Little Sherlock part 2/?
Disclaimer: I don't own these kids. Come to think of it, Mrs. Wilkes might be mine, i don't think she existed before this fic (scary thought, that). but yeah, Sherlock and co. belong to SirACD and the BBC guys
Rating: PG
Warnings: none, unless you have a phobia for affectionate flamingos?
Part 1 is here
Word quickly spread around the school that Sherlock Holmes had made a friend. Many didn't believe it until they saw John sitting across from that odd Holmes kid at lunch.
John himself wasn't disliked, but his association with Sherlock kept him from making many other friends. He got on with largely everyone - save of course Cletus Anderson, Sally Donovan, and Jeff Hope (the kid who had been killing rabbits) - but conversations almost always led to 'why do you hang out with Sherlock Holmes of all people?' One girl had asked him if Sherlock really was a vampire. John dodged the questions and took it in stride. The fact was, Sherlock Holmes was the most interesting person he had ever met, and he really enjoyed spending time with him. After a day with Sherlock, John would be surprised by the mundaneness of ordinary conversation. The way that kid saw the world was just...different. It was refreshing. It helped that Mrs. Hudson had gotten used to their note-passing and decided to ignore it.
“-and that's why it cracked when they poked it.” finished Sherlock. John set down his fork. Interesting as the story had been, it had quite murdered his appetite.
“Where do you get all these stories?”
“I read up on interesting cases. The library has a few on record, or I nick them from an enemy of mine in law school.”
The word 'enemy' sparked John's memory.
“Enemy? I may have met him.”
“When?”
“My first day. He showed me the way to the counselor's office.” Sherlock scowled.
“I suppose he wanted you to spy on me for money.”
“Erm, yeah.”
“You didn't take it, did you? Pity, we could have split the fee. Nosy bugger.”
“Who was he?”
“A prat.” John didn't pursue the topic further; it seemed to have put Sherlock on edge. He decided to lighten the mood.
“How's your experiment going?”
“Which one?”
“The one with all the tongues in the jar.”
“Well, I think. The cough syrup doesn't smell as strongly as I thought it would. No-one's found it yet.”
“That's good...I think.” Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to explain the progress of the pig tongues in his locker, but was interrupted.
“Holmes.” John looked up at the boy behind his friend. Between his combed-back hair and tailored uniform, he looked a bit pompous. Sherlock didn't turn.
“Hello Sebastian. Didn't think you would talk to me at school.”
“I was told to give you this.” He spoke loudly, making sure that everyone in the vicinity knew that he was not speaking to the odd Holmes boy of his own will. He held out an envelope. Sherlock still didn't turn, he only held out his hand. Sebastian placed it in his palm.
“Run along, Sebastian. Wouldn't want to catch any freak germs.” The kid didn't waste any time in hurrying away.
“Posh git.” John remarked.
“His family is friends with my family. God, you should see him drool over Mycroft. It's sickening.”
“Mycroft?”
“Older brother. We were just talking about him.”
“Oh, so he's your enemy?”
“That's the one. Mycroft does not know how to leave well enough alone.” John watched, still somewhat bemused, as Sherlock tore the letter open. He spent a few moments scanning it, and passed it to John.
“You up for some fun?”
“Always.” said John. He read the letter. It was from Sebastian's mother. She was asking Sherlock to find out who had been graffiti-ing their garage (again, apparently). She also told Sherlock to thank his mother for the lovely cake.
“Again? The graffiti's happened before?”
“Oh yes. They thought nothing of it and cleared it off.”
“But you thought differently.”
“Of course. It was obviously some sort of code. If anyone was to graffiti Sebastian's property - and I wouldn't blame them if they did - it would just be some dirty words and maybe a poor drawing of some genitals. These were odd shapes in a pattern. They were written from right to left, up to down.”
“How could you tell?”
“Trails from the spray paint. Bit of a hurried writer, so the little flourishes connect some of the characters. I could tell from the direction of those flourishes.”
“Right to left, what kind of writing does that?”
“Asian alphabets. Haven't found one that matches up, but we're going to the library after school.” John nodded. He had gotten used to Sherlock's inability to ask politely for something.
John sent Harry home with the message that he was out with a friend. She stuck her tongue out at him and probably wouldn't convey the message faithfully, but John didn't care. Sherlock was positively glowing with excitement over the new case, and it was a bit contagious.
