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holmesticePart 1
Chapter 3
“Let me see it, Lestrade! Give me the parchment!” Sherlock had been physically dragged out of the crime scene and down the hall. “I know what that means! I know what it means! It's him! It's him! John, please!”
John held Sherlock around his chest, pinning him against the wall. He wouldn't let him move if it meant he'd barge back into the Matron's bedroom and disturb what might be crucial evidence.
Lestrade had already called the local Chief Constable and reported the death, mentioned that it was almost certainly part of a larger series of crimes in London.
Mycroft stood to the side quietly, running through variations of covering his face with both hands.
“Mycroft, make them let me go! Mycroft! Please! It's him! You know it's him!”
Lestrade strode up to Sherlock, all copper, all business. John moved out of the way as Greg grabbed both shoulders. Sherlock stopped yelling.
“Look,” Lestrade said quietly, “I can't let you near that room unless you calm down, yeah? Breathe. Breathe.” He watched as Sherlock obeyed. “Now, what I will do is read you the notes. That's as much as you get right now, okay? We understand each other?” He released Sherlock gently, checked with John, then headed back to the bedroom.
Sherlock stopped at the threshold.
Lestrade stepped carefully across the wooden floor, avoiding the small carpet, until he was within view of the letters.
“Which do you want first?”
“The parchment.”
“Alright. It's short. It just says, handwritten in ink, 'Do it today.' That's all. Words're in the middle of the page, it's folded in thirds and sealed. Seal was cracked open to read. And, yeah, it looks like the same one from the kidnapping case.”
“Read the other one.”
Lestrade leaned over, squinting, tilting his head to read the note without touching. “'What have we got? Typical stationery, handwritten in ink, different ink than the – anyway. 'I'm so ashamed. I let him corrupt me and the memory of my service. There is no honor in what I have done. He made me murder Mrs. Holmes. I felt I had no choice. I'm so sorry.' That's it. No salutation, no signature even. I'm sure we'll find that it's in her own hand. No reason for it not to be.”
Sherlock stood, stance wide, shaking fingertips spread against his temples. “All right. 'Do it today.' Assume she – did it on the day she received the note, we can try and trace her actions, see how she came into possession of that letter. Was it delivered? Was it handed to her in town or somewhere else? Did the messenger bring it here? There is precious little CCTV in the village, the police will have to interview witnesses. Also, there's a possibility that she didn't get the letter for a period of time after it was left for her or delivered to a postal box. Perhaps it didn't matter when she did it, just that it would assuredly be done once she got the note. The sender could afford to be patient. That will make it much harder to track the source of the command.”
Lestrade exited the room, crowding Sherlock back into the hallway. “Now, both of you,” he indicated the Holmes brothers, “go downstairs and wait for the police. You cannot be involved too closely from here on out.”
Mycroft nodded heavily and headed toward the stairs in a daze. “Yes. I suppose I will have to arrange for a disinterment. Forensics, exact cause of death....”
Sherlock grabbed his shoulder and turned him. “Is that all??” he bellowed. “Will you roll over and let these bumpkins handle this case? This case, Mycroft! Moriarty MURDERED our MOTHER! In our own house!”
“Moriarty is dead, Sherlock! Dead!”
“Is he? Really? You covered it up. He's merely incommunicado as far as his minions are concerned! YOU kept him alive! You kept the fear of him alive for your own purposes! His people are still carrying out orders in his name! HE KILLED MUMMY! Right under your nose! He had a mole in this house!”
John tugged at Sherlock's arm, trying to pull him away from his brother obviously crumbling under the weight of grief and guilt. Sherlock shrugged him off violently, grabbed the full teapot and heaved it down the hallway. The spout caught on a door jamb and spun the pot sharply to crash against the floor, spraying tea and shards of porcelain everywhere.
“Right.” John and Lestrade each grabbed an arm and manhandled Sherlock away from Mycroft and down the stairs. On the family floor, John asked firmly, “Where's your room?” Sherlock indicated with his head, and soon he was ushered into it. Sherlock stood alone in the middle of the carpet, tensed. “Greg,” John murmured, “why don't you go check on Mycroft or the police or something.”
“Yeah. 'Course.” His eyes shifted warily between the two. “Yell if you need me.” He shut the door quietly behind him. They stood in silence hearing his tread down the hall.
Sherlock began to move in an increasing spiral, spinning out until he hit a piece of furniture, practically caroming off the walls.
“I can't think! I can't – I need to think!” He pounded his head with his hands. “Think, dammit! Why did he kill – why did she – Gahh!”
John approached cagily, hands out, corralling him to a corner. “Take it easy –”
“I need some, John! I need my kit! This is important!”
“No! Don't be ridiculous!”
“Right now, my mind is as coherent as a shaken snow globe. It's whirling! I need it! I need to focus!”
“Cocaine is not the answer, Sherlock.” John took a beat. “I could find you a cigarette somewhere.”
“It's not enough.”
“You are not taking drugs, Sherlock. I won't let you. It's ridiculous. Just give yourself a moment.”
“It's not enough! I need to reboot! Damn it!” He pulled at his hair, and turned to the wall, pounding a fist.
John took a chance and put his hand softly in the middle of Sherlock's back. “I'm so sorry. This is horrible. Your mum.... Just – we'll work it out. I promise.” Sherlock froze, then turned slowly, a wild look in his eye. John froze, too, eyes wide. “Don't break anything.”
Sherlock seized John and shoved him against the wall. He bent down and devoured John's mouth, ingesting him like the drug he craved. He smashed their lips together, gripping John's jacket in bunches. His open mouth ran along John's jaw, down past his Adam's apple. He tugged at John's coat and shirt together. He couldn't get them off fast enough.
“Oh my god,” John panted, shrugging out of his clothes. “You're doing this. I'm going to letyou do this.”
Sherlock pulled away from John's skin, heaving breaths, “I need some. Give me some.”
“Some what?” John choked, dazed, knees buckling.
Sherlock pulled open John's button-down, fell to his knees and buried his face in John's belly, nosing farther and farther down into his waistband, hands up John's chest, grasping skin and nipples.
“Oh, fuck. Christ.”
Sherlock unbuckled John's belt, fumbled with his fly, until John helped, hands shaking. Sherlock attacked John's prick through his pants with his mouth. John had to push him away. “Easy! Jesus! Bed. Now!” He pulled Sherlock to his feet and shuffled him backward to the bed. They fell back, Sherlock pulling John on top, grabbing John's face and snogging him inartfully, but effectively. John moaned, grinding himself against Sherlock's hard, bony hip.
“Make me, John. Make me.”
“God, yes.” He palmed Sherlock firmly, finding him not fully aroused, but getting there. He kneaded him through his clothes. “Fly,” he ordered, sliding down Sherlock's body. Sherlock had his trousers open by the time John got settled again. “You want to stop thinking?” John dove in, taking Sherlock to the root, the man arching beneath him, uttering word fragments and guttural, sonorous noises.
It had been a while, John had liked sucking men, and he really liked Sherlock reacting to every change in pressure, every new texture of his tongue, to his hand squeezing, to the other caressing his stomach. Sherlock was beautiful. Flushed, writhing, panting, calling out, beating the mattress with the backs of his hands when he wasn't sliding them through John's hair.
John was so hard, sohard. He wanted Sherlock, he wanted to come together. He pulled off, quickly took both cocks in hand and stroked, milked, slick with saliva, with fluids leaking readily from both.
“Juh – ” Sherlock grunted.
He tugged faster, taking Sherlock's mouth, holding him down as he convulsed, arched beneath him, shuddering out a gasp. John followed at the exquisite sounds, collapsing on Sherlock's chest.
After a moment, John felt trembling under his cheek. Laughing? Was Sherlock laughing? He looked up. Sherlock's face was twisted in a rictus, tears leaking from his closed eyes, silent sobs wracking him through clenched teeth.
“Oh, god. Sherlock. Don't – shhhh.” John sat up on an elbow, wiping Sherlock's face, brushing tears away with his knuckles. “You okay? Did I hurt you?” Sherlock only shook his head. “Ahh, Sherlock.” John sighed, held him and waited for it to pass.
Sherlock woke, blinked at the ceiling for a few minutes, John spread on his back by his side, snoring quietly, utterly debauched.
He rolled deftly off the bed, cleaned himself up with his handkerchief, and let himself out of the room.
* * *
John passed the doorway to the sitting room on the way out. Mycroft sat staring, hugging a silver bowl of All Sorts. He held it out as John stopped before his chair. “Licorice?”
“No. Thanks. Sherlock?”
