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holmesticeTitle: Inconvenient, Necessary
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
huntingospray
Author:brighteyed_jill
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade, Sherlock/John
Rating: Teen
Warnings: mild violence
Summary: John hadn’t thought the challenge of reconciling a lovers’ quarrel would seem more daunting than escaping a mine cave-in, but then, his definition of a dire situation had shifted somewhat since Sherlock had come into his life.
“This is deeply inconvenient,” Mycroft said for what must have been the seventh time.
John saw Lestrade hold back a sigh, but otherwise no one responded. Sherlock continued to sniff at the paint on the wall next to where the cave-in had blocked the tunnel entrance. The flickering light from the hurricane lamp John held cast deep shadows in the hollows of Sherlock’s cheeks, giving him an even-more-ghostly-than-usual look.
After the silence had stretched for almost a minute, John caught Mycroft venturing a quick glance in Lestrade’s direction, before returning to a pose of haughty indifference.
John rubbed at the wrinkles that were etching themselves into his forehead. He had to admit he hadn’t thought the challenge of reconciling a lovers’ quarrel would seem more daunting than escaping a mine cave-in, but then, his definition of a dire situation had shifted somewhat since Sherlock had come into his life.
“So.” John went to stand next to Lestrade, and prodded a piece of rock with the toe of his shoe. “Digging out, then?”
“No,” Mycroft and Sherlock said together with identical scornful inflections. They followed that up by glaring at each other.
Mycroft looked away first, and addressed his answer to John. “If the area’s unstable, digging may trigger another, larger cave-in.”
“There’s a well-worn track in the dust here. Someone’s been coming and going recently.” Lestrade crouched and brushed his hand against the floor of the tunnel. “Frequently, I’d say.”
“Obvious,” Sherlock drawled, and Mycroft opened his mouth for a no-doubt caustic reply.
“It’s not to me,” John broke in before any argument could start. “You’re saying the thieves have been living down here?”
“Not living, John. Working,” Sherlock said. “Why haven’t any of the stolen goods been recovered? Or even turned up on the black market?”
“They’re being stored,” John guessed.
“But if they know we’ve found out who they are, wouldn’t they run?” Lestrade asked.
“They wouldn’t have known about the investigation at all if a certain someone hadn’t stuck his overly long nose into our business.” Sherlock glared at his brother.
“They didn’t run because they need to move their stolen goods,” Mycroft said, somehow managing to address the whole room while avoiding eye contact.
“But the truck’s still outside,” John pointed out. “How could--?” The answer dawned on him, even as he saw Lestrade look sharply to the dark mouth of the tunnel behind them. “They’re still here.”
--
John allowed the others to pass the bend in the tunnel up ahead before stopping to lean against an outcropping. He let out a slow breath and counted backwards from ten. Sherlock appeared at his shoulder. “Alright?”
“Yes. I’m not overly fond of small spaces.”
“Caves and the like in particular.” Sherlock nodded. “You said once, about waiting out a bombardment.”
“I’m surprised you remember that.” John looked up at Sherlock, wishing he could see his face better in the near-dark of the tunnel.
“My file on you is exhaustive. Come along.”
Sherlock swept ahead to catch up to the lantern’s distant glow. John followed with all prudent haste, watching his footing on the floor’s rough surface.
Lestrade had stopped at the junction of another tunnel and held the lantern loosely at his side as Mycroft clasped his shoulder. Lestrade’s near-whisper carried surprisingly well in the stale air. “Yes, ‘you were never going to solve it on your own’ very nicely sums up your opinion of my abilities.”
“You’ve been working on this case for weeks with negligible headway.” Mycroft’s features arranged themselves into a moue of distaste. “It’s hardly a complicated affair, yet you’ve been spending every night at the office.”
“I’m sorry if my police work is inconvenient to you—“
“You’d be a fool not to allow that there’s a faster way—“
“An unethical way!” Lestrade gritted out through clenched teeth.
“I don’t understand your obstinacy in this. You—“
“Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped. “Kindly save your domestic quarrels for a time when we’re not in danger of being discovered by a band of criminals.”
“Which way?” Lestrade turned his back on Mycroft and held the lantern aloft.
“Left,” Mycroft said, at the same moment that Sherlock said, “Right.”