“Nothing.” said Sherlock, tossing the book aside. John reached to pick it up and put it back on the shelf. Honestly, nothing was safe with Sherlock around.
“We're looking in the wrong books. Come on, let's go.”
“Now where are we going?” John asked as they both stood.
“Sebastian's house. I want to have a look at the graffiti again. Maybe there'll be a clue in the type of spray paint or something.”
“After you.” said John.
“Bit well to do, isn't he?” commented John as they approached the Wilkes' house. It was tall and modern and very very expensive.
“Wasn't it obvious, just by his manner of walking?”
“Sherlock, I was making a joke. It is very, very obvious, even to mere mortals like me.”
“Oh.” John should have known better than to expect Sherlock to get a joke, but he could try. Sherlock showed him up the winding driveway. The graffiti was on the side of the garage.
“Shouldn't we let them know we're here?”
“God, no. Mrs. Wilkes will be simply disgusting. Gushy sort of woman. She'd probably want to pinch your cheeks.” John cringed at the thought.
“Right. So, what does this mean?”
“That's what we need to figure out.” The siding was covered in a mass of squiggly lines done in yellow spray paint. John stared at the writing for some minutes, and then looked at Sherlock. He was studying each character.
“It's exactly the same as before.” Sherlock finally said. “That means that they want a message conveyed.”
“But surely none of the Wilkeses know what it means? Who's it meant for, then?” asked John. Sherlock turned on him and grabbed his shoulders, his mouth spreading into a wide grin.
“That's it, John!” John was startled.
“What's it?”
“Who's the message for?! That's what we need to figure out!”
“Er, okay. D'you wanna let me go now?” Sherlock released his grip on John's shoulders. John rubbed at his left one; it still hadn't quite healed. Sherlock noticed.
“Oh, your shoulder...the car bomb...I grabbed...erm...”
“You could just say 'sorry' and then forget it.” said John, smirking. Sherlock seemed to have a lot of trouble with the simple word.
“S-sorry.”
“See? That wasn't so hard. You're forgiven.” John smiled. “Let's figure out who this message was meant for, shall we?”
Sherlock groaned.
“We'll have to talk to Mrs. Wilkes after all.”
Mrs. Wilkes reminded John of a very affectionate flamingo. She wore a lot of pink, was tall and angular, and gushed like head wound.
“Oh, Sherlock! So nice of you to come by! Did you tell your mother that I simply loved the cake?”
“I haven't seen her this afternoon, Mrs. Wilkes, but I'll tell her the instant I get home.”
“Lovely. And who's your friend, dear?”
“This is John. He's in my class.” Sherlock made a point of saying that John was his age, probably in an attempt to keep the woman from referring to the already runtish John as a seven-year-old. It did not stop her from pinching his cheek.
“Oh, he's darling.”
“Er, hello ma'am.”
“Well, come in, boys. Seb's just gone out with Brian Lukis, I'm afraid. Biscuit?” Mrs. Wilkes offered a tin.
“No thanks, Mrs. Wilkes. We're actually here to talk to you.”
“Oh really?” Her eyelashes fluttered and her cheeks turned pink. “Whatever for, dear?”
“It's about the graffiti on your garage. There's a message in it.”
“A message? Well, what does it mean?” She was humouring him.
“I don't know, because I don't know the code. Someone in this household does.”
“Well I don't, and neither do Seb or his daddy.”
“Is there anybody else who spends a lot of time here?”
“Well, there's Eddie, the gardener...” Sherlock looked at her sharply.
“Can we talk to him?”
“Well I suppose so. If he's around, he'll probably be around the shed.” Sherlock grabbed John - more gently this time - by the arm and dragged him out. Mrs. Wilkes tried to call after them, but didn't seem to know what to say.
Eddie the gardener was not in the shed. He was nowhere on the Wilkes' property.
“Well now what?” asked John.
“Obviously we need to find him, but I want to have a look in the shed first.”
“Do you think we should be-”
“Ask forgiveness not permission, John.” said Sherlock, picking the lock on the shed with a pin procured from his pocket. He pushed the door open and switched the light on. It seemed an ordinary shed, slightly disorganised and dirt-covered. Sherlock took a magnifier out of his pocket and began snooping about the shelves and behind hanging shovels. John stood still and looked around. He had no idea what they were looking for. He took a step forward and his toe caught a nail in the rough wooden floor. It tripped him up and he had to hop to keep his balance. Looking down at the spot, he saw that the floorboard was very loose, and light was shining through it.