“The greenhouse, most likely. Out back.”
John nodded and turned on his heel.
He made his way through the back of the house, through the French doors in the music room, to a low terrace that led onto the lawn. He headed to the only structure he could see, breathing in the misty air as he strode.
He found Sherlock squatting in front of a box hedge near the greenhouse. He held a slender stick in his hand. John stopped and waited, watching the man contemplate a large spider web.
Sherlock touched the end of the stick to a strand. Nothing happened. He plucked another. Nothing happened. He touched a third, and a grey spider charged to the center. John jumped.
“We hit a tripwire, John.” He dropped the stick and stood, brushing off his hands.
Chapter 4
There was no talking Sherlock out of anything.
John fidgeted with frustration in the back of the car as he and Sherlock made their way back to London. Lestrade stayed behind to liaise with the local police, seeing as how Moriarty's murders and other, lesser crimes, were now linked to the Holmes murder far from Lestrade's domain.
“I can't believe you'd leave now!” John had argued.
“There is no information to be had, here. I'm going back to Baker Street. You can stay if you like, but there's no sense in being here any longer.” Sherlock had turned his back on John, ending the discussion in his most dismissive, insulting, infuriatingmanner.
“I know you and Mycroft have never been close, but really, Sherlock. Don't you think he needs you now?”
Sherlock put the figurine he'd been fiddling with back on the mantelpiece and turned. “No. He never does. The staff will see to him. As ever.”
John pursed his mouth and shook his head. “You two. Brothers. Both such stubborn – One day, you'll need each other.” He huffed out a breath. “Just so you know... he loves you. Very much. I hope some day you can return the sentiment.”
“Ha. Sentiment.”
John crossed his arms. “You and I both know you aren't the cold-hearted monster you like to pretend to be. You aren't. I know it's frightening, to feel, to – ”
“I'm going up to pack. I'm leaving in twenty minutes. You can be with me or not. I don't care.”
Twenty minutes later, John was in the car, leaving.
An hour later, they hadn't said a word.
“So,” John blurted finally. “There's something we need to discuss.”
“The kissing thing?” Sherlock sneered.
“I think we're way past that.” John shifted to look an avoidant Sherlock in the face. “I was – wewere – a bit reckless earlier.”
Sherlock played with the armrest on the door. “I'm not worried. You get yourself checked all the time– I've seen the plasters in the crease of your elbow every month. You work in a surgery, easy access to testing. It's hardly a stretch, knowing you.”
“And you?”
“Don't worry about me.”
“I can't leave it at that. I need to know.”
“I was, as they say, 'mint, in box'.”
“Ohhh.” John frowned. “I wish I had known that.”
“Whatever for?”
John faced front again with a heavy sigh. He reached out blindly for Sherlock's fist resting on the seat between them and gave it a squeeze.
* * *
That night, settling back at Baker Street, Sherlock reviewed everything he knew about the case. By the next morning, he'd sent his best man to the archives in the Museum of London Docklands to dig up anything he could find about the warehouses and businesses possibly related to Neap or the ivory trade.
John trod up the stairs at the end of a very long day of researching. He dropped a small sheaf of printouts on the desk, hung his coat on the chair and headed straight for the kettle.
“What did you find?” Sherlock asked, hunched over his laptop set on the coffee table.
“Ahh, well, lots, but nothing contemporary. I did find a record of an old whaling warehouse under the name of Spatchcock and Neap, Imports. I mean, how common a name is Neap anyway? Maybe it was a family business three hundred years ago. As of a hundred and fifty years ago, it was no longer a whaling business, but a tobacco importer. As of today? Hardly anything remains of the old docks. It's all been razed and repurposed, for the most part. The business is probably defunct. Tea?” John reached in the cupboard for his favorite mug.
“No.” Sherlock sat up, tented his fingers under his chin. “Nothing exists aboveground. But I know the extensive vaults under the old docks are still there. We need to find the footprint of the old warehouse.”
“That will be nigh on impossible, you know. There are parks, and recreation centers, museums, built up all over there, the channels are filled in some places. What are you expecting to find in an undercroft? Besides rats?”
“They were whalers, you say? That's mostly blubber for oil, but would have a nice sideline in ivory and stays from bone. Maybe it was a family business from the start. There were wine importers, tanneries, tobacco importers, all sorts of far-flung goods traders that could have been supplemented by animal trade, legal and otherwise. I like this, John. This makes sense. What if there is a reason ivory was being smuggled – still being smuggled, possibly – through Neap in the middle of London? Because they've always done it? That route has always been there.”
“But what will be the link between Neap and Moriarty? Lestrade said Neap wasn't even on the map when Moriarty died.”
“He wasn't big enough to be on the map. Not then. Not yet.”
“Perhaps Edgar Neap was one of the Jim'll Fix It clients.”
“So, he asked Moriarty for help and got it. He grew his business. If we exposed his ivory ring, why would that trip a wire?” Sherlock tipped his head against the sofa back. His eyes flared wide open. “Oh! It's like a computer program, a flow chart.” He got up and strode to the kitchen, stopping beside John fixing his tea. “There are tens of thousands of crimes committed in London, in Great Britain, every day. Moriarty isn't the author of them all, but he did oversee rather long-reaching plots and had investments of time and power in innumerable ones.” He grabbed the mug and sipped, making a face. “You know I take sugar, John.”
“Yeah, that's... mine – whatever.” He reached up for another mug and teabag, and started the process again.
Sherlock scooped a spoon of sugar from the bowl, stirred, and drank deeply from his cup. “He promised to burn me, John. I got in his way. I ruined his plans, cost him credibility. He gave up millions of pounds, just to get my attention. He promised to burn the heart out of me.” Sherlock leaned closer to John, into his space. “The heart. That's my family. That's you. My vulnerability. He knew that before I did.”
“You knew it. Admitit to yourself... that's another thing. Let me tell you this,” John grasped Sherlock's arms. “Interesting medical fact. The heart doesn't burn. You can incinerate a body to ashes, but in the end, the heart will be sitting there in the center of it all, more or less intact. If I'm your heart, then I'm not going anywhere.”
A haunted look washed Sherlock's features briefly. “I spent that time away from you hunting, John. I got so many, so many who could have hurt you. I'm afraid his network is so vast that it's self-propagating and it will never die.”
“Or, it's small but potent with just a few, very lethal strands.” John released him. “So tell me about this flow chart idea.” He took his new cuppa and lead Sherlock to the sofa. He sat, and Sherlock sat right next to him.
“I think Moriarty has set up a kind of deadman switch--”
“Appropriate name, in this case.”
“No! Not a deadman switch. The opposite of a deadman switch. Active, not passive. It flows like a computer program regarding the success of a venture and my possible involvement. If project equals successful, then go to End. If project equals failed then go to Next Line. Was Sherlock Holmes cause of failure? If No, go to End. If Yes, go to Implement Revenge.”
“And the Neap case was a big one, costly. Do you think he has a ledger with a packet of wax-sealed letters in a room somewhere, checking against every large transaction he conducts via Moriarty's network?”
“Maybe. Low-tech, high-tech, automated, who knows. Moriarty could go either way and make it look like something completely different.”
“So, we can never know which of a million possible cases will trigger 'burning'. It's like a mine field.” John took a sip. “Well, we can't stop our work.”
“That would be one way to decrease risk to you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade.”
“But then he wins!” John turned and stared. “That's... You would do that? Couldyou do that? You'd be insane inside a month.”
“I'd have this case to work on.” He gulped more tea, swallowed noisily, set the mug on the table. “I need more data.” He leaned forward, pulled his laptop in front of him and started Googling.
“Do you mind if I put the telly on?” He got no response, which John took as acquiescence.
Chapter 5
By dawn, Sherlock had found some images of the old premises belonging to Spatchcock and Neap.
“John!” Sherlock poked at the man slumped over against his side. “Wake up.”
John stirred and groaned, stiff and cold from sleeping on the sofa, spine curved in a non-restful arc. “Whassit?” He ground the heel of his hand into his eye socket.
“I've found etchings. Look.” He pointed at the screen. “I know exactly where that is.”
“Jesus. It's too early. Going to bed. Ow.” He creaked as he stood, banged into the table littered with take-away containers, and shuffled out of the room.
“It's not too early! The day is wasting!”
“That building has been there hundreds of years. It'll still be there after I've lain in bed a while and un-pretzeled my back. G'night.”
Sherlock practically bounced as they prepared to leave.
