The Case of the Burglarious Bibliophile
A case fic crossover of Sherlock BBC and Highlander the series
“The Case of the Burglarious Bibliophile”
by mackiedockie and adabsolutely
Characters from Sherlock BBC: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Anthea. From Highlander the series: Methos, Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod.
Original Characters as needed.
Rated PG-14 for violence of the Highlander type, slash attitude (John/Sherlock) (Methos/Duncan), not explicit
Word Count: 19,900
Grateful thanks toteresa_c (Dragonfly on DW) and dear_0phelia for brilliant beta work.
Written for anya2112, Merry Christmas, sista!
Summary: Sherlock and John take on a minor case for Mycroft, which leads them into an encounter with a pair of potential book pilferers, and the secret world of immortals and Watchers.
(There are occasional dagger † marked footnotes, which may be ignored without affecting the story. They relate information about the Highlander universe for those unfamiliar. The only thing a reader really needs to know is that Methos is not married to the truth.)
The Case of the Burglarious Bibliophile
by Mackiedockie and AD absolutely
*****
Dr. John Watson carefully hid a smirk with his hand, miming thoughtfulness, as he listened to his flatmate rant at his brother Mycroft Holmes.
“A book? Boring. Unbelievably boring.” Sherlock bent over and spoke sharply through the open window of a dark town car parked outside 221B Baker Street. His feet tapped on the pavement, as if he were ready to bolt at any moment. “It’s not even missing! Why waste my talents exploring the appearance of a book, when London is full of real mayhem in need of sorting?”
Moments before, as they exited their flat, an understated luxury car had cut in front of them, rudely interrupting their late afternoon walk. Recognizing the bulletproof limo, John relaxed, standing at ease to Sherlock’s right (surreptitiously using the Bentley for support.) He anticipated the battle of wills between the secret-level bureaucrat and his brother, fascinated by the undercurrents of a lopsided power dynamic, a long history of suppressed emotional pain and weathered affection.
“This isn’t a crime. This is a matter for the lost and found clerk,” Sherlock stated with magnificent disdain.
“No, not exactly. There’s far more to this story to be discovered,” Mycroft insisted, trying to convey to his mercurial sibling why his case could actually constitute an intriguing puzzle. “It went missing from the Louvre during World War II and recently turned up in a cupboard at the British Museum.”
John could not stop himself from saying, “And that’s never happened before, an artifact gone missing elsewhere in the world and reappearing at the British Museum?” The blank looks he received confirmed that using sarcasm on the Holmes brothers was a wasted effort. John sighed.
“It was found concealed in a tin of prepackaged American tea. Naturally, it sat undisturbed for decades. Quite undrinkable, even under rationing.” Mycroft shuddered delicately and continued, “The book was published in 1801. The author mysteriously died soon after, and all of the volumes (except this single copy) were systematically bought up and burned. Remarkably, the censorship campaign can be traced to no known social movement.”
“1801! Even for me that is a bit of a cold case.” Sherlock’s tone damped down from annoyed to merely impatient. “Perhaps it is simply a very bad book.”
John asked, “What’s in this book that someone would kill the author and try to destroy all trace of it?” Both Holmes brothers had answers for that of course.
“That, John, is the leading question,” Mycroft approved, then directed at Sherlock, “The book’s title is Immortal Swords.”
Sherlock appeared to ignore his brother and instead reproved his flatmate, “John, you are jumping to a premature conclusion that the author was murdered.”
“Depends on how mysteriously he died,” John replied, his expression a mix of irritation and merriment aimed at Sherlock. “Of course, murder is hardly mysterious to the likes of the Holmes brothers. Still, after a thorough book burning, one would think the next logical step is to eliminate the book’s perpetrator, the author. What’s the subject of this banned book anyway, religion?”
“It seems only to be a history of swords and their owners, filled with line portraits of both.” Mycroft didn’t elaborate, but he didn’t ridicule the theory, either.
“Pity. Religious tracts tend to be rather more murderous than sword catalogs,” Sherlock dismissed.
“Swords? Sounds like rather ordinary subject matter for the heart of the Napoleonic wars,” John agreed. “They practically invented sabre-rattling.”
“The term ‘sabre-rattling’ was coined in 1922, to be precise,” Mycroft said.
“Storing that fact is a shocking waste of mental resources,” Sherlock jeered. “Rather like a sword catalog. Hardly worth burning. Why does it warrant your time, much less mine?”
“There must be regular channels for provenance and ownership disputes,” John added in support. “Academic debates are hardly a matter of life and death.”
“You would be amazed,” Mycroft said, his calculated vagueness making him even more annoying than Sherlock. Casually he glanced up the street, his eyes narrowing at a certain nondescript Volvo creeping by in the slow and congested traffic. He glanced at his assistant Anthea, who shook her head once, sharply.
“Two.” she murmured. “On foot. Denmark Street.”
Mycroft picked up the conversation thread as if there had been no interruption. “Let us just say there are parties other than the two museums lurking in the shadows. Many players watch from the wings upon this stage.”
“And we would have access to the book?” Sherlock’s interest seemed suddenly to be aroused, though John had no idea why. The Volvo passed without slowing.
“Of course,” Mycroft agreed. “Time is of the essence. For certain diplomatic reasons, I cannot claim it myself. There is no other I trust with this particular errand.” Mycroft appeared unhappy about the fact, but the truth of it seemed to be confirmed by Mycroft’s implacable demeanor.
“Aunt Vernet still hasn’t forgiven you for the Fleur de Lis affaire?” Sherlock swooped into the backseat of Mycroft’s sedan, his mood swinging to cheerful amusement.
