestrade blinked, “Just about anyone, Sherlock. The patrons here vary from all walks of life including some of the officers here. You know that.”
Sherlock, sighed looking for all the world as if he was given no choice but to explain something rather simple to a child, “These walks of life you speak of are usually armed. Chora’s Den is a cesspool for violence and drug affairs as you’re clearly aware of, so it is not uncommon to see those of less reputable character partake in its comforts,” He paced in front of the body, putting some of the other officers at unease in their attempts to secure the crime scene, “So who –we ask –would look unsuspicious without a weapon.”
John’s eyes darted up to the nervous dancer above the bar, his thoughts clicking together, “Those that work here, I’d wager. The performers or the bartenders.”
“My god, a wounded Alliance officer can do your jobs!” He belted to the rest of the officers being met with an army of glares.
Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face in obvious agitation, “Let’s start on the bartender then.”
*
After what –predictably to John-was an unilluminating set of interviews, Sherlock left the scene in a huff of exclamations of “Dull!” and “Complete waste of time!”, giving John no choice but to pursue him to the entrance of the club where Sherlock had took to stopping in mid-thought.
“Where have you seen it?”
“Seen what?”
Sherlock scowled, “Oh, don’t be slow. It’s pedestrian and annoying.”
“My apologies,” John humored, “My telepathy hasn’t been all that great of late.” When he was met with a rather impressive glower, he sighed, “Care to elaborate to a simple-minded drone?”
That seemed to actually work, “You’ve seen the effects of that same poison. Where?”
John didn’t like thinking much of his confidential foray into his military affairs, but nonetheless there was a lot that had been exposed to him during that time, one being the back worlds of the Terminus System, “I spent some time in Omega.”
“That’s a far way to be for an Alliance officer.” Sherlock knowingly commented, but before John could deny anything, he moved on, “The typical victims?”
“Mostly mercenaries, but all were connected to Aria T’Loak.” Aria, as John remembered her, was in so much words the ruler of the rock space station that was Omega. It really was no surprise that any event that was occurring there, the asari had her hands in or at least, had some knowledge of. At her name, something seemed to set Sherlock’s eyes alight, “Care to share?”
“It’s clear the bartender had no idea what had happened to the commander until an hour after his death, neither did the asari dancer. Her guilt is merely related to her associations with the Eclipse mercenaries and their smuggling of illicit drugs into Citadel via the club.” Sherlock tossed the information off-handedly.
“I’m sure c-sec would want to know that.”
“Boring.” Sherlock huffed, “It isn’t anyone currently here, but it is an employee. Someone who could easily and consistently elicit the poison.”
“Consistently?”
“Like you said, if it were a violent poison, he would have been on the floor. There would have been a scene. The commander died without a fuss. What poison do we know kills so violently, but silently? Something that needs to be administered over time.”
“Alright, so we would need an employee schedule for the last few weeks, match it up to the times the commander visited the bar.” John added.
“Indeed.” Sherlock merely replied, lifting his left arm and revealing the glow of his omni-tool. His fingers flew over some holographic keys before a file flitted up into view releasing a list of names and times.
“You did not.” John stated flatly, knowing already that if a man could break into his place of residence, he would find no qualms hacking into an establishment’s intranets.
Sherlock looked up from the list, the orange haze of the hologram giving the pallor of his skin an unnatural golden glow, “Problem?”
*
Sometime later Lestrade leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning from the shift of his weight, “Commander Martin Argus serving under the SSV Gradient was –prior to his death –on shore leave while his recently assassinated captain was meeting with ambassadors for an important nondescript meeting in the Presidium some weeks ago. From some regulars at the bar, we place him in Chora’s Den on regularity of terran time about every 24 hours making his visits daily and prompt. He had been known to keep to himself, sitting in the same spot and ordering the same drink,” Lestrade overlooked his notes briefly to confirm a piece of information, “A krogan drink called Ryncol that can be altered for easier human consumption without knocking you flat out.”
“So, a drink that is potent in taste that if it were to be poisoned, it would hardly be noticeable.” John commented, leaning against the frame of the doorway of Lestrade’s office.
“Quite clever.” His palms pressed together and tucked under his chin, Sherlock blindly traipsed the office with his eyes closed, not hitting a single object in his wild maneuvering, “Each attempt was customized, catered to the individual.”
“You’re still on about these all being related?” Lestrade appeared unconvinced at this point. John himself had seemed to forgo the idea momentarily that he was connected to this after the show Sherlock pulled at Chora’s Den.
“It’s obvious!” Sherlock waved an arm animatedly, “The manner of death and place is smoke and mirrors hidden from any fool. You see unrelated deaths, whereas if you’d observed, you’d know that this is massive and exciting!”
A thought occurred to John, “If this is what you say this is, these killers aren’t all the same person.”
“No, they’re not. They numerous, set apart and synchronized like a…network.”
“And this last one?” Lestrade asked.
“Asari. Clever, blends in easily, and wouldn’t have been suspicious without a weapon. Had to be unassuming to get as close as she did to a Commander, perhaps was even friendly with him.”
“Okay. That’s a start. We’re looking for an Asari who may have spoken often with the commander.”
“She’s far gone by now.” Sherlock rapidly dismissed.
“That may be, but at least we can get an identity of her-“
“Irene Adler.” Lestrade threw up his hands at the interruption.
John agreed with Lestrade’s vexation about Sherlock’s methods, but he could understand why the man continued working with detective. His tenacity was great and his skill even greater. They already had a lead and if this was a way for him to get one step closer to finding out just what happened to him and his crew when they were ambushed, then he didn’t mind following this wild man to the ends of the galaxy if he had to.