“Torches.” They both pulled one out of their coats. “Check. Pistol?” John pulled it adroitly from his waistband, automatically eyed the safety, and put it back. “Good. The game is afoot, John! Let's go!”
He spun on his heel and bounded down the stairs, John running behind, their hearts pounding.
“Yeah, this part always feels so anti-climactic.” John put his Oyster card away in his wallet, and waited for the train to Canada Water station.
“True,” Sherlock agreed ruefully.
At the old docklands, they exited the modern barrel shape of the station, pulses beginning to speed with anticipation again, headed north toward what would have been the quay, and was now a road with a flattened area near the water and a block of old stone buildings with a sooty facade facing the water. If it hadn't been midday, John might have got the heebie jeebies from the area. It looked like something out of a Victorian Ripper movie.
“Here. Look.” Sherlock pointed up at an ancient timber embedded above the stone lintel of the door. Deeply carved in the blackened wood was the name of the old whaling business.
“So, what? We just walk in?”
“It is a business....” Sherlock grabbed the handle of the massive wooden door and heaved it open.
They found it dark inside, despite the windows. They pulled out their torches before tugging the door closed behind them.
“Hello?” Sherlock's quiet baritone echoed off plaster walls, the commercial space inside rather empty, sacks of god-knew-what in pyramids about the perimeter. “Good. No one's here,” he whispered. “Look for a stairway down. I'm hoping for a tunnel.”
“To where?”
Sherlock turned toward the road and the river beyond. “To that way. Come on.”
“There's definitely going to be rats.” John shook his head and followed.
They found an open trap door inside the office area. The fact that it was open gave them pause.
“Not so deserted, then,” John said, readjusting his pistol.
“Just be careful. Let's see what we can see.”
“Right behind you.” John looked around before following Sherlock into the hole in the floor.
They made their way at least a hundred yards through a stone rib-vaulted tunnel lined with old casks. Not a rat was to be seen, but a damp, meaty smell permeated the place. Dust is eloquent, as Sherlock had once said, and the brown stuff covered everything except a well-trodden path between the barrels. Ahead was a dim glow. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, wires run along the top of the wall. They came to a stop, crouched behind a barrel.
“If you'd ever seen The Last Crusade, this scene would be amusingly familiar,” John whispered. Sherlock cocked his head. “Hoary old geezer, looks about a hundred, watching over something, sitting in a cave by himself. Trust me, hilarious.”
“I have an idea. Follow along.” Sherlock unwrapped his scarf and draped it flat under his collar and lapels. He pushed at his forelock of curls, combing with his fingers until his forehead showed and his hair was slicked back. His posture slumped into Euro-trash gangster wanna-be instantly, and his face went slack. He strode out of the darkness toward the old man at his desk like a boss.
“OI! Wake up!” Sherlock shouted. The old man startled badly and dropped his newspaper. He wore a waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and a kitted scarf around his shoulders. “Which one're you, then?”
The man stood shakily. “'M Spatchcock. Joshua. Who are you?”
Sherlock smiled nastily at John. “Yeah, we're 'ere to relieve you of some of your responsibili'ies, seein' as how Neap royally stuffed up his last job.”
“What d'you mean? You gunna kill me?” He clutched his scarf tightly.
“Nah. Nuffin' that drastic.”
“Who sent you?” Spatchcock asked warily, showing some fire now that he wasn't about to die. Probably.
“You know who sent us. Mr. M wants us to collect all the materials. So give it.”
“But I ain't even been paid! How's a man supposed ta eat? I need--”
“Yeah, you need to shut it. You'll get paid. You always do, don't ya? Don't ya?”
“Suppose so,” the old man agreed morosely. He scratched at the white scruff on his cheek and turned to an ancient safe against the back of the vault. He stooped over and spun the combination. He pulled out a cloth-bound book, balancing two wax-sealed letters on top. He offered them up with both hands.
Sherlock took them with a little nod. “Send Neap our regards. Seen him lately?”
Spatchcock snorted. “Buggered off, dinnee? Lousy piece a.... Only tolerate him cos of the business relation, you know. 'Course, Mr. M thought enough of 'im.”
“Well, there's always plenty to go around, when you're wif Mr. M. 'Ere.” Sherlock fished a tenner out of his pocket and dropped it on the desk. “Get a pint and a bacon butty, on me.”
Sherlock tucked the book under his arm and left. John looked the old man over.
“It's a sunny day. You should get out more.” He walked away backwards a few steps, keeping an eye on the old gent, making sure he didn't pull a shotgun on them. Then he jogged into the dark.
Back on the street, John giggled as they hastened from the warehouse, checking over his shoulder every few seconds. “That was fantastic! How do you do that?” he asked, watching Sherlock reknot his scarf and fix his hair. “You just become someone else. I'll never get tired of watching that.”
“And I enjoy watching you pull rank. Glad we can amuse each other.” He grinned back as John pulled out his phone and dialed Lestrade.
“You like that, huh? Greg! Yeah. You need to meet us at Baker Street right away.... Sure, we'll have tea. Bye.” John laughed again, and they made their way home.
“Seriously, Greg, you should have seen him transform. He wasn't half a Kray when he got done. Scary.”
“I'd pay good money to see that sometime.”
“Why?” Sherlock drawled. “According to Donovan, I've been masquerading as a human being for ages. You get to see that for free all the time.”
“True. So, what'd you find? A book?” He dug a plastic evidence bag out of his coat pocket.
“An outpost,” John said. “A desk with a phone and a pensioner sitting waiting for word from someone, somewhere, sometime. We can't know how many of these little cells are out there, Greg.”
Lestrade held open the bag as Sherlock slid it all in. “The seals aren't broken. Dare I hope for self-control from Sherlock Holmes?”
John scoffed. “He peeked. Very carefully. Same message inside, more or less.”
“If Moriarty runs things on such a personal level, it's going to be hideously difficult to track it all down,” Sherlock groused. “Not like tracing IP addresses, or destroying his database, which would be difficult enough.”
“I'm afraid,” Lestrade said, sealing the bag, “that it might all be moot, if your brother has anything to say about it.”
“How is he?” John asked.
“Well, by the time I left last night, he was back to his old self. All I can say is Moriarty is lucky he's already dead. I don't think the Yard will have control over this case for much longer.” He hefted the evidence in his hand. “I believe the term is 'high dudgeon'. Impressive.”
Sherlock exhaled in disgust and curled tighter in his armchair.
“Hey.” John moved to put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. “The important thing is that Mycroft won't stop. It's about your mother, not your involvement.”
“Mycroft has never been shy about asking for my department's help when he needs it. You'll be involved. He'll demand it, and you'll pretend to resent it.”
They pricked up their ears as the front door opened and closed.
“That'll be Mrs. Hudson back from her Mediterranean cruise with her sister,” Sherlock said. “I ought to go fill her in.”
“And help with the bags...” John prompted.
“Well, naturally.” Sherlock popped up from the chair with alacrity and left for downstairs.
“Because he's always so eager to fetch and carry for me,” John said.
“I get the impression that he is closer to Mrs. H than he was to his own mother.”
“Me, too.” The two smiled at each other recalling a certain CIA agent who fell out a window a few times.
“So, she couldn't make the funeral because she was on her cruise?”
“Actually, she didn't make it because Sherlock and I decided not to ruin her vacation by telling her at all. No use. You know she'd have insisted on cutting her trip short, and she can do her best work coddling Sherlock now, after the fact.”
“And, chances are, she was safer on a ship while there was murdering going on?”
“That factored in as well, later.” John sat in Sherlock's empty chair. “Christ, Greg. Will this never end?”
“With us? No. Better make it worth all the worry, eh?”
They raised a tea cup to each other and smiled.
Chapter 6
John was running out of fingers to count the number of times he'd come home to find Mycroft Holmes standing under Speedy's awning holding a folder. Once again, he waited, primly blowing cigarette smoke into the falling snow instead of a pelting rain.
“Good evening, John.” He dropped his butt and ground it out.
“Those will kill you, Mycroft.”
“Yes... I'm aware, Doctor.”
“And it's not very nice to taunt your brother, who is having a very hard time resisting nicotine these days, with the smell of cigarettes on your clothes.”
“But I'm not planning on seeing my brother. Just you.”
“The hell you are. You are coming up to the flat, I am making you a coffee, and Sherlock and I will both sit and listen about whatever is in that file you're holding. And you will visit with your brother.”
“So forceful, John.” Mycroft smiled wryly and gestured for him to lead the way.
“Mycroft. What do youwant?” Sherlock asked from his spot hunched over his laptop.