“Sherlock...” he said. He knelt and began to pry at the wood. Sherlock hadn't paid him any mind. He continued his search amoung some old pots.
“Sherlock.” John's voice was louder. “I've found something.” Sherlock froze, and then moved to see what John was staring at.
“That's...is that...” began Sherlock. “Good work, John.” He reached into the small compartment dug under the floor and pulled out the object.
“That really is something.” he said.
Mrs. Wilkes was difficult to get away from. She insisted that the graffiti wasn't an issue; she would just have Eddie wash it off again.
“It really isn't that serious, Sherlock dear. I just know how much you love little puzzles, so I thought you might like to find whatever teenager's been doing it.”
“All the same, Mrs. Wilkes, I'd like to talk to Mr. Van Coon. Do you know where he lives?”
“Well yes, but-”
“We just want to have a little chat with him. I have to gather evidence.” Sherlock lowered his chin and looked up at her. John felt that he shouldn't be allowed to put on that face; it made him look like a kicked puppy.
“Well, all right, dear. But don't agitate him, he's a good gardener.” She jotted down the address on a slip of paper.
“Off you go, little detectives!” She smiled warmly as they left.
“Didn't I tell you? Disgusting woman.” Sherlock grimaced as they walked down the street toward Eddie Van Coon's home.
“I thought she was alright until she pinched my cheek. God, is that paper scented?” John crinkled up his nose.
“Hard to tell because she uses so much air freshener. Wouldn't be surprised though.”
The stopped in front of a modest bungalow home.
“What's the plan?” asked John.
“Do we need one?”
“Oh, well in that case...” John shrugged and motioned to the walkway. They knocked on the door, and a scruffy man appeared.
“Are you Eddie Van Coon?” asked Sherlock.
“That's me. Who're you kids?”
“I was hired by the Wilkeses to find out the reason behind the graffiti on their garage. Mrs. Wilkes gave us your address.”
“And what do you want with me? I only scrubbed the damn stuff off.”
“Mrs. Wilkes told us that you're very good at languages, and I think that the graffiti was a message. Perhaps you could help us?”
“Dunno why she told you that. I'm not. I just spent a few years in China, but I didn't learn the language.”
“May we come in, Mr. Van Coon?” He huffed a bit, but opened the door wider. Sherlock and John filed in. John watched Sherlock's eyes; they were darting around the room, picking up data.
“What is it you boys want to know?”
“Whereabouts in China did you live, Mr. Van Coon?” asked Sherlock. He put on an innocent face; a young boy who was curious about a foreign country.
“Near Hong Kong. I went there with a friend, see if I could get a job. S'where I learned so much about gardening.”
“Did you make a lot of friends there?”
“Oh, some. I didn't speak the language, so it was hard. Why do you want to know?”
“Oh, I'm just curious. The characters in the graffiti are Chinese, you see. Thought that that might be why you haven't been at work since you washed away the first message. Where will you go?”
“Go? What are you on about, kid?”
“Well you're packing, aren't you? You've got a suitcase there.” Sherlock pointed to a case half-filled with clean clothes.
“Oh, that's just...I was unpacking. Took a weekend trip, that's why I wasn't at work.”
“Oh, of course.” said Sherlock. John had the distinct impression that neither he nor Van Coon were convinced.
“Well, do you have any idea what the graffiti might mea-”
“I dunno, I really don't. If you don't mind, boys, I'd like to finish unpacking. Gotta get back to work tomorrow.”
“Of course, Mr. Van Coon. Thank you for your time.” Sherlock swept back to the door. John followed him outside. They didn't speak until they were a good block away.
“How did you know that he hadn't been at work?”
“State of the shed. None of the tools have been used for at least a week. Crusting of the soil.”
“He wasn't unpacking, was he?”
“No, he's trying to get away. I don't think we need to bother figuring out what the characters mean. It was a threat, either way. Here, take this.” Sherlock passed what they had found in the shed to John, who pocketed it.
“A threat? So that's why he was leaving.”
“He as good as told us. Which means that this is very very serious.” Sherlock looked overjoyed at the prospect.
“Sherlock, maybe we should go to the police. I mean, what we found is...”
“Are you crazy, John? The police will bungle this whole thing!”