“The left slopes slightly upwards,” Mycroft pointed out. “More likely to lead to an exit.”
“Dust pattern is disturbed here.” Sherlock pointed to the floor of the right-hand tunnel. “More frequently travelled.”
“The moisture on the ceiling indicates—“
“The curvature of the wall—“
“Right,” Lestrade interrupted. “We’re going right.”
Sherlock flashed a triumphant smile at Mycroft before snatching the lantern from Lestrade’s hand and charging ahead. Mycroft followed without a word.
John offered Lestrade a sympathetic smile. “They’re always like this.”
“They never change,” Lestrade said darkly. He picked his way down the tunnel.
John spent a moment staring down at the uneven floor, trying to imagine a scenario where bashing his companion’s heads together would not only make him feel better, but might actually solve the problem at hand. Finding none, he resigned himself to a more practical course, and hurried to catch up with the rapidly vanishing light of the lantern.
--
John edged forward around the bend, closer to the electric hum they’d been following. The sound was coming from a large generator powering a half-dozen electric flood lights set up on stands inside what looked like a large natural cavern. Stacked on the floor were paintings, furnishing, and gold bars that gleamed dully in the light. From his vantage point on the ledge, John counted the men loading the loot into wooden crates. He eased backwards, hugging the wall.
“At least four,” he reported to his gathered companions, pitching his voice to carry over the echoing roar of the generator. “There’s another entrance on the other side, comes out at ground level. From the ledge here, there’s a steep path down the side. Too far to jump safely.”
“Weapons?” Mycroft asked.
“Didn’t see any, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have any.”
“Indeed.” Mycroft straightened up. “We should find our way to the surface. If I can get a mobile signal, a strike force can be here within a quarter hour.” He took hold of the lantern, but Lestrade wouldn’t relinquish it.
“This is still a police matter, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said, in a voice that seemed to increase the chill in the already clammy tunnel.
Mycroft levelled a cool gaze at Sherlock, who ignored him, then nodded to Lestrade. “Of course, Detective Inspector. I apologize.”
“Right. I’ll come in from the upper entrance, here, creating a diversion,” Sherlock said. “John, circle back the other way and come in from the ground level entrance. They’re likely to run towards the upper tunnel, towards the exit. Lestrade and I will incapacitate them as they leave the cavern. Mycroft, go with John, and stay out of sight. Try not to get in John’s way.”
“You lot are still civilians, you realize.” Lestrade gave John a measuring look. “We want arrests, not bodies.”
John felt the comforting weight of his Sig at the back of his waistband, but he nodded.
--
The plan had been going quite well, John thought, until one of the gang pulled a gun and pointed it at Sherlock, who had just finished knocking one of the criminals unconscious and throwing him down on the narrow ledge at the tunnel mouth.
“Sherlock!” Lestrade threw himself at Sherlock’s attacker. He pushed the man’s right hand aside; the sharp retort of the gunshot echoed in the cave. Rock chips rained from the ceiling. The force of the impact shoved the man back, away from Sherlock. His foot encountered the end of the ledge, then slipped on a loose rock there. The man tottered for a moment, then fell backwards, pulling Lestrade with him.
John heard the impact, felt the thump of flesh meeting hard, unforgiving rock.
The last of the thieves glanced at each other, then took off down the far corridor. Sherlock sprinted after them, lantern in hand, coat flapping behind him.
John scanned the room as his feet carried him forward. No enemies left standing. On the ground below the ledge, the man who’d tried to shoot Sherlock lay still, neck bent at an unnatural angle. Lestrade lay crumpled half atop the other man, unmoving.
“Greg?” John cradled Lestrade’s head as he turned him over and felt the warm stickiness of blood. “Mycroft, come here, help me stop this bleeding.”
A quick glance showed Mycroft frozen six paces away, hand pressed to the rough rock of the cavern wall. His face was pale, his expression blank. His eyes stayed fixed on Lestrade’s still form.
John recognized the completely empty expression as one that stuck Sherlock on occasions of shock or revelation, such as being asked to be John’s best man.
“Mycroft!”
Mycroft blinked twice, quickly, then his attention snapped to John, and he seemed to see him again. “Yes, of course.” He knelt next to John on the hard floor of the cavern, and did as John asked.