“I have an update. Coffee will not be necessary, thank you.” He laid his coat and umbrella on the desk, and held up the folder. “Edgar Neap,” he enunciated. “Short version: I have him.”
“Where?” Sherlock asked urgently, John clenching his fists beside him.
'That's classified, I'm afraid. Suffice it to say, that with all the evidence we have against him – fingerprints, IDs from the villagers near the house, wax residue under his nails, and the like – he will be held indefinitely as we... extract all the details of the structure of Moriarty's web of crime that he is withholding. Even some he is unaware he is withholding.”
“I want to see him.”
“Oh, no, Sherlock. He is going to become a puppet for us. I can't have you breaking my toys.”
John looked between the two brothers. “Do you have any further leads? Any idea what cases those two letters were linked to?”
“Not precisely. However, we have a team of forensic accountants tracing the money trail. Always follow the money, yes?” Mycroft gathered himself. “Sherlock, I know this is usually a futile instruction to issue to you, but stay away from this case. Completely.”
“You can't – ”
“You must! You have managed to keep your identity rather well hidden from certain portions of this cell. I may need you to reprise your role of the – how did he put it? – yes, 'the Kray twin' if that is who it seems has moved up in Neap's absence. You may be useful then. Until that time....”
Sherlock fumed. “I cannot do nothing.”
“You will. We have this well in hand. Here are a few things for you to peruse.” He presented the file. “Some current photographs of Neap, bits and bobs. Things you already know. If you are very good, I may bring you more later on.”
“I'll be on my best behavior,” Sherlock promised unconvincingly.
“For the good of all involved, Sherlock, you had better. John.” Mycroft tipped his head, gathered his things and glided away.
* * *
Autumn turned to Yule in a few short weeks, it seemed, but the time dragged for Sherlock.
Mycroft hijacked the case entirely, as expected. Spatchcock and Neap, Imports was now a subsidiary of the British government, still operating as a cell, but manned by highly trained agents with better equipment than an old black phone on a desk. If any of Moriarty's threads were plucked again, Mycroft's people would get the message and the trail would get very hot, very quickly.
Until then, Sherlock tried to be patient, in his own way. John watched it happen day after day. He'd take on simple cases from the website, solve them in a trice, then crawl the walls until the next. He scoured the papers for codes, for hidden crimes, but dismissed the promising ones when they smelled of politics or high finance, anything likely to be a risk.
“He's obviously related to the Prime Minister!” he'd say, tapping a picture in the paper. “Look at his ears!” Or, “She's in an illegal experimental pharmaceutical trial. See the round shape of her face?”
John had his own frustrations. He hadn't dated anyone since Emily; it seemed a waste of time, and his heart was not in it. Sherlock never indicated he'd like a repeat of that one remarkable moment they'd had together. Perhaps it was too much to expect that he'd know how to ask for affection. He accepted it readily enough, gave it to Mrs. Hudson spontaneously. But not to John.
John came home one evening with a wrapped box. He thought about waiting, putting it under their little tree, but he didn't want to wait.
Sherlock turned the box over in his hands: square box, heavy, center of gravity shifting, no information to be gleaned from the plain brown shopping bag....
“Just open it, will you?” John sat, knee up on the sofa, as Sherlock quickly dismantled the bow and paper. He opened the cardboard and pulled out – a glass snow globe.
“It's... hideous. Really.” Sherlock tipped it this way and that, making the white snowflakes swirl around a cliched amalgam of London landmarks improbably crammed next to each other.
“True. I'll grant you that. It's more symbolic than decorative.”
Sherlock scowled a bit. “Please tell me this isn't my Christmas present. I got you sucha good one.”
“Rude!” John laughed. “And, no, it's not. Although I can only pray that by 'such a good one' you don't mean a rare strain of anthrax in a petri dish.”
“No, of course not.”
“All right. Um, how do I say this without it getting weird? I suppose it's already weird.” John gestured weakly at the globe. “If you ever.... I imagine that you sometimes need... or want... something.”
“John... just say it.”
“You said that time that your mind was like a swirling snow globe. I know you aren't accustomed to asking for or even expecting affection from other people, certainly not sex, but if you ever need it from me, a reboot, and you can't find the words, just shake the globe. Or leave it out somewhere. That's all.”
Sherlock's eyebrows rose as he turned the globe over and back. He cleared his throat softly. “All right.”
“Good.” John blushed. Damn it. “I'd really like to give you a kiss. May I?”
Sherlock put the globe down and waited. John slid closer, put a hand on Sherlock's jaw, tracing his cheek with strokes of his thumb, and pulled him in. Frowning softly in concentration, John pressed their mouths together. Heat spiked quickly in him and, after one more kiss tilted just so, he pulled away with a tiny noise.
“Ohhh, Sherlock. There's so much I want to give you. You have so much passion. If you'd let me, I could kiss you all day.” He straightened a bit. “You're stuck with me, you know. I'm here for the duration. If you're afraid that I'll leave you for a woman, well, then, give me an option. I'll take it.”
Sherlock took a breath. “It's not safe. Even with Moriarty dead, John. I can't afford – ”
“Bollocks, and you know it. Half the Yard thinks we've been shagging since we moved in here. Anyone who reads my blog knows how I feel about you. I've been a target since day one.” John gripped the edge of the sofa cushion. “After you died, I couldn't say out loud what I wanted to. Not to Ella, not to anyone. I made one of those promises, like you do, bargaining with God or whoever, that if I ever got the chance I'd tell you. I told your headstone.” He wiped his eyes briskly. “I never thought I'd get another chance.” He grabbed Sherlock and pulled him in, burying his face against Sherlock's neck, voice strained. “Love you. Every way, everything, I love you so much,” John whispered into his skin. He stilled as Sherlock's hand rose to grasp his arm and held on silently. He leaned away,
sniffling, getting his control back. “Now I'm a big mess. Heh. Sorry. Okay. I'll uh...” he stood, “just take this stuff upstairs and be down in a while.”
He grabbed empty boxes and bags from the Christmas decorations, whatever he could find, and headed for the hallway.
“John.” He turned around. Sherlock dragged his teeth against his lip. “I'll always do whatever I have to to keep you with me. To keep you safe.”
John only nodded, then left.
Sherlock pulled out his phone and composed a text. He paused at the sound of angry, exasperated shouting from upstairs.
“Sherlock!! Why are there BEES in the box room??”
“Ah. He found his present.”
Sherlock hit 'send', scooped up the snow globe and walked purposefully up the stairs to John's bedroom.
His phone glowed with his message for a moment before it went dark:
My mother was murdered.
Let's have dinner. SH
The End
* * *
Note: the RAMC confers the title of Matron on nurses who attain the rank of Major or higher. That is why John made with all the formality – Holloway would have outranked him in the service.
Note: "The Danse Macabre"
Chapter 3
“Let me see it, Lestrade! Give me the parchment!” Sherlock had been physically dragged out of the crime scene and down the hall. “I know what that means! I know what it means! It's him! It's him! John, please!”
John held Sherlock around his chest, pinning him against the wall. He wouldn't let him move if it meant he'd barge back into the Matron's bedroom and disturb what might be crucial evidence.
Lestrade had already called the local Chief Constable and reported the death, mentioned that it was almost certainly part of a larger series of crimes in London.
Mycroft stood to the side quietly, running through variations of covering his face with both hands.
“Mycroft, make them let me go! Mycroft! Please! It's him! You know it's him!”
Lestrade strode up to Sherlock, all copper, all business. John moved out of the way as Greg grabbed both shoulders. Sherlock stopped yelling.
“Look,” Lestrade said quietly, “I can't let you near that room unless you calm down, yeah? Breathe. Breathe.” He watched as Sherlock obeyed. “Now, what I will do is read you the notes. That's as much as you get right now, okay? We understand each other?” He released Sherlock gently, checked with John, then headed back to the bedroom.
Sherlock stopped at the threshold.
Lestrade stepped carefully across the wooden floor, avoiding the small carpet, until he was within view of the letters.
“Which do you want first?”
“The parchment.”
“Alright. It's short. It just says, handwritten in ink, 'Do it today.' That's all. Words're in the middle of the page, it's folded in thirds and sealed. Seal was cracked open to read. And, yeah, it looks like the same one from the kidnapping case.”
“Read the other one.”
Lestrade leaned over, squinting, tilting his head to read the note without touching. “'What have we got? Typical stationery, handwritten in ink, different ink than the – anyway. 'I'm so ashamed. I let him corrupt me and the memory of my service. There is no honor in what I have done. He made me murder Mrs. Holmes. I felt I had no choice. I'm so sorry.' That's it. No salutation, no signature even. I'm sure we'll find that it's in her own hand. No reason for it not to be.”