It was a rather rare occurrence for him to condescend to ride with his brother, so John followed, albeit with reluctance. Settling next to his flatmate, he gave Sherlock the look, you know there is much he’s not saying. Sherlock responded with the barest nod, eyes gleaming as he scanned the Baker Street traffic.
*****
Lurking in plain sight on a corner near the British Museum, Watcher Joe Dawson dug an elbow into Methos’ side. “Let me get this straight - you and Amanda stole the copy of Immortal Swords from the Louvre in 1940 and left it in the British Museum? In a tea pantry?”
“In a tea tin. American tea. In the basement bomb shelter. It should have been safe for the ages,” explained the oldest surviving Immortal. “Or, at worst, consigned to a dustbin without ever being opened.”
“I take it the sarcophagi were occupied? Why not just squirrel it away in a bank vault?” Joe asked, somewhat scandalized. “Or in one of your personal libraries? I know you have at least one hideout in London.”
“Two, actually.” Joe figured the true number was probably greater, but was long since over expecting Methos to tell him everything.
Methos continued, “The British Museum is better than a bank vault. Banks and townhouses were going up in smoke with the Blitz. But the basement of the British? Sacrosanct! Or so I thought. That was before the Coins and Medals wing went down in flames. And by then, I had urgent business elsewhere.”
“I’ll bet,” Joe agreed. “You and half the world.”
“Interesting times, Joe. I’d planned to retrieve it at some later date, but then seem to have forgotten it. Another bit of jetsam from a long life. Now that it’s resurfaced, I’d really like to get the book out of there before they loan it to the British Library and everyone and her aunt read it.”
“Yeah, right,” Joe sighed. “Okay, let’s get this over with - after all, I’ve gone at least nine whole months without getting arrested for covering up for you. I’m due,” he sighed.
“That was MacLeod! You always take the rap for MacLeod. I only Watched.”
“Amateur,” Joe grumbled. “I’ll take the lead and stand sentry at the head of the stairs.” He nodded toward the museum entrance and with his cane gave Methos a friendly tap aside his shoe for emphasis. “You go channel Amanda,” Joe said.†
They entered separately, Joe straightening his collar and tie, every inch the neatly dressed tourist. He apologized as he shook a bit of damp from his travel coat, smiling at the museum staff, making a donation, asking questions, getting directions, and generally genially getting underfoot. Meanwhile, Methos breezed through with his head down over a clipboard. Joe zigzagged erratically after him, playing the burbling docent-wanna-be, happily speaking to anyone within hearing about form and line and the golden triangle, a harmless, pleasant, totally clueless American tourist.
As Joe cut a genial swath down the hall, Methos, dressed as penny-strapped student researcher in jeans and shapeless trench coat, dodged down a staff-only stairwell. Joe ensconced himself on a bench near some pleasantly erotic statuary, figuring he might as well have something more educational to watch than a ‘fire exit’ sign.
Joe had been fine tuning his appreciation of a well marbled marble for between five and ten minutes, when an approaching pair of young men caused his Watcher hackles to rise. One tilted slightly as a cane took some of his weight, the other paced with tight steps, holding back for his companion with barely concealed impatience. They both were aiming directly for the staff stairwell.
He palmed his phone and whispered “Cheez it! Da cops!” and then shook the phone with a puzzled look on his face. “Honey, I can’t hear you,” he said much more loudly. Using the bench for leverage, he rose to his feet and started down the hallway directly toward the approaching pair, obscuring as much of the corridor behind him as he could manage. “Honey, slow down, wait, I need to get a better signal. Must be all this bronze...”
He slowed and shook his cell phone again as he approached, playing the distracted tourist overloaded on art and technology, glancing everywhere but straight ahead. He subtly altered his track to head for the tall, lanky, impatient young man in the lead. Joe managed to temporarily crowd everyone to a halt between the wall, his companion with a cane, and his own rambling course. “Sorry, kid,” he said with an absent air, dodging right to slow him even further, before drawing himself up to nod in proper acknowledgement of his older companion. “Sir,” he added with an honest tone of respect due another veteran.
Joe smiled to himself as the first youth glowered at being called ‘kid’ in front of his more mature companion. His more mature, familiar companion, now that he thought about it. He very nearly hailed Dr. Watson by name as his taller friend bounced around his delaying block and strode quickly for the corridor. But Methos had already materialized and was ambling down the hall in the other direction, all innocent academia personified.
The hyperkinetic younger man practically dove down the corridor Methos had just exited. Joe watched Dr. Watson hover at the entrance, hesitating, staring down the hallway. At Methos.
“Shit,” Joe muttered to himself, putting some distance between them. When he was safely out of range, he keyed his phone again. “Did you get it?”
“There was...a difficulty. I hid it, though. Very well.”
“As well as the last time?” Joe asked skeptically.
“Last time there wasn’t anyone looking for it,” Methos pointed out.
“Someone is now,” Joe said thoughtfully, glancing back down the corridor. “I’ll meet you at the exit, we’ll see if they are carrying anything, and which way they go.”
“Who? Police?”
“Worse. Someone who just recognized you.”
*****
John caught up with Sherlock as the consulting detective entered the room where the found-book was supposed to be stored. Sherlock flashed the papers Mycroft had provided to a security guard and darted into the cataloging room. John followed, surveying the cluttered room filled with bookshelves, file cabinets, artifact drawers and project desks. “What could interest Dr. Adams and...now I remember...his name was Joe... here?” he muttered to himself.
“Mycroft mentioned other players upon the stage. The question is, how you know them,” Sherlock said sharply, data-starved.