--
“They got away, then?” John asked, when Sherlock returned, a bit dustier and slightly more bruised than he’d been when they’d left Baker Street this morning.
“No,” Sherlock said, a bit too quickly. “I let them escape through the alternate exit, in order to lead us to other members of the gang. It should be simple enough to track where they go. Incidentally, I’ve placed your phone inside their truck.”
“Sherlock! That was practically new.”
“They’re all right, then?” Sherlock nodded towards Mycroft, who sat with his back propped against the wall of the cavern, holding Lestrade’s head in his lap and talking in low tones.
“Lestrade stopped breathing for a minute there, but he’s back among the living. We should get him to hospital.”
Sherlock looked at them for a long moment. “And they’re all right?”
“All right?” John looked at them, noted the way Mycroft’s hand twined with Lestrade’s, clutching tightly enough to turn both their knuckles white. “Yes. I think your brother may have had a moment of clarity when he saw Greg fall.”
“Hm. It does have a way of changing perspective, being confronted with losing something so valuable.” Sherlock’s eyes darted to John, then quickly away. “Well, we have a case to wrap up.”
“Of course. I trust you marked the way out when you followed the gang?”
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “It can’t be that difficult to deduce.”
“Sherlock, if we die down here, I’m going to be very angry.”
“Of course. Come along. We’ll scout the way, and give those two some room for recovery.”
“Sherlock Holmes, I believe you’re being sentimental.”
“Not at all. But Mycroft seems perilously close to an open display of affection, and I’d like to be as far away as possible before that happens. Quickly, John.” Sherlock turned and strode off down the tunnel. As John turned to follow, he thought he might have heard something: perhaps a whispered phrase, or the soft sound of a kiss. Or maybe just an echo.
Recipient:
huntingosprayAuthor:
brighteyed_jillCharacters/Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade, Sherlock/John
Rating: Teen
Warnings: mild violence
Summary: John hadn’t thought the challenge of reconciling a lovers’ quarrel would seem more daunting than escaping a mine cave-in, but then, his definition of a dire situation had shifted somewhat since Sherlock had come into his life.
“This is deeply inconvenient,” Mycroft said for what must have been the seventh time.
John saw Lestrade hold back a sigh, but otherwise no one responded. Sherlock continued to sniff at the paint on the wall next to where the cave-in had blocked the tunnel entrance. The flickering light from the hurricane lamp John held cast deep shadows in the hollows of Sherlock’s cheeks, giving him an even-more-ghostly-than-usual look.
After the silence had stretched for almost a minute, John caught Mycroft venturing a quick glance in Lestrade’s direction, before returning to a pose of haughty indifference.
John rubbed at the wrinkles that were etching themselves into his forehead. He had to admit he hadn’t thought the challenge of reconciling a lovers’ quarrel would seem more daunting than escaping a mine cave-in, but then, his definition of a dire situation had shifted somewhat since Sherlock had come into his life.
“So.” John went to stand next to Lestrade, and prodded a piece of rock with the toe of his shoe. “Digging out, then?”
“No,” Mycroft and Sherlock said together with identical scornful inflections. They followed that up by glaring at each other.
Mycroft looked away first, and addressed his answer to John. “If the area’s unstable, digging may trigger another, larger cave-in.”
“There’s a well-worn track in the dust here. Someone’s been coming and going recently.” Lestrade crouched and brushed his hand against the floor of the tunnel. “Frequently, I’d say.”
“Obvious,” Sherlock drawled, and Mycroft opened his mouth for a no-doubt caustic reply.
“It’s not to me,” John broke in before any argument could start. “You’re saying the thieves have been living down here?”
“Not living, John. Working,” Sherlock said. “Why haven’t any of the stolen goods been recovered? Or even turned up on the black market?”
“They’re being stored,” John guessed.
“But if they know we’ve found out who they are, wouldn’t they run?” Lestrade asked.
“They wouldn’t have known about the investigation at all if a certain someone hadn’t stuck his overly long nose into our business.” Sherlock glared at his brother.
“They didn’t run because they need to move their stolen goods,” Mycroft said, somehow managing to address the whole room while avoiding eye contact.
“But the truck’s still outside,” John pointed out. “How could--?” The answer dawned on him, even as he saw Lestrade look sharply to the dark mouth of the tunnel behind them. “They’re still here.”