Sherlock stood, stance wide, shaking fingertips spread against his temples. “All right. 'Do it today.' Assume she – did it on the day she received the note, we can try and trace her actions, see how she came into possession of that letter. Was it delivered? Was it handed to her in town or somewhere else? Did the messenger bring it here? There is precious little CCTV in the village, the police will have to interview witnesses. Also, there's a possibility that she didn't get the letter for a period of time after it was left for her or delivered to a postal box. Perhaps it didn't matter when she did it, just that it would assuredly be done once she got the note. The sender could afford to be patient. That will make it much harder to track the source of the command.”
Lestrade exited the room, crowding Sherlock back into the hallway. “Now, both of you,” he indicated the Holmes brothers, “go downstairs and wait for the police. You cannot be involved too closely from here on out.”
Mycroft nodded heavily and headed toward the stairs in a daze. “Yes. I suppose I will have to arrange for a disinterment. Forensics, exact cause of death....”
Sherlock grabbed his shoulder and turned him. “Is that all??” he bellowed. “Will you roll over and let these bumpkins handle this case? This case, Mycroft! Moriarty MURDERED our MOTHER! In our own house!”
“Moriarty is dead, Sherlock! Dead!”
“Is he? Really? You covered it up. He's merely incommunicado as far as his minions are concerned! YOU kept him alive! You kept the fear of him alive for your own purposes! His people are still carrying out orders in his name! HE KILLED MUMMY! Right under your nose! He had a mole in this house!”
John tugged at Sherlock's arm, trying to pull him away from his brother obviously crumbling under the weight of grief and guilt. Sherlock shrugged him off violently, grabbed the full teapot and heaved it down the hallway. The spout caught on a door jamb and spun the pot sharply to crash against the floor, spraying tea and shards of porcelain everywhere.
“Right.” John and Lestrade each grabbed an arm and manhandled Sherlock away from Mycroft and down the stairs. On the family floor, John asked firmly, “Where's your room?” Sherlock indicated with his head, and soon he was ushered into it. Sherlock stood alone in the middle of the carpet, tensed. “Greg,” John murmured, “why don't you go check on Mycroft or the police or something.”
“Yeah. 'Course.” His eyes shifted warily between the two. “Yell if you need me.” He shut the door quietly behind him. They stood in silence hearing his tread down the hall.
Sherlock began to move in an increasing spiral, spinning out until he hit a piece of furniture, practically caroming off the walls.
“I can't think! I can't – I need to think!” He pounded his head with his hands. “Think, dammit! Why did he kill – why did she – Gahh!”
John approached cagily, hands out, corralling him to a corner. “Take it easy –”
“I need some, John! I need my kit! This is important!”
“No! Don't be ridiculous!”
“Right now, my mind is as coherent as a shaken snow globe. It's whirling! I need it! I need to focus!”
“Cocaine is not the answer, Sherlock.” John took a beat. “I could find you a cigarette somewhere.”
“It's not enough.”
“You are not taking drugs, Sherlock. I won't let you. It's ridiculous. Just give yourself a moment.”
“It's not enough! I need to reboot! Damn it!” He pulled at his hair, and turned to the wall, pounding a fist.
John took a chance and put his hand softly in the middle of Sherlock's back. “I'm so sorry. This is horrible. Your mum.... Just – we'll work it out. I promise.” Sherlock froze, then turned slowly, a wild look in his eye. John froze, too, eyes wide. “Don't break anything.”
Sherlock seized John and shoved him against the wall. He bent down and devoured John's mouth, ingesting him like the drug he craved. He smashed their lips together, gripping John's jacket in bunches. His open mouth ran along John's jaw, down past his Adam's apple. He tugged at John's coat and shirt together. He couldn't get them off fast enough.
“Oh my god,” John panted, shrugging out of his clothes. “You're doing this. I'm going to letyou do this.”
Sherlock pulled away from John's skin, heaving breaths, “I need some. Give me some.”
“Some what?” John choked, dazed, knees buckling.
Sherlock pulled open John's button-down, fell to his knees and buried his face in John's belly, nosing farther and farther down into his waistband, hands up John's chest, grasping skin and nipples.
“Oh, fuck. Christ.”
Sherlock unbuckled John's belt, fumbled with his fly, until John helped, hands shaking. Sherlock attacked John's prick through his pants with his mouth. John had to push him away. “Easy! Jesus! Bed. Now!” He pulled Sherlock to his feet and shuffled him backward to the bed. They fell back, Sherlock pulling John on top, grabbing John's face and snogging him inartfully, but effectively. John moaned, grinding himself against Sherlock's hard, bony hip.
“Make me, John. Make me.”
“God, yes.” He palmed Sherlock firmly, finding him not fully aroused, but getting there. He kneaded him through his clothes. “Fly,” he ordered, sliding down Sherlock's body. Sherlock had his trousers open by the time John got settled again. “You want to stop thinking?” John dove in, taking Sherlock to the root, the man arching beneath him, uttering word fragments and guttural, sonorous noises.
It had been a while, John had liked sucking men, and he really liked Sherlock reacting to every change in pressure, every new texture of his tongue, to his hand squeezing, to the other caressing his stomach. Sherlock was beautiful. Flushed, writhing, panting, calling out, beating the mattress with the backs of his hands when he wasn't sliding them through John's hair.
John was so hard, sohard. He wanted Sherlock, he wanted to come together. He pulled off, quickly took both cocks in hand and stroked, milked, slick with saliva, with fluids leaking readily from both.
“Juh – ” Sherlock grunted.
He tugged faster, taking Sherlock's mouth, holding him down as he convulsed, arched beneath him, shuddering out a gasp. John followed at the exquisite sounds, collapsing on Sherlock's chest.
After a moment, John felt trembling under his cheek. Laughing? Was Sherlock laughing? He looked up. Sherlock's face was twisted in a rictus, tears leaking from his closed eyes, silent sobs wracking him through clenched teeth.
“Oh, god. Sherlock. Don't – shhhh.” John sat up on an elbow, wiping Sherlock's face, brushing tears away with his knuckles. “You okay? Did I hurt you?” Sherlock only shook his head. “Ahh, Sherlock.” John sighed, held him and waited for it to pass.
Sherlock woke, blinked at the ceiling for a few minutes, John spread on his back by his side, snoring quietly, utterly debauched.
He rolled deftly off the bed, cleaned himself up with his handkerchief, and let himself out of the room.
John passed the doorway to the sitting room on the way out. Mycroft sat staring, hugging a silver bowl of All Sorts. He held it out as John stopped before his chair. “Licorice?”
“No. Thanks. Sherlock?”
“The greenhouse, most likely. Out back.”
John nodded and turned on his heel.
He made his way through the back of the house, through the French doors in the music room, to a low terrace that led onto the lawn. He headed to the only structure he could see, breathing in the misty air as he strode.
He found Sherlock squatting in front of a box hedge near the greenhouse. He held a slender stick in his hand. John stopped and waited, watching the man contemplate a large spider web.
Sherlock touched the end of the stick to a strand. Nothing happened. He plucked another. Nothing happened. He touched a third, and a grey spider charged to the center. John jumped.
“We hit a tripwire, John.” He dropped the stick and stood, brushing off his hands.
Chapter 4
There was no talking Sherlock out of anything.
John fidgeted with frustration in the back of the car as he and Sherlock made their way back to London. Lestrade stayed behind to liaise with the local police, seeing as how Moriarty's murders and other, lesser crimes, were now linked to the Holmes murder far from Lestrade's domain.
“I can't believe you'd leave now!” John had argued.
“There is no information to be had, here. I'm going back to Baker Street. You can stay if you like, but there's no sense in being here any longer.” Sherlock had turned his back on John, ending the discussion in his most dismissive, insulting, infuriatingmanner.
“I know you and Mycroft have never been close, but really, Sherlock. Don't you think he needs you now?”
Sherlock put the figurine he'd been fiddling with back on the mantelpiece and turned. “No. He never does. The staff will see to him. As ever.”
John pursed his mouth and shook his head. “You two. Brothers. Both such stubborn – One day, you'll need each other.” He huffed out a breath. “Just so you know... he loves you. Very much. I hope some day you can return the sentiment.”
“Ha. Sentiment.”
John crossed his arms. “You and I both know you aren't the cold-hearted monster you like to pretend to be. You aren't. I know it's frightening, to feel, to – ”
“I'm going up to pack. I'm leaving in twenty minutes. You can be with me or not. I don't care.”