“I know those men from Afghanistan - they were in an advance party for an NGO convoy. The man with the cane, Joe, caught a stray round and the chap with the clip board was their medic. I tell you, Sherlock, I saw him dabbing cobwebs into an open wound to slow the blood flow! Barbaric!"
"But fascinating,” Sherlock allowed.
"And damned if it didn't work. We were somewhere remote - maybe not quite Afghanistan. Supplies were dangerously low at this aid station. It was not much more than tents backed up to an overhanging rockshelter. The medic was a civilian attached to a Doctors Without..."
*****Afghanistan, 2008
John walked the perimeter of the make-shift mobile charity aid camp at sunset while the light held. He checked the last sentry posting anchoring the west cliff, and noted a bloodstain and drag marks from the ambush earlier in the day. The drag marks led to a protected rock overhang. John ducked under the low entrance, and found a passage that angled right and opened into a small cave, well-sheltered from small arms and random rpgs. He stopped at the sound of voices, and let his eyes adjust from the Afghan sunset to the dimmer light of a camping lantern.
A civilian with a medic armband was trying to calm the last patient left in triage as he attempted to wriggle away from his ministrations. John glimpsed fresh blood oozing from the patient’s inner arm above the elbow where a combat tourniquet had just been removed. John automatically felt his kit for extra Celox dressings, but his last had gone to pack a chest wound, earlier.
“What the hell is that stuff, pocket lint?” the wounded man protested.
“Shh. It’s organic.”
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
The medic pragmatically pinned the patient by leaning one elbow on his breastbone and the other on his right forearm to keep him from flailing the wound open further. “Hold still. You’ve used up your share of the O negative. No fair borrowing from the other patients. Everyone is a pint low.”
John moved closer, eyeing a gray, malleable mass that the medic was apparently applying to the wound. “May I help?” he offered, indicating the combative patient.
The medic glanced up, and John took a step back as a sidearm suddenly appeared in the patient’s hand.
“Easy, Joe, don’t shoot the nice Captain,” the medic chided, guiding the barrel away to the side. “I’m pretty sure he’s on our side.”
“We’re supposed to be neutral. I’m pretty sure that means nobody is on our side,” the patient objected. “Ow! What is that gunk?”
“Spiderweb. It will help the wound close.”
“With a web that big? What was it, a camel spider?” Joe cast about restlessly, checking the darker corners of the cave suspiciously. John scuffed the dirt floor and checked the shadows in the corners and under the cot as well. He wasn’t fond of the giant arachnids, either.
“Nonsense. Camel spiders don’t spin webs,” the doctor admonished. “The common house spider is the best, but cave spiders are next best for a coagulant. Now lie still.”
“Is that wise?” John asked, moving closer. “I would think it...not antiseptic.”
“The younger generations are so squeamish,” the doctor observed as he finished dabbing some loose, sticky gray strands into the wound, and turned to string a less than ideal suture needle. “Joe’s survived a lot worse,” he added airily.
Nevertheless, John pulled out an antiseptic and wordlessly started cleaning around the wound. “What happened to your supplies, Doctor...?”
“Dr. Benjamin Adams, professional vagabond, at your service. Shelling caused an avalanche, blocked the road between us and the main convoy on the pass. This is Joe Dawson, nursemaid to a Highland wanderer.”
Despite his evident loss of blood, Dawson managed to smack the doctor hard in the chest with his good hand. Luckily, he no longer gripped the pistol.
“Oof. Hold still, or I’ll tell MacLeod,” Dr. Adams warned as he pulled the suture out of harm’s way. The peculiar threat was apparently fearsome enough to still the patient’s struggles, if not his complaints.
“What, did you steal a knitting needle and run it through a pencil sharpener? Don’t you have anything smaller?”
“Don’t tell me a big, strapping Marine like you is afraid of this little needle?” Dr. Adams said, his voice low and soothing in contrast to his words. “And it’s your own fault you’re in this mess. I told you we should have stayed in Kathmandu.”
“Mac came here,” Joe sulked. “You should have told him to stay in Kathmandu.”
“Like he listens to either of us,” Adams sighed. “Or you listen to me,” he added under his breath. John suppressed a smile, and studied the doctor’s unorthodox but efficient and speedy technique.
“Where is he?” Joe tried to edge up onto one elbow to watch the doctor stitch.
“Stop fretting, I’m nearly done.” Adams eased him down, stroking the deep furrow between Joe’s brows, feeling the fever feed the anxiety. “Mac went back to see what’s delaying the supplies. He’ll be here when you wake up, with nice, pretty plasters, potions and pills.” It was less a lie than an embroidered hope, John judged as he silently assisted.
“You’re not going to tell him I followed you guys,” Joe ordered.
“Of course not, Joe,” Dr. Adams said, clearly holding back a sharper retort in front of company. “I never do. Get some sleep, and I’ll have you skulking behind your assignment in no time.”
“I’m not sleeping,” Joe objected. “There’s going to be another attack.” The patient looked at John, long and hard. “Just ask him. He’s not standing down.”
“Hush. Relax. I’ll take the Watch.” Dr. Adams met John’s gaze, then moved his fingers to a pressure point behind Joe’s ear. As the seconds wore on, Joe’s breathing evened out, and his eyelids drooped, dozing, if not truly asleep.
John rose and drew the doctor closer to the entrance, out of earshot, while they both wiped their hands of drying blood. “You should have evacked him with the others before sunset.”
“I know. He hid it at first. He knows he isn’t supposed to be here. Pride will kill him someday, if the all the wars don’t.”
“He’s a bilateral amputee? I agree. He shouldn’t be here. Things explode.”
“Things explode. I am fairly sure that nobody is more aware of that than Joe,” Adams agreed distantly, staring out at the red-streaked sky where the sun fell over the Kashmirs. “None of us should be here. But we are.”