--
John allowed the others to pass the bend in the tunnel up ahead before stopping to lean against an outcropping. He let out a slow breath and counted backwards from ten. Sherlock appeared at his shoulder. “Alright?”
“Yes. I’m not overly fond of small spaces.”
“Caves and the like in particular.” Sherlock nodded. “You said once, about waiting out a bombardment.”
“I’m surprised you remember that.” John looked up at Sherlock, wishing he could see his face better in the near-dark of the tunnel.
“My file on you is exhaustive. Come along.”
Sherlock swept ahead to catch up to the lantern’s distant glow. John followed with all prudent haste, watching his footing on the floor’s rough surface.
Lestrade had stopped at the junction of another tunnel and held the lantern loosely at his side as Mycroft clasped his shoulder. Lestrade’s near-whisper carried surprisingly well in the stale air. “Yes, ‘you were never going to solve it on your own’ very nicely sums up your opinion of my abilities.”
“You’ve been working on this case for weeks with negligible headway.” Mycroft’s features arranged themselves into a moue of distaste. “It’s hardly a complicated affair, yet you’ve been spending every night at the office.”
“I’m sorry if my police work is inconvenient to you—“
“You’d be a fool not to allow that there’s a faster way—“
“An unethical way!” Lestrade gritted out through clenched teeth.
“I don’t understand your obstinacy in this. You—“
“Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped. “Kindly save your domestic quarrels for a time when we’re not in danger of being discovered by a band of criminals.”
“Which way?” Lestrade turned his back on Mycroft and held the lantern aloft.
“Left,” Mycroft said, at the same moment that Sherlock said, “Right.”
“The left slopes slightly upwards,” Mycroft pointed out. “More likely to lead to an exit.”
“Dust pattern is disturbed here.” Sherlock pointed to the floor of the right-hand tunnel. “More frequently travelled.”
“The moisture on the ceiling indicates—“
“The curvature of the wall—“
“Right,” Lestrade interrupted. “We’re going right.”
Sherlock flashed a triumphant smile at Mycroft before snatching the lantern from Lestrade’s hand and charging ahead. Mycroft followed without a word.
John offered Lestrade a sympathetic smile. “They’re always like this.”
“They never change,” Lestrade said darkly. He picked his way down the tunnel.
John spent a moment staring down at the uneven floor, trying to imagine a scenario where bashing his companion’s heads together would not only make him feel better, but might actually solve the problem at hand. Finding none, he resigned himself to a more practical course, and hurried to catch up with the rapidly vanishing light of the lantern.
--
John edged forward around the bend, closer to the electric hum they’d been following. The sound was coming from a large generator powering a half-dozen electric flood lights set up on stands inside what looked like a large natural cavern. Stacked on the floor were paintings, furnishing, and gold bars that gleamed dully in the light. From his vantage point on the ledge, John counted the men loading the loot into wooden crates. He eased backwards, hugging the wall.
“At least four,” he reported to his gathered companions, pitching his voice to carry over the echoing roar of the generator. “There’s another entrance on the other side, comes out at ground level. From the ledge here, there’s a steep path down the side. Too far to jump safely.”
“Weapons?” Mycroft asked.
“Didn’t see any, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have any.”
“Indeed.” Mycroft straightened up. “We should find our way to the surface. If I can get a mobile signal, a strike force can be here within a quarter hour.” He took hold of the lantern, but Lestrade wouldn’t relinquish it.
“This is still a police matter, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said, in a voice that seemed to increase the chill in the already clammy tunnel.
Mycroft levelled a cool gaze at Sherlock, who ignored him, then nodded to Lestrade. “Of course, Detective Inspector. I apologize.”
“Right. I’ll come in from the upper entrance, here, creating a diversion,” Sherlock said. “John, circle back the other way and come in from the ground level entrance. They’re likely to run towards the upper tunnel, towards the exit. Lestrade and I will incapacitate them as they leave the cavern. Mycroft, go with John, and stay out of sight. Try not to get in John’s way.”
“You lot are still civilians, you realize.” Lestrade gave John a measuring look. “We want arrests, not bodies.”
John felt the comforting weight of his Sig at the back of his waistband, but he nodded.