Twenty minutes later, John was in the car, leaving.
An hour later, they hadn't said a word.
“So,” John blurted finally. “There's something we need to discuss.”
“The kissing thing?” Sherlock sneered.
“I think we're way past that.” John shifted to look an avoidant Sherlock in the face. “I was – wewere – a bit reckless earlier.”
Sherlock played with the armrest on the door. “I'm not worried. You get yourself checked all the time– I've seen the plasters in the crease of your elbow every month. You work in a surgery, easy access to testing. It's hardly a stretch, knowing you.”
“And you?”
“Don't worry about me.”
“I can't leave it at that. I need to know.”
“I was, as they say, 'mint, in box'.”
“Ohhh.” John frowned. “I wish I had known that.”
“Whatever for?”
John faced front again with a heavy sigh. He reached out blindly for Sherlock's fist resting on the seat between them and gave it a squeeze.
That night, settling back at Baker Street, Sherlock reviewed everything he knew about the case. By the next morning, he'd sent his best man to the archives in the Museum of London Docklands to dig up anything he could find about the warehouses and businesses possibly related to Neap or the ivory trade.
John trod up the stairs at the end of a very long day of researching. He dropped a small sheaf of printouts on the desk, hung his coat on the chair and headed straight for the kettle.
“What did you find?” Sherlock asked, hunched over his laptop set on the coffee table.
“Ahh, well, lots, but nothing contemporary. I did find a record of an old whaling warehouse under the name of Spatchcock and Neap, Imports. I mean, how common a name is Neap anyway? Maybe it was a family business three hundred years ago. As of a hundred and fifty years ago, it was no longer a whaling business, but a tobacco importer. As of today? Hardly anything remains of the old docks. It's all been razed and repurposed, for the most part. The business is probably defunct. Tea?” John reached in the cupboard for his favorite mug.
“No.” Sherlock sat up, tented his fingers under his chin. “Nothing exists aboveground. But I know the extensive vaults under the old docks are still there. We need to find the footprint of the old warehouse.”
“That will be nigh on impossible, you know. There are parks, and recreation centers, museums, built up all over there, the channels are filled in some places. What are you expecting to find in an undercroft? Besides rats?”
“They were whalers, you say? That's mostly blubber for oil, but would have a nice sideline in ivory and stays from bone. Maybe it was a family business from the start. There were wine importers, tanneries, tobacco importers, all sorts of far-flung goods traders that could have been supplemented by animal trade, legal and otherwise. I like this, John. This makes sense. What if there is a reason ivory was being smuggled – still being smuggled, possibly – through Neap in the middle of London? Because they've always done it? That route has always been there.”
“But what will be the link between Neap and Moriarty? Lestrade said Neap wasn't even on the map when Moriarty died.”
“He wasn't big enough to be on the map. Not then. Not yet.”
“Perhaps Edgar Neap was one of the Jim'll Fix It clients.”
“So, he asked Moriarty for help and got it. He grew his business. If we exposed his ivory ring, why would that trip a wire?” Sherlock tipped his head against the sofa back. His eyes flared wide open. “Oh! It's like a computer program, a flow chart.” He got up and strode to the kitchen, stopping beside John fixing his tea. “There are tens of thousands of crimes committed in London, in Great Britain, every day. Moriarty isn't the author of them all, but he did oversee rather long-reaching plots and had investments of time and power in innumerable ones.” He grabbed the mug and sipped, making a face. “You know I take sugar, John.”
“Yeah, that's... mine – whatever.” He reached up for another mug and teabag, and started the process again.
Sherlock scooped a spoon of sugar from the bowl, stirred, and drank deeply from his cup. “He promised to burn me, John. I got in his way. I ruined his plans, cost him credibility. He gave up millions of pounds, just to get my attention. He promised to burn the heart out of me.” Sherlock leaned closer to John, into his space. “The heart. That's my family. That's you. My vulnerability. He knew that before I did.”
“You knew it. Admitit to yourself... that's another thing. Let me tell you this,” John grasped Sherlock's arms. “Interesting medical fact. The heart doesn't burn. You can incinerate a body to ashes, but in the end, the heart will be sitting there in the center of it all, more or less intact. If I'm your heart, then I'm not going anywhere.”
A haunted look washed Sherlock's features briefly. “I spent that time away from you hunting, John. I got so many, so many who could have hurt you. I'm afraid his network is so vast that it's self-propagating and it will never die.”
“Or, it's small but potent with just a few, very lethal strands.” John released him. “So tell me about this flow chart idea.” He took his new cuppa and lead Sherlock to the sofa. He sat, and Sherlock sat right next to him.
“I think Moriarty has set up a kind of deadman switch--”
“Appropriate name, in this case.”
“No! Not a deadman switch. The opposite of a deadman switch. Active, not passive. It flows like a computer program regarding the success of a venture and my possible involvement. If project equals successful, then go to End. If project equals failed then go to Next Line. Was Sherlock Holmes cause of failure? If No, go to End. If Yes, go to Implement Revenge.”
“And the Neap case was a big one, costly. Do you think he has a ledger with a packet of wax-sealed letters in a room somewhere, checking against every large transaction he conducts via Moriarty's network?”
“Maybe. Low-tech, high-tech, automated, who knows. Moriarty could go either way and make it look like something completely different.”
“So, we can never know which of a million possible cases will trigger 'burning'. It's like a mine field.” John took a sip. “Well, we can't stop our work.”
“That would be one way to decrease risk to you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade.”
“But then he wins!” John turned and stared. “That's... You would do that? Couldyou do that? You'd be insane inside a month.”
“I'd have this case to work on.” He gulped more tea, swallowed noisily, set the mug on the table. “I need more data.” He leaned forward, pulled his laptop in front of him and started Googling.
“Do you mind if I put the telly on?” He got no response, which John took as acquiescence.
Chapter 5
By dawn, Sherlock had found some images of the old premises belonging to Spatchcock and Neap.
“John!” Sherlock poked at the man slumped over against his side. “Wake up.”
John stirred and groaned, stiff and cold from sleeping on the sofa, spine curved in a non-restful arc. “Whassit?” He ground the heel of his hand into his eye socket.
“I've found etchings. Look.” He pointed at the screen. “I know exactly where that is.”
“Jesus. It's too early. Going to bed. Ow.” He creaked as he stood, banged into the table littered with take-away containers, and shuffled out of the room.
“It's not too early! The day is wasting!”
“That building has been there hundreds of years. It'll still be there after I've lain in bed a while and un-pretzeled my back. G'night.”
Sherlock practically bounced as they prepared to leave.
“Torches.” They both pulled one out of their coats. “Check. Pistol?” John pulled it adroitly from his waistband, automatically eyed the safety, and put it back. “Good. The game is afoot, John! Let's go!”
He spun on his heel and bounded down the stairs, John running behind, their hearts pounding.
“Yeah, this part always feels so anti-climactic.” John put his Oyster card away in his wallet, and waited for the train to Canada Water station.
“True,” Sherlock agreed ruefully.
At the old docklands, they exited the modern barrel shape of the station, pulses beginning to speed with anticipation again, headed north toward what would have been the quay, and was now a road with a flattened area near the water and a block of old stone buildings with a sooty facade facing the water. If it hadn't been midday, John might have got the heebie jeebies from the area. It looked like something out of a Victorian Ripper movie.
“Here. Look.” Sherlock pointed up at an ancient timber embedded above the stone lintel of the door. Deeply carved in the blackened wood was the name of the old whaling business.
“So, what? We just walk in?”
“It is a business....” Sherlock grabbed the handle of the massive wooden door and heaved it open.
They found it dark inside, despite the windows. They pulled out their torches before tugging the door closed behind them.
“Hello?” Sherlock's quiet baritone echoed off plaster walls, the commercial space inside rather empty, sacks of god-knew-what in pyramids about the perimeter. “Good. No one's here,” he whispered. “Look for a stairway down. I'm hoping for a tunnel.”
“To where?”
Sherlock turned toward the road and the river beyond. “To that way. Come on.”
“There's definitely going to be rats.” John shook his head and followed.
They found an open trap door inside the office area. The fact that it was open gave them pause.
“Not so deserted, then,” John said, readjusting his pistol.
“Just be careful. Let's see what we can see.”
“Right behind you.” John looked around before following Sherlock into the hole in the floor.