“Who is Mac?” John questioned, keeping his tone light. Just a soldier, passing time.
“Just a friend, Captain.”
“You called him ‘his assignment?’ Is Mr. Dawson some sort of journalist?” John studied the young doctor with a touch of doubt.
“Best freelance writer you never heard of. And never will. He ghosts for...well, it’s not my business to tell,” Dr. Adams said modestly.
Nevertheless, John would make it his business to question the journalist later, when he got the chance. “This MacLeod must be charismatic, to draw you both into the Khyber after him. Not a...sect leader...I hope.”
“Heaven forfend,” the doctor denied, not entirely faking a shudder. “Just an NGO white knight. Free advice: avoid him at all costs,” Adams laughed softly. “Fools gallop, where angels fear to tread.”
*****
“And you saw them here? Just now?” Sherlock asked.
“You passed them in the corridor,” John told him. “If memory serves, their names are Joseph Dawson and Dr. Benjamin Adams.”
“Interesting. Not Mycroft’s usual crop of lurkers,” Sherlock replied, but his focus was on the middle-aged curator as she frantically searched the stacks. “The covert American bartender who delayed us is no civilian, yet has more recently come from playing lead guitar on a stage in Paris. If he returns the way he came, we will find his trail near the Thames.”
“A covert bartender and lead guitarist? Is there such a thing? Even among Americans?” John challenged.
“Observe the hands, John. The callused fingers betray the instrument, the rough hands a close acquaintance with bar sanitizers. The mud on his Mephisto shoes is Thameside, overlaid by drain works on Denmark Street, where a part-time musician might seek work.”
“But covert?”
“How many musical bartenders did you meet on that tour in Pakistan?”
“Afghanistan,” John growled. “And he said he was a writer.”
Sherlock sniffed, not deigning to respond.
The curator looked up at the pair with suppressed outrage. “It’s gone missing!” she said. “I don’t understand you young lot. I was quite clear to the cheeky student from the Sorbonne that the book had to be returned to the blue shelf.”
“Here, let us help you look.” Sherlock flashed her a broad and toothy grin.
“And you are?”
“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.” With a flourish Sherlock handed over the papers to the frowning curator.
“Sherlock, that ‘Sorbonne student’ - ” John whispered.
“Didn’t have the book on him, so he must have hidden it.”
“Are you sure? He had on a trench coat.”
“Yes, John. With a large broadsword in the lining sheath, but no book.”
John’s eyes widen briefly and he drew an extra breath. “Oh, well, only a sword, no problem then.” His stance remembered the soldier. “I think I should go follow, while you look for that book.”
“No need. Though I admire your thirst for the chase, John, I’m sure he will be waiting for us.”
“Waiting?”
“To see if we leave with the book.”
“No one is leaving with the book!” The curator protested.
Sherlock pointed at the papers he had handed her, then turned away to begin his search. “Where would a sword-packing Sorbonne student, who spends his vacation time in free fire zones, and harbors excellent acting skills, hide a book?”
“And why?” John frowned at him.
“Yes, I know, John, but first I need more data for the ‘why’.”
*****
Joe and Methos rendezvoused on the west side of Bloomsbury Street to wait and watch the tourist-laden museum entrance. A babble of many languages filtered through the late afternoon air. The sun would soon be setting, and a ground fog was creeping up the street from the direction of the river. The international crowd that filled the museum court yard (busily snapping pictures of each other) created a moving screen, partially occluding Joe and Methos’ view of the museum entrance.
“You remember that time I got that little ding in the borderlands? That Brit unit swooped in to provide security - the guy in the corridor doubled as their medic. Doctor John Watson. You should remember him, he was bird dogging you for hours.”
“You remember all that? You were supposed to be sleeping.”
“Bullet holes give me insomnia.”
“And yet you seem so fond of them,” Methos chastised.
Joe ignored the dig. “The point is, he recognized you. That gives them a reference point on one of your alternate IDs. And Dr. Benjamin Adams isn’t anywhere near London.”
“I didn’t get a clear look at your bird dog in the corridor. But the tall one reminded me of a druid I dated once.” Methos kept a sharp eye on the museum entrance.
“Only once?”
“Keep your friends close, and your sacrificial victims closer,” Methos said philosophically.
“Nevermind. I don’t want to know,” Joe headed off the reminiscence. “I’ve never laid eyes on the taller guy before, but Watson was Special Recon. That can’t be good.”
“I’m supposed to be the one with the undying memory. How did you find out his name?”
“He told me in the cave. When he was checking out your stitches, I introduced myself,” Joe grinned. “Old Watcher trick. Now - we follow them and find their lair?”
“Speaking of old Watcher tricks.” Methos considered. “I take first shift. You hail a taxi, and we tag team. If they don’t find the book, they’ll come after us.”
“And if they do, we go after them. Either way, you get the tall one, he’s faster.”
“Cuter, too.”
“You start double-timing Mac with a doppelganger of one of your old flames, I’m telling,” Joe warned. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“Telling Mac? He’d just invite the kid over for tea and sympathy,” Methos boasted with an evil grin. “And turn down the bed and put out extra towels.”
Joe winced, then objected, “Hell, Mac puts out towels for everyone. Even me.”
“Precisely my point.”
“But I’m not the reincarnation of one of your old flings.” Joe’s quelling gaze bounced off Methos with no visible effect.
“Sez you.”
Joe managed to keep a straight face for all of two seconds before cracking up. rather defeating their attempt to blend invisibly into the crowd. “Hey, that could take care of my Christmas shopping for Mac this year. What do you think, will a dozen new towels cover the traffic?”