--
The plan had been going quite well, John thought, until one of the gang pulled a gun and pointed it at Sherlock, who had just finished knocking one of the criminals unconscious and throwing him down on the narrow ledge at the tunnel mouth.
“Sherlock!” Lestrade threw himself at Sherlock’s attacker. He pushed the man’s right hand aside; the sharp retort of the gunshot echoed in the cave. Rock chips rained from the ceiling. The force of the impact shoved the man back, away from Sherlock. His foot encountered the end of the ledge, then slipped on a loose rock there. The man tottered for a moment, then fell backwards, pulling Lestrade with him.
John heard the impact, felt the thump of flesh meeting hard, unforgiving rock.
The last of the thieves glanced at each other, then took off down the far corridor. Sherlock sprinted after them, lantern in hand, coat flapping behind him.
John scanned the room as his feet carried him forward. No enemies left standing. On the ground below the ledge, the man who’d tried to shoot Sherlock lay still, neck bent at an unnatural angle. Lestrade lay crumpled half atop the other man, unmoving.
“Greg?” John cradled Lestrade’s head as he turned him over and felt the warm stickiness of blood. “Mycroft, come here, help me stop this bleeding.”
A quick glance showed Mycroft frozen six paces away, hand pressed to the rough rock of the cavern wall. His face was pale, his expression blank. His eyes stayed fixed on Lestrade’s still form.
John recognized the completely empty expression as one that stuck Sherlock on occasions of shock or revelation, such as being asked to be John’s best man.
“Mycroft!”
Mycroft blinked twice, quickly, then his attention snapped to John, and he seemed to see him again. “Yes, of course.” He knelt next to John on the hard floor of the cavern, and did as John asked.
--
“They got away, then?” John asked, when Sherlock returned, a bit dustier and slightly more bruised than he’d been when they’d left Baker Street this morning.
“No,” Sherlock said, a bit too quickly. “I let them escape through the alternate exit, in order to lead us to other members of the gang. It should be simple enough to track where they go. Incidentally, I’ve placed your phone inside their truck.”
“Sherlock! That was practically new.”
“They’re all right, then?” Sherlock nodded towards Mycroft, who sat with his back propped against the wall of the cavern, holding Lestrade’s head in his lap and talking in low tones.
“Lestrade stopped breathing for a minute there, but he’s back among the living. We should get him to hospital.”
Sherlock looked at them for a long moment. “And they’re all right?”
“All right?” John looked at them, noted the way Mycroft’s hand twined with Lestrade’s, clutching tightly enough to turn both their knuckles white. “Yes. I think your brother may have had a moment of clarity when he saw Greg fall.”
“Hm. It does have a way of changing perspective, being confronted with losing something so valuable.” Sherlock’s eyes darted to John, then quickly away. “Well, we have a case to wrap up.”
“Of course. I trust you marked the way out when you followed the gang?”
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “It can’t be that difficult to deduce.”
“Sherlock, if we die down here, I’m going to be very angry.”
“Of course. Come along. We’ll scout the way, and give those two some room for recovery.”
“Sherlock Holmes, I believe you’re being sentimental.”
“Not at all. But Mycroft seems perilously close to an open display of affection, and I’d like to be as far away as possible before that happens. Quickly, John.” Sherlock turned and strode off down the tunnel. As John turned to follow, he thought he might have heard something: perhaps a whispered phrase, or the soft sound of a kiss. Or maybe just an echo.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-12-20 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-20 10:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-21 02:26 am (UTC)Also: Mycroft seems perilously close to an open display of affection, and I’d like to be as far away as possible before that happens. Quickly, John.” Sherlock turned and strode off down the tunnel. LOL! Perfect. Very nicely done.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-21 02:33 am (UTC)I love this line. It does seem to take drastic circumstances for the feelings to escape, but they were there all the while. Lovely.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-22 04:13 am (UTC)The building argument between Mycroft and Greg, and then Mycroft's revelation were very well done. That relationship was nicely set against the tension between Sherlock and John.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-24 09:56 am (UTC)Sherlock running away from the possibility of Mycroft showing affection is both funny and very sad, he should have deduced long ago that John wouldn't balk and run at a little emotion on Sherlock's part so there's no need for him to be envious of his brother being able to show his emotions.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-29 08:19 pm (UTC)Thank you for writing this and sharing it with us.