They made their way at least a hundred yards through a stone rib-vaulted tunnel lined with old casks. Not a rat was to be seen, but a damp, meaty smell permeated the place. Dust is eloquent, as Sherlock had once said, and the brown stuff covered everything except a well-trodden path between the barrels. Ahead was a dim glow. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, wires run along the top of the wall. They came to a stop, crouched behind a barrel.
“If you'd ever seen The Last Crusade, this scene would be amusingly familiar,” John whispered. Sherlock cocked his head. “Hoary old geezer, looks about a hundred, watching over something, sitting in a cave by himself. Trust me, hilarious.”
“I have an idea. Follow along.” Sherlock unwrapped his scarf and draped it flat under his collar and lapels. He pushed at his forelock of curls, combing with his fingers until his forehead showed and his hair was slicked back. His posture slumped into Euro-trash gangster wanna-be instantly, and his face went slack. He strode out of the darkness toward the old man at his desk like a boss.
“OI! Wake up!” Sherlock shouted. The old man startled badly and dropped his newspaper. He wore a waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and a kitted scarf around his shoulders. “Which one're you, then?”
The man stood shakily. “'M Spatchcock. Joshua. Who are you?”
Sherlock smiled nastily at John. “Yeah, we're 'ere to relieve you of some of your responsibili'ies, seein' as how Neap royally stuffed up his last job.”
“What d'you mean? You gunna kill me?” He clutched his scarf tightly.
“Nah. Nuffin' that drastic.”
“Who sent you?” Spatchcock asked warily, showing some fire now that he wasn't about to die. Probably.
“You know who sent us. Mr. M wants us to collect all the materials. So give it.”
“But I ain't even been paid! How's a man supposed ta eat? I need--”
“Yeah, you need to shut it. You'll get paid. You always do, don't ya? Don't ya?”
“Suppose so,” the old man agreed morosely. He scratched at the white scruff on his cheek and turned to an ancient safe against the back of the vault. He stooped over and spun the combination. He pulled out a cloth-bound book, balancing two wax-sealed letters on top. He offered them up with both hands.
Sherlock took them with a little nod. “Send Neap our regards. Seen him lately?”
Spatchcock snorted. “Buggered off, dinnee? Lousy piece a.... Only tolerate him cos of the business relation, you know. 'Course, Mr. M thought enough of 'im.”
“Well, there's always plenty to go around, when you're wif Mr. M. 'Ere.” Sherlock fished a tenner out of his pocket and dropped it on the desk. “Get a pint and a bacon butty, on me.”
Sherlock tucked the book under his arm and left. John looked the old man over.
“It's a sunny day. You should get out more.” He walked away backwards a few steps, keeping an eye on the old gent, making sure he didn't pull a shotgun on them. Then he jogged into the dark.
Back on the street, John giggled as they hastened from the warehouse, checking over his shoulder every few seconds. “That was fantastic! How do you do that?” he asked, watching Sherlock reknot his scarf and fix his hair. “You just become someone else. I'll never get tired of watching that.”
“And I enjoy watching you pull rank. Glad we can amuse each other.” He grinned back as John pulled out his phone and dialed Lestrade.
“You like that, huh? Greg! Yeah. You need to meet us at Baker Street right away.... Sure, we'll have tea. Bye.” John laughed again, and they made their way home.
“Seriously, Greg, you should have seen him transform. He wasn't half a Kray when he got done. Scary.”
“I'd pay good money to see that sometime.”
“Why?” Sherlock drawled. “According to Donovan, I've been masquerading as a human being for ages. You get to see that for free all the time.”
“True. So, what'd you find? A book?” He dug a plastic evidence bag out of his coat pocket.
“An outpost,” John said. “A desk with a phone and a pensioner sitting waiting for word from someone, somewhere, sometime. We can't know how many of these little cells are out there, Greg.”
Lestrade held open the bag as Sherlock slid it all in. “The seals aren't broken. Dare I hope for self-control from Sherlock Holmes?”
John scoffed. “He peeked. Very carefully. Same message inside, more or less.”
“If Moriarty runs things on such a personal level, it's going to be hideously difficult to track it all down,” Sherlock groused. “Not like tracing IP addresses, or destroying his database, which would be difficult enough.”
“I'm afraid,” Lestrade said, sealing the bag, “that it might all be moot, if your brother has anything to say about it.”
“How is he?” John asked.
“Well, by the time I left last night, he was back to his old self. All I can say is Moriarty is lucky he's already dead. I don't think the Yard will have control over this case for much longer.” He hefted the evidence in his hand. “I believe the term is 'high dudgeon'. Impressive.”
Sherlock exhaled in disgust and curled tighter in his armchair.
“Hey.” John moved to put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. “The important thing is that Mycroft won't stop. It's about your mother, not your involvement.”
“Mycroft has never been shy about asking for my department's help when he needs it. You'll be involved. He'll demand it, and you'll pretend to resent it.”
They pricked up their ears as the front door opened and closed.
“That'll be Mrs. Hudson back from her Mediterranean cruise with her sister,” Sherlock said. “I ought to go fill her in.”
“And help with the bags...” John prompted.
“Well, naturally.” Sherlock popped up from the chair with alacrity and left for downstairs.
“Because he's always so eager to fetch and carry for me,” John said.
“I get the impression that he is closer to Mrs. H than he was to his own mother.”
“Me, too.” The two smiled at each other recalling a certain CIA agent who fell out a window a few times.
“So, she couldn't make the funeral because she was on her cruise?”
“Actually, she didn't make it because Sherlock and I decided not to ruin her vacation by telling her at all. No use. You know she'd have insisted on cutting her trip short, and she can do her best work coddling Sherlock now, after the fact.”
“And, chances are, she was safer on a ship while there was murdering going on?”
“That factored in as well, later.” John sat in Sherlock's empty chair. “Christ, Greg. Will this never end?”
“With us? No. Better make it worth all the worry, eh?”
They raised a tea cup to each other and smiled.
Chapter 6
John was running out of fingers to count the number of times he'd come home to find Mycroft Holmes standing under Speedy's awning holding a folder. Once again, he waited, primly blowing cigarette smoke into the falling snow instead of a pelting rain.
“Good evening, John.” He dropped his butt and ground it out.
“Those will kill you, Mycroft.”
“Yes... I'm aware, Doctor.”
“And it's not very nice to taunt your brother, who is having a very hard time resisting nicotine these days, with the smell of cigarettes on your clothes.”
“But I'm not planning on seeing my brother. Just you.”
“The hell you are. You are coming up to the flat, I am making you a coffee, and Sherlock and I will both sit and listen about whatever is in that file you're holding. And you will visit with your brother.”
“So forceful, John.” Mycroft smiled wryly and gestured for him to lead the way.
“Mycroft. What do youwant?” Sherlock asked from his spot hunched over his laptop.
“I have an update. Coffee will not be necessary, thank you.” He laid his coat and umbrella on the desk, and held up the folder. “Edgar Neap,” he enunciated. “Short version: I have him.”
“Where?” Sherlock asked urgently, John clenching his fists beside him.
'That's classified, I'm afraid. Suffice it to say, that with all the evidence we have against him – fingerprints, IDs from the villagers near the house, wax residue under his nails, and the like – he will be held indefinitely as we... extract all the details of the structure of Moriarty's web of crime that he is withholding. Even some he is unaware he is withholding.”
“I want to see him.”
“Oh, no, Sherlock. He is going to become a puppet for us. I can't have you breaking my toys.”
John looked between the two brothers. “Do you have any further leads? Any idea what cases those two letters were linked to?”
“Not precisely. However, we have a team of forensic accountants tracing the money trail. Always follow the money, yes?” Mycroft gathered himself. “Sherlock, I know this is usually a futile instruction to issue to you, but stay away from this case. Completely.”
“You can't – ”
“You must! You have managed to keep your identity rather well hidden from certain portions of this cell. I may need you to reprise your role of the – how did he put it? – yes, 'the Kray twin' if that is who it seems has moved up in Neap's absence. You may be useful then. Until that time....”
Sherlock fumed. “I cannot do nothing.”
“You will. We have this well in hand. Here are a few things for you to peruse.” He presented the file. “Some current photographs of Neap, bits and bobs. Things you already know. If you are very good, I may bring you more later on.”
“I'll be on my best behavior,” Sherlock promised unconvincingly.
“For the good of all involved, Sherlock, you had better. John.” Mycroft tipped his head, gathered his things and glided away.
Autumn turned to Yule in a few short weeks, it seemed, but the time dragged for Sherlock.
Mycroft hijacked the case entirely, as expected. Spatchcock and Neap, Imports was now a subsidiary of the British government, still operating as a cell, but manned by highly trained agents with better equipment than an old black phone on a desk. If any of Moriarty's threads were plucked again, Mycroft's people would get the message and the trail would get very hot, very quickly.