Methos considered the question seriously. “It’s a good start.”
***** Part 2
“The Case of the Burglarious Bibliophile”
by mackiedockie and adabsolutely
Characters from Sherlock BBC: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Anthea. From Highlander the series: Methos, Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod.
Original Characters as needed.
Rated PG-14 for violence of the Highlander type, slash attitude (John/Sherlock) (Methos/Duncan), not explicit
Word Count: 19,900
Grateful thanks toteresa_c (Dragonfly on DW) and dear_0phelia for brilliant beta work.
Written for anya2112, Merry Christmas, sista!
Summary: Sherlock and John take on a minor case for Mycroft, which leads them into an encounter with a pair of potential book pilferers, and the secret world of immortals and Watchers.
(There are occasional dagger † marked footnotes, which may be ignored without affecting the story. They relate information about the Highlander universe for those unfamiliar. The only thing a reader really needs to know is that Methos is not married to the truth.)
The Case of the Burglarious Bibliophile
by Mackiedockie and AD absolutely
*****
Dr. John Watson carefully hid a smirk with his hand, miming thoughtfulness, as he listened to his flatmate rant at his brother Mycroft Holmes.
“A book? Boring. Unbelievably boring.” Sherlock bent over and spoke sharply through the open window of a dark town car parked outside 221B Baker Street. His feet tapped on the pavement, as if he were ready to bolt at any moment. “It’s not even missing! Why waste my talents exploring the appearance of a book, when London is full of real mayhem in need of sorting?”
Moments before, as they exited their flat, an understated luxury car had cut in front of them, rudely interrupting their late afternoon walk. Recognizing the bulletproof limo, John relaxed, standing at ease to Sherlock’s right (surreptitiously using the Bentley for support.) He anticipated the battle of wills between the secret-level bureaucrat and his brother, fascinated by the undercurrents of a lopsided power dynamic, a long history of suppressed emotional pain and weathered affection.
“This isn’t a crime. This is a matter for the lost and found clerk,” Sherlock stated with magnificent disdain.
“No, not exactly. There’s far more to this story to be discovered,” Mycroft insisted, trying to convey to his mercurial sibling why his case could actually constitute an intriguing puzzle. “It went missing from the Louvre during World War II and recently turned up in a cupboard at the British Museum.”
John could not stop himself from saying, “And that’s never happened before, an artifact gone missing elsewhere in the world and reappearing at the British Museum?” The blank looks he received confirmed that using sarcasm on the Holmes brothers was a wasted effort. John sighed.
“It was found concealed in a tin of prepackaged American tea. Naturally, it sat undisturbed for decades. Quite undrinkable, even under rationing.” Mycroft shuddered delicately and continued, “The book was published in 1801. The author mysteriously died soon after, and all of the volumes (except this single copy) were systematically bought up and burned. Remarkably, the censorship campaign can be traced to no known social movement.”
“1801! Even for me that is a bit of a cold case.” Sherlock’s tone damped down from annoyed to merely impatient. “Perhaps it is simply a very bad book.”
John asked, “What’s in this book that someone would kill the author and try to destroy all trace of it?” Both Holmes brothers had answers for that of course.
“That, John, is the leading question,” Mycroft approved, then directed at Sherlock, “The book’s title is Immortal Swords.”
Sherlock appeared to ignore his brother and instead reproved his flatmate, “John, you are jumping to a premature conclusion that the author was murdered.”
“Depends on how mysteriously he died,” John replied, his expression a mix of irritation and merriment aimed at Sherlock. “Of course, murder is hardly mysterious to the likes of the Holmes brothers. Still, after a thorough book burning, one would think the next logical step is to eliminate the book’s perpetrator, the author. What’s the subject of this banned book anyway, religion?”
“It seems only to be a history of swords and their owners, filled with line portraits of both.” Mycroft didn’t elaborate, but he didn’t ridicule the theory, either.
“Pity. Religious tracts tend to be rather more murderous than sword catalogs,” Sherlock dismissed.
“Swords? Sounds like rather ordinary subject matter for the heart of the Napoleonic wars,” John agreed. “They practically invented sabre-rattling.”
“The term ‘sabre-rattling’ was coined in 1922, to be precise,” Mycroft said.
“Storing that fact is a shocking waste of mental resources,” Sherlock jeered. “Rather like a sword catalog. Hardly worth burning. Why does it warrant your time, much less mine?”
“There must be regular channels for provenance and ownership disputes,” John added in support. “Academic debates are hardly a matter of life and death.”
“You would be amazed,” Mycroft said, his calculated vagueness making him even more annoying than Sherlock. Casually he glanced up the street, his eyes narrowing at a certain nondescript Volvo creeping by in the slow and congested traffic. He glanced at his assistant Anthea, who shook her head once, sharply.
“Two.” she murmured. “On foot. Denmark Street.”
Mycroft picked up the conversation thread as if there had been no interruption. “Let us just say there are parties other than the two museums lurking in the shadows. Many players watch from the wings upon this stage.”
“And we would have access to the book?” Sherlock’s interest seemed suddenly to be aroused, though John had no idea why. The Volvo passed without slowing.
“Of course,” Mycroft agreed. “Time is of the essence. For certain diplomatic reasons, I cannot claim it myself. There is no other I trust with this particular errand.” Mycroft appeared unhappy about the fact, but the truth of it seemed to be confirmed by Mycroft’s implacable demeanor.
“Aunt Vernet still hasn’t forgiven you for the Fleur de Lis affaire?” Sherlock swooped into the backseat of Mycroft’s sedan, his mood swinging to cheerful amusement.