“But Sherlock, Van Coon's leaving town. What if he gets killed? What about-”
“I need to do some thinking. Go home, have supper, whatever. I'll talk to you at school tomorrow.”
Sherlock was gone before John had time to protest. He trudged home, where his mother chastised him for staying out so late without telling her. He had difficulty sleeping that night. He forgot entirely to fake a journal entry.
Sherlock wasn't in class the next morning. John found himself staring at his empty seat throughout most of the day. Sherlock rarely missed class - according to many he used to, but was threatened with suspension - and John found the lesson very tedious without the genius commenting on their classmates. He asked Mrs. Hudson where Sherlock was at the lunch bell.
“I don't know dear. His absence is unexcused.” John thanked her and went in search of Sebastian Wilkes. “Seb” was lounging with some of his friends in a stairwell near the cafeteria. He didn't appear happy to see John.
“Oh, you're Holmes' little friend, right?” He gave a pleasant smile, but it wasn't far from a grimace.
“John Watson, yeah. Have you seen Sherlock today? He didn't show up for class, and I think it's to do with your graffiti problem.” The group of friends chuckled and murmured amongst themselves. John ignored them.
“I don't pay attention to where he is.”
“Right. Well. Thanks anyway.” John heard the group of boys descend into laughter behind his back. Where are you, Sherlock? There was nothing for it; John decided to skive off his afternoon classes. He went to the Wilkes', but no-one was home. The graffiti was still there and the shed untouched. To Van Coon's then.
John felt a drop in his stomach when he rounded the corner on the way to Eddie Van Coon's house. It was surrounded by police vehicles. Shit. An officer noticed him and walked over.
“Do you live around here, son?”
“Um, no, I'm looking for my friend. He said he might be around Mr. Van Coon's.” John's look of panic was mostly genuine, and the officer's face softened.
“Who's your friend? Why would he be here?”
“Er, Sherlock Holmes. He...we know Mr. Van Coon through a mutual friend.”
“Oh, you must be John. He's asking for you.” The officer beckoned to John and started walking toward an ambulance. John's panic rose again. He hurried after, dreading what he was going to find. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his friend sitting, legs dangling out the back of the ambulance. He was wrapped in a bright orange blanket. His expression of boredom brightened when he caught sight of John.
“John! They found you!” His voice broke a little.
“Who, the police? Nah, I came looking for you. What's the blanket for?”
“For shock, apparently.” Sherlock coughed again.
“Are you alright?”
“I'm fine. Van Coon's dead though.”
“What?!” John moved to sit next to Sherlock.
“They won't let me back in, but he's dead. They left the message in his house. I've worked it out, by the way. Ancient Chinese numeral system. Numbers correspond to words in a book, and the book was sitting right on Van Coon's coffee table. Kept it near him. I was right; that carved thing is what they wanted. Along with a ton of cocaine.”
“Cocaine? Who's they?”
“The drug ring that left the message. That's what Van Coon was doing in Hong Kong. He was a smuggler. Probably thought he left that life behind when he started to work as a gardener, but didn't count on his previous employers noticing that he'd pinched a valuable artifact.”
“How did you figure this out?”
“Came here this morning. Van Coon was already dead. They killed him last night. But the assassin was still there. He was searching for the jade thing. I fear that I...I made myself noticed.”
John's face was pale.
“Oh God. What happened?”
“He tried to strangle me. Thought I'd seen too much. I fended him off until the police came, but he got away. Mummy's on her way.” John pulled the carved piece of jade from his pocket.
“I don't think we should keep this.”
“No, too dangerous, even I can admit that.” Sherlock agreed. “Give it to me, I'll put it somewhere safe.” John handed it over, though he knew very well that 'somewhere safe' probably meant Sherlock's bedroom.
“Teenage hooligans, huh?” John laughed. Sherlock joined in, his chuckles broken up a bit by coughing. An officer turned at the noise, and John quickly stifled his giggles.
“Shhh, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene!”
“John said that he came to find me.” said Sherlock to his skull. He rolled the carved piece of jade in his fingers as he spoke. He stared into the eye sockets, contemplating.
“I thought only Mummy or Mycroft would do that.” Sherlock couldn't find the answer he was looking for, so he stowed the jade in his bedside table for the time being, and curled up next to his security skull
AN: There will mostly be one-shot mini chapters after this, but they will be important for the big part 3