Until then, Sherlock tried to be patient, in his own way. John watched it happen day after day. He'd take on simple cases from the website, solve them in a trice, then crawl the walls until the next. He scoured the papers for codes, for hidden crimes, but dismissed the promising ones when they smelled of politics or high finance, anything likely to be a risk.
“He's obviously related to the Prime Minister!” he'd say, tapping a picture in the paper. “Look at his ears!” Or, “She's in an illegal experimental pharmaceutical trial. See the round shape of her face?”
John had his own frustrations. He hadn't dated anyone since Emily; it seemed a waste of time, and his heart was not in it. Sherlock never indicated he'd like a repeat of that one remarkable moment they'd had together. Perhaps it was too much to expect that he'd know how to ask for affection. He accepted it readily enough, gave it to Mrs. Hudson spontaneously. But not to John.
John came home one evening with a wrapped box. He thought about waiting, putting it under their little tree, but he didn't want to wait.
Sherlock turned the box over in his hands: square box, heavy, center of gravity shifting, no information to be gleaned from the plain brown shopping bag....
“Just open it, will you?” John sat, knee up on the sofa, as Sherlock quickly dismantled the bow and paper. He opened the cardboard and pulled out – a glass snow globe.
“It's... hideous. Really.” Sherlock tipped it this way and that, making the white snowflakes swirl around a cliched amalgam of London landmarks improbably crammed next to each other.
“True. I'll grant you that. It's more symbolic than decorative.”
Sherlock scowled a bit. “Please tell me this isn't my Christmas present. I got you sucha good one.”
“Rude!” John laughed. “And, no, it's not. Although I can only pray that by 'such a good one' you don't mean a rare strain of anthrax in a petri dish.”
“No, of course not.”
“All right. Um, how do I say this without it getting weird? I suppose it's already weird.” John gestured weakly at the globe. “If you ever.... I imagine that you sometimes need... or want... something.”
“John... just say it.”
“You said that time that your mind was like a swirling snow globe. I know you aren't accustomed to asking for or even expecting affection from other people, certainly not sex, but if you ever need it from me, a reboot, and you can't find the words, just shake the globe. Or leave it out somewhere. That's all.”
Sherlock's eyebrows rose as he turned the globe over and back. He cleared his throat softly. “All right.”
“Good.” John blushed. Damn it. “I'd really like to give you a kiss. May I?”
Sherlock put the globe down and waited. John slid closer, put a hand on Sherlock's jaw, tracing his cheek with strokes of his thumb, and pulled him in. Frowning softly in concentration, John pressed their mouths together. Heat spiked quickly in him and, after one more kiss tilted just so, he pulled away with a tiny noise.
“Ohhh, Sherlock. There's so much I want to give you. You have so much passion. If you'd let me, I could kiss you all day.” He straightened a bit. “You're stuck with me, you know. I'm here for the duration. If you're afraid that I'll leave you for a woman, well, then, give me an option. I'll take it.”
Sherlock took a breath. “It's not safe. Even with Moriarty dead, John. I can't afford – ”
“Bollocks, and you know it. Half the Yard thinks we've been shagging since we moved in here. Anyone who reads my blog knows how I feel about you. I've been a target since day one.” John gripped the edge of the sofa cushion. “After you died, I couldn't say out loud what I wanted to. Not to Ella, not to anyone. I made one of those promises, like you do, bargaining with God or whoever, that if I ever got the chance I'd tell you. I told your headstone.” He wiped his eyes briskly. “I never thought I'd get another chance.” He grabbed Sherlock and pulled him in, burying his face against Sherlock's neck, voice strained. “Love you. Every way, everything, I love you so much,” John whispered into his skin. He stilled as Sherlock's hand rose to grasp his arm and held on silently. He leaned away,
sniffling, getting his control back. “Now I'm a big mess. Heh. Sorry. Okay. I'll uh...” he stood, “just take this stuff upstairs and be down in a while.”
He grabbed empty boxes and bags from the Christmas decorations, whatever he could find, and headed for the hallway.
“John.” He turned around. Sherlock dragged his teeth against his lip. “I'll always do whatever I have to to keep you with me. To keep you safe.”
John only nodded, then left.
Sherlock pulled out his phone and composed a text. He paused at the sound of angry, exasperated shouting from upstairs.
“Sherlock!! Why are there BEES in the box room??”
“Ah. He found his present.”
Sherlock hit 'send', scooped up the snow globe and walked purposefully up the stairs to John's bedroom.
His phone glowed with his message for a moment before it went dark:
My mother was murdered.
Let's have dinner. SH
The End
Note: the RAMC confers the title of Matron on nurses who attain the rank of Major or higher. That is why John made with all the formality – Holloway would have outranked him in the service.
Note: "The Danse Macabre"
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Date: 2012-12-20 11:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-20 09:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-22 04:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-22 06:02 pm (UTC)I have no idea how I missed this getting posted - I'm so sorry for taking so long to respond!
This was fantastic! So many different awesome things all put together in one wonderful story that flowed so very well. You had me right from Sherlock playing music to his bees, and liking them because they're fuzzy! Adorable! Him giving John bees for Christmas at the end was perfect; I love how completely nonchalant he is while John is pitching a fit.
“You created a defensive shield of gay PDA? Seriously?” - I'm a big fan of 'pretend' kissing as cover for
actually wanting to kisssurveillance and the fact that Sherlock had a logical reason for it beyond 'I can't smoke all night, it's suspicious, John' just made it better. Sherlock asking about John's not-kissing experience was great. I am also enamoured of the idea of him analyzing what John likes by observing him with his girlfriends.I've always loved getting to see the Holmes family pile, even though this was a sad occasion on which to do so. The silent support that John and Lestrade offer is touching and true to both their personalities and the way they understand how Sherlock and Mycroft function.
James = Hamish - Perfect!
I did not know that hearts didn't burn properly - how fascinating!
Great set of casefics, too. I love, love, love that you took my mention of Moriarty being menacing at a distance in this direction. I can just see this sort of thing happening in future canon: Moriarty's entire network still running even without him at the centre of the web. The idea that Moriarty is just as dangerous as a legend is thrilling and terrifying.
I think that my favourite thing about the entire story is the way you've interpreted 'John and Sherlock' as a unit. You've really nailed the sense that this is a natural, inexorable progression of their relationship. I love the idea that this was always coming for them because they really are everything for each other. John's ability to understand Sherlock and to know how to work with his idiosyncrasies rather than against them is something I really admire about him and you've depicted that so well. The snowglobe was lovely.
Also, John being all hardcore when it comes to corralling the Holmes brothers will never not be awesome to watch.
Thank you so much, nonnie!
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Date: 2012-12-23 05:22 am (UTC)“True,” Sherlock agreed ruefully.
Every bit of this fic is, frankly, brilliant, but that bit is absolute genius.
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Date: 2013-01-08 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 04:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 04:24 am (UTC)I'm definitely percolating the plot for a sequel, but I don't know when it will be done.
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Date: 2013-01-18 04:54 am (UTC)James=Hamish - I found that rather sexy and sweet that Sherlock might want to keep John close that way. I can only imagine how vulnerable and lonely he would have been, missing his partner that way. D'awwww. *pets Sherlock*
The SHERLOCK/JOHN unit is central to me shipping this pair, platonic or otherwise. They are just yin-yang and all kinds of co-dependent and unhealthy and fiercely protective of each other. I love that. Their broken edges fill in the other's empty spaces in a delicious way.
Hearts don't burn - I heard that in an old film recently. I thought it would be perfect for the John=Heart metaphor. I Googled and Wiki'ed it, and it seems to be true to some extent.
Fake kissing - lol. That was one scene I had to work in. It's been a fantasy of mine, and I finally put it in writing. Damn, I really hope they use that in the series in some way. They have got to get in a snog right around the time John gets married, just to muddy the waters a bit.
I love watching the secure-with-their-masculinity Lestrade and John offering a matey kind of support to the Holmes brothers. Now that I look at it, there's a bit of Mystrade in the mix here, if you want to squint. If Sherlock can have his BAMF John, then Mycroft can have his own BAMF DI. It's a mixture I like. :)
Anyway, thank you for your great prompt. I have a blast researching, coming up with ideas, scrounging images and scenes from real life and putting them in fic (there really are Kenyan poachers and Thai fences), and I had a great time writing for you. I'm so pleased you enjoyed it. Thank you for the feedback.