It was a rather rare occurrence for him to condescend to ride with his brother, so John followed, albeit with reluctance. Settling next to his flatmate, he gave Sherlock the look, you know there is much he’s not saying. Sherlock responded with the barest nod, eyes gleaming as he scanned the Baker Street traffic.
*****
Lurking in plain sight on a corner near the British Museum, Watcher Joe Dawson dug an elbow into Methos’ side. “Let me get this straight - you and Amanda stole the copy of Immortal Swords from the Louvre in 1940 and left it in the British Museum? In a tea pantry?”
“In a tea tin. American tea. In the basement bomb shelter. It should have been safe for the ages,” explained the oldest surviving Immortal. “Or, at worst, consigned to a dustbin without ever being opened.”
“I take it the sarcophagi were occupied? Why not just squirrel it away in a bank vault?” Joe asked, somewhat scandalized. “Or in one of your personal libraries? I know you have at least one hideout in London.”
“Two, actually.” Joe figured the true number was probably greater, but was long since over expecting Methos to tell him everything.
Methos continued, “The British Museum is better than a bank vault. Banks and townhouses were going up in smoke with the Blitz. But the basement of the British? Sacrosanct! Or so I thought. That was before the Coins and Medals wing went down in flames. And by then, I had urgent business elsewhere.”
“I’ll bet,” Joe agreed. “You and half the world.”
“Interesting times, Joe. I’d planned to retrieve it at some later date, but then seem to have forgotten it. Another bit of jetsam from a long life. Now that it’s resurfaced, I’d really like to get the book out of there before they loan it to the British Library and everyone and her aunt read it.”
“Yeah, right,” Joe sighed. “Okay, let’s get this over with - after all, I’ve gone at least nine whole months without getting arrested for covering up for you. I’m due,” he sighed.
“That was MacLeod! You always take the rap for MacLeod. I only Watched.”
“Amateur,” Joe grumbled. “I’ll take the lead and stand sentry at the head of the stairs.” He nodded toward the museum entrance and with his cane gave Methos a friendly tap aside his shoe for emphasis. “You go channel Amanda,” Joe said.†
They entered separately, Joe straightening his collar and tie, every inch the neatly dressed tourist. He apologized as he shook a bit of damp from his travel coat, smiling at the museum staff, making a donation, asking questions, getting directions, and generally genially getting underfoot. Meanwhile, Methos breezed through with his head down over a clipboard. Joe zigzagged erratically after him, playing the burbling docent-wanna-be, happily speaking to anyone within hearing about form and line and the golden triangle, a harmless, pleasant, totally clueless American tourist.
As Joe cut a genial swath down the hall, Methos, dressed as penny-strapped student researcher in jeans and shapeless trench coat, dodged down a staff-only stairwell. Joe ensconced himself on a bench near some pleasantly erotic statuary, figuring he might as well have something more educational to watch than a ‘fire exit’ sign.
Joe had been fine tuning his appreciation of a well marbled marble for between five and ten minutes, when an approaching pair of young men caused his Watcher hackles to rise. One tilted slightly as a cane took some of his weight, the other paced with tight steps, holding back for his companion with barely concealed impatience. They both were aiming directly for the staff stairwell.
He palmed his phone and whispered “Cheez it! Da cops!” and then shook the phone with a puzzled look on his face. “Honey, I can’t hear you,” he said much more loudly. Using the bench for leverage, he rose to his feet and started down the hallway directly toward the approaching pair, obscuring as much of the corridor behind him as he could manage. “Honey, slow down, wait, I need to get a better signal. Must be all this bronze...”
He slowed and shook his cell phone again as he approached, playing the distracted tourist overloaded on art and technology, glancing everywhere but straight ahead. He subtly altered his track to head for the tall, lanky, impatient young man in the lead. Joe managed to temporarily crowd everyone to a halt between the wall, his companion with a cane, and his own rambling course. “Sorry, kid,” he said with an absent air, dodging right to slow him even further, before drawing himself up to nod in proper acknowledgement of his older companion. “Sir,” he added with an honest tone of respect due another veteran.
Joe smiled to himself as the first youth glowered at being called ‘kid’ in front of his more mature companion. His more mature, familiar companion, now that he thought about it. He very nearly hailed Dr. Watson by name as his taller friend bounced around his delaying block and strode quickly for the corridor. But Methos had already materialized and was ambling down the hall in the other direction, all innocent academia personified.
The hyperkinetic younger man practically dove down the corridor Methos had just exited. Joe watched Dr. Watson hover at the entrance, hesitating, staring down the hallway. At Methos.
“Shit,” Joe muttered to himself, putting some distance between them. When he was safely out of range, he keyed his phone again. “Did you get it?”
“There was...a difficulty. I hid it, though. Very well.”
“As well as the last time?” Joe asked skeptically.
“Last time there wasn’t anyone looking for it,” Methos pointed out.
“Someone is now,” Joe said thoughtfully, glancing back down the corridor. “I’ll meet you at the exit, we’ll see if they are carrying anything, and which way they go.”
“Who? Police?”
“Worse. Someone who just recognized you.”
*****
John caught up with Sherlock as the consulting detective entered the room where the found-book was supposed to be stored. Sherlock flashed the papers Mycroft had provided to a security guard and darted into the cataloging room. John followed, surveying the cluttered room filled with bookshelves, file cabinets, artifact drawers and project desks. “What could interest Dr. Adams and...now I remember...his name was Joe... here?” he muttered to himself.
“Mycroft mentioned other players upon the stage. The question is, how you know them,” Sherlock said sharply, data-starved.
“I know those men from Afghanistan - they were in an advance party for an NGO convoy. The man with the cane, Joe, caught a stray round and the chap with the clip board was their medic. I tell you, Sherlock, I saw him dabbing cobwebs into an open wound to slow the blood flow! Barbaric!"
"But fascinating,” Sherlock allowed.
"And damned if it didn't work. We were somewhere remote - maybe not quite Afghanistan. Supplies were dangerously low at this aid station. It was not much more than tents backed up to an overhanging rockshelter. The medic was a civilian attached to a Doctors Without..."
*****Afghanistan, 2008
John walked the perimeter of the make-shift mobile charity aid camp at sunset while the light held. He checked the last sentry posting anchoring the west cliff, and noted a bloodstain and drag marks from the ambush earlier in the day. The drag marks led to a protected rock overhang. John ducked under the low entrance, and found a passage that angled right and opened into a small cave, well-sheltered from small arms and random rpgs. He stopped at the sound of voices, and let his eyes adjust from the Afghan sunset to the dimmer light of a camping lantern.
A civilian with a medic armband was trying to calm the last patient left in triage as he attempted to wriggle away from his ministrations. John glimpsed fresh blood oozing from the patient’s inner arm above the elbow where a combat tourniquet had just been removed. John automatically felt his kit for extra Celox dressings, but his last had gone to pack a chest wound, earlier.
“What the hell is that stuff, pocket lint?” the wounded man protested.
“Shh. It’s organic.”
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
The medic pragmatically pinned the patient by leaning one elbow on his breastbone and the other on his right forearm to keep him from flailing the wound open further. “Hold still. You’ve used up your share of the O negative. No fair borrowing from the other patients. Everyone is a pint low.”
John moved closer, eyeing a gray, malleable mass that the medic was apparently applying to the wound. “May I help?” he offered, indicating the combative patient.
The medic glanced up, and John took a step back as a sidearm suddenly appeared in the patient’s hand.
“Easy, Joe, don’t shoot the nice Captain,” the medic chided, guiding the barrel away to the side. “I’m pretty sure he’s on our side.”
“We’re supposed to be neutral. I’m pretty sure that means nobody is on our side,” the patient objected. “Ow! What is that gunk?”
“Spiderweb. It will help the wound close.”
“With a web that big? What was it, a camel spider?” Joe cast about restlessly, checking the darker corners of the cave suspiciously. John scuffed the dirt floor and checked the shadows in the corners and under the cot as well. He wasn’t fond of the giant arachnids, either.
“Nonsense. Camel spiders don’t spin webs,” the doctor admonished. “The common house spider is the best, but cave spiders are next best for a coagulant. Now lie still.”
“Is that wise?” John asked, moving closer. “I would think it...not antiseptic.”
“The younger generations are so squeamish,” the doctor observed as he finished dabbing some loose, sticky gray strands into the wound, and turned to string a less than ideal suture needle. “Joe’s survived a lot worse,” he added airily.
Nevertheless, John pulled out an antiseptic and wordlessly started cleaning around the wound. “What happened to your supplies, Doctor...?”
“Dr. Benjamin Adams, professional vagabond, at your service. Shelling caused an avalanche, blocked the road between us and the main convoy on the pass. This is Joe Dawson, nursemaid to a Highland wanderer.”
Despite his evident loss of blood, Dawson managed to smack the doctor hard in the chest with his good hand. Luckily, he no longer gripped the pistol.
“Oof. Hold still, or I’ll tell MacLeod,” Dr. Adams warned as he pulled the suture out of harm’s way. The peculiar threat was apparently fearsome enough to still the patient’s struggles, if not his complaints.
“What, did you steal a knitting needle and run it through a pencil sharpener? Don’t you have anything smaller?”
“Don’t tell me a big, strapping Marine like you is afraid of this little needle?” Dr. Adams said, his voice low and soothing in contrast to his words. “And it’s your own fault you’re in this mess. I told you we should have stayed in Kathmandu.”
“Mac came here,” Joe sulked. “You should have told him to stay in Kathmandu.”
“Like he listens to either of us,” Adams sighed. “Or you listen to me,” he added under his breath. John suppressed a smile, and studied the doctor’s unorthodox but efficient and speedy technique.
“Where is he?” Joe tried to edge up onto one elbow to watch the doctor stitch.
“Stop fretting, I’m nearly done.” Adams eased him down, stroking the deep furrow between Joe’s brows, feeling the fever feed the anxiety. “Mac went back to see what’s delaying the supplies. He’ll be here when you wake up, with nice, pretty plasters, potions and pills.” It was less a lie than an embroidered hope, John judged as he silently assisted.
“You’re not going to tell him I followed you guys,” Joe ordered.
“Of course not, Joe,” Dr. Adams said, clearly holding back a sharper retort in front of company. “I never do. Get some sleep, and I’ll have you skulking behind your assignment in no time.”
“I’m not sleeping,” Joe objected. “There’s going to be another attack.” The patient looked at John, long and hard. “Just ask him. He’s not standing down.”
“Hush. Relax. I’ll take the Watch.” Dr. Adams met John’s gaze, then moved his fingers to a pressure point behind Joe’s ear. As the seconds wore on, Joe’s breathing evened out, and his eyelids drooped, dozing, if not truly asleep.
John rose and drew the doctor closer to the entrance, out of earshot, while they both wiped their hands of drying blood. “You should have evacked him with the others before sunset.”
“I know. He hid it at first. He knows he isn’t supposed to be here. Pride will kill him someday, if the all the wars don’t.”
“He’s a bilateral amputee? I agree. He shouldn’t be here. Things explode.”
“Things explode. I am fairly sure that nobody is more aware of that than Joe,” Adams agreed distantly, staring out at the red-streaked sky where the sun fell over the Kashmirs. “None of us should be here. But we are.”
“Who is Mac?” John questioned, keeping his tone light. Just a soldier, passing time.
“Just a friend, Captain.”
“You called him ‘his assignment?’ Is Mr. Dawson some sort of journalist?” John studied the young doctor with a touch of doubt.
“Best freelance writer you never heard of. And never will. He ghosts for...well, it’s not my business to tell,” Dr. Adams said modestly.
Nevertheless, John would make it his business to question the journalist later, when he got the chance. “This MacLeod must be charismatic, to draw you both into the Khyber after him. Not a...sect leader...I hope.”
“Heaven forfend,” the doctor denied, not entirely faking a shudder. “Just an NGO white knight. Free advice: avoid him at all costs,” Adams laughed softly. “Fools gallop, where angels fear to tread.”
*****
“And you saw them here? Just now?” Sherlock asked.
“You passed them in the corridor,” John told him. “If memory serves, their names are Joseph Dawson and Dr. Benjamin Adams.”
“Interesting. Not Mycroft’s usual crop of lurkers,” Sherlock replied, but his focus was on the middle-aged curator as she frantically searched the stacks. “The covert American bartender who delayed us is no civilian, yet has more recently come from playing lead guitar on a stage in Paris. If he returns the way he came, we will find his trail near the Thames.”
“A covert bartender and lead guitarist? Is there such a thing? Even among Americans?” John challenged.
“Observe the hands, John. The callused fingers betray the instrument, the rough hands a close acquaintance with bar sanitizers. The mud on his Mephisto shoes is Thameside, overlaid by drain works on Denmark Street, where a part-time musician might seek work.”
“But covert?”
“How many musical bartenders did you meet on that tour in Pakistan?”
“Afghanistan,” John growled. “And he said he was a writer.”
Sherlock sniffed, not deigning to respond.
The curator looked up at the pair with suppressed outrage. “It’s gone missing!” she said. “I don’t understand you young lot. I was quite clear to the cheeky student from the Sorbonne that the book had to be returned to the blue shelf.”
“Here, let us help you look.” Sherlock flashed her a broad and toothy grin.
“And you are?”
“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.” With a flourish Sherlock handed over the papers to the frowning curator.
“Sherlock, that ‘Sorbonne student’ - ” John whispered.
“Didn’t have the book on him, so he must have hidden it.”
“Are you sure? He had on a trench coat.”
“Yes, John. With a large broadsword in the lining sheath, but no book.”
John’s eyes widen briefly and he drew an extra breath. “Oh, well, only a sword, no problem then.” His stance remembered the soldier. “I think I should go follow, while you look for that book.”
“No need. Though I admire your thirst for the chase, John, I’m sure he will be waiting for us.”
“Waiting?”
“To see if we leave with the book.”
“No one is leaving with the book!” The curator protested.
Sherlock pointed at the papers he had handed her, then turned away to begin his search. “Where would a sword-packing Sorbonne student, who spends his vacation time in free fire zones, and harbors excellent acting skills, hide a book?”
“And why?” John frowned at him.
“Yes, I know, John, but first I need more data for the ‘why’.”
*****
Joe and Methos rendezvoused on the west side of Bloomsbury Street to wait and watch the tourist-laden museum entrance. A babble of many languages filtered through the late afternoon air. The sun would soon be setting, and a ground fog was creeping up the street from the direction of the river. The international crowd that filled the museum court yard (busily snapping pictures of each other) created a moving screen, partially occluding Joe and Methos’ view of the museum entrance.
“You remember that time I got that little ding in the borderlands? That Brit unit swooped in to provide security - the guy in the corridor doubled as their medic. Doctor John Watson. You should remember him, he was bird dogging you for hours.”
“You remember all that? You were supposed to be sleeping.”
“Bullet holes give me insomnia.”
“And yet you seem so fond of them,” Methos chastised.
Joe ignored the dig. “The point is, he recognized you. That gives them a reference point on one of your alternate IDs. And Dr. Benjamin Adams isn’t anywhere near London.”
“I didn’t get a clear look at your bird dog in the corridor. But the tall one reminded me of a druid I dated once.” Methos kept a sharp eye on the museum entrance.
“Only once?”
“Keep your friends close, and your sacrificial victims closer,” Methos said philosophically.
“Nevermind. I don’t want to know,” Joe headed off the reminiscence. “I’ve never laid eyes on the taller guy before, but Watson was Special Recon. That can’t be good.”
“I’m supposed to be the one with the undying memory. How did you find out his name?”
“He told me in the cave. When he was checking out your stitches, I introduced myself,” Joe grinned. “Old Watcher trick. Now - we follow them and find their lair?”
“Speaking of old Watcher tricks.” Methos considered. “I take first shift. You hail a taxi, and we tag team. If they don’t find the book, they’ll come after us.”
“And if they do, we go after them. Either way, you get the tall one, he’s faster.”
“Cuter, too.”
“You start double-timing Mac with a doppelganger of one of your old flames, I’m telling,” Joe warned. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“Telling Mac? He’d just invite the kid over for tea and sympathy,” Methos boasted with an evil grin. “And turn down the bed and put out extra towels.”
Joe winced, then objected, “Hell, Mac puts out towels for everyone. Even me.”
“Precisely my point.”
“But I’m not the reincarnation of one of your old flings.” Joe’s quelling gaze bounced off Methos with no visible effect.
“Sez you.”
Joe managed to keep a straight face for all of two seconds before cracking up. rather defeating their attempt to blend invisibly into the crowd. “Hey, that could take care of my Christmas shopping for Mac this year. What do you think, will a dozen new towels cover the traffic?”
Methos considered the question seriously. “It’s a good start.”
***** Part 2