S3E1 - The Silver Blaze Revival - Part Ten: Boxed Bet
Title: The Silver Blaze Revival
Subtitle: Boxed Bet
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 1,834
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, minor violence
The cabbie didn't speak for the duration of the drive, and John felt a little unnerved, to the point of taking his mobile out and dialing in case he needed to call for help. But sure enough, the taxi pulled up to 221 B Baker Street. Perhaps Sargent Donovan had mentioned the address.
John fumbled with his wallet for a minute or so before the cabbie said, "No charge, hey."
John stepped out to get a better look at the man. His voice sounded pinched and high, like he was putting it on, and he wore a grey hat. The cab started to move away, but John swore he saw a black curl and a sharp, blue eye that could only belong to Sherlock Holmes.
"Hey, hold on!" John yelled, racing after the cab. "Sherlock! Stop!"
Tolbert knew the punishment should be more severe. He should put him on suspension and have an official inquiry, but all that would do was strain their resources and toss out additional fodder for the newspapers.
The forensics reports were disturbing. Someone had utilized a lot of resources to sully the name of Sherlock Holmes, not just through the secure police databases but also banks and financial institutions. Were it not for the work of Indigo Kendall Berwyn, they might still be in the dark. Tolbert imagined that her skill in uncovering such crimes was the primary reason behind her disappearance. Her flat had all the signs of an abduction, and a violent one at that. He could only hope to figure out what happened to her some day.
Still, even before Tolbert became Chief Inspector, it was his general opinion that there were very few reasons to expend this much energy on a single person, and all of those reasons indicated that the targeted individual pissed off people in power. Sherlock Holmes clearly had managed that; why else would a master criminal give up his entire career and future to destroy the man?
"So Lestrade," Tolbert said. "Looks like the allegations against Sherlock Holmes were false."
"Yes, sir."
"And that he managed to take down James Moriarty, who has a hefty national file as well as a file with the likes of Interpol."
"Yes, sir."
"Let me make one thing very clear, Lestrade," Tolbert said dangerously. "This is the kind of mistake that, when repeated, ends more than your career. You understand?"
"Sherlock Holmes is dead," Lestrade replied. "I couldn't ask him to consult on another case - "
"Don't be an idiot," Tolbert interrupted. "We have procedure. Clearances. Basic investigative rules. Given this Mr. Holmes's family and connections, he could have been an official consulting detective without much fuss."
"Yes, sir."
"Then why didn't you bother with it?" Tolbert asked. "A few fingerprints, a background check, and this entire mess, the Fulmer Murder Case, would've never had a hitch!"
"I understand that, sir - "
"But instead you brought this man in with no clearance and kept little to no record of his involvement. And then there's this..." Tolbert picked up the report that he received a few hours ago. "A case out in Baskerville, is it?"
"Oh, right," Lestrade replied. "That was, uh, I was on holiday, and - "
"Stop," Tolbert said. "You respected the man, I understand. This other case tells me you'd follow him into hell after monster dogs, and I can only hope he deserved that kind of loyalty."
"He did. Mostly."
"If you ever bring another consultant in off the books ever again, you'll be out of more than your job, Lestrade," Tolbert said. "That being said, since things have been mostly cleared, you're on probation."
"Thank you, sir."
"Shut up," Tolbert added. "And this whole mess? Do us both a favor and don't spread it around. I've got enough to explain. You're dismissed."
John returned, defeated and breathless, to 221 B Baker Street. He was losing his mind, chasing after cabbies because of their hair and eye color. It occurred him, dimly, that Mycroft could pay the entire cost of the flat. He didn't have to keep living here with the echoes of Sherlock's memory casting a shadow over his life.
Odd, for a man with little sentiment and as many photographs, that so much of him seemed to stick after death. No matter how he arranged the living room of the flat, it reflected Sherlock.
John didn't like the idea of leaving Mrs. Hudson, but she could find new tenants with ease, given the prime location of the flat.
It was with this thought that John walked into his living room to find Mycroft Holmes.
"Ah, hello," he said.
"Dr. Watson."
Sherlock Holmes rarely felt guilty. There were a few times when, seeing someone's reaction, an unfamiliar emotion stirred. One of the most palpable times was his analysis of Molly Hooper's Christmas present. When it turned out to be for him, he apologized. And he meant it.
His death guaranteed the lives of John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and he hardly felt guilty over outwitting Moriarty and surviving. But he did feel guilty over making John his confessor and witness.
Thoracic outlet syndrome gave him the idea. It was predicated on the notion that certain muscles, when overly tightened or strained, could compress arteries limiting or even preventing blood flow to the arms. Pectoralis minor syndrome, a related phenomenon, made the radial pulse incredibly weak and even nonexistent when the arm was at certain angles. Members of the ever-reliable Homeless Network Sherlock constantly tapped into, decked out in costume, only had to keep Watson far enough away to prevent him from trying to take his carotid pulse.
With John Watson confirming his death, and Molly Hooper performing a proper autopsy, Sherlock Holmes was officially expired. It was necessary, absolutely necessary. Had Sherlock involved his brother in the charade, someone would have figured it out.
Yet he still felt like he'd done John wrong. Pointing him in the right direction on this case made Sherlock, of all things, nostalgic.
Not that he hadn't been working on mysteries in the past few weeks. Of course he had. Six weeks of lying low, doing nothing, and Sherlock Holmes would be dead. Without John, though, he just didn't make as much headway. Sherlock's people skills had always been lacking, from a child, and John helped him navigate the human factor at a new level of efficiency.
Also, John was an excellent shot and carried a handgun. Sherlock had minor fighting skills but never was much good with projectile weapons, try as he might. A soldier with a medical background who could write about complex (at least, complex to inferior minds) criminal cases? John Watson was brilliant in his own right.
Not that Sherlock would ever say such things.
As he watched John give up chasing the cab, saw his step falter, the guilt came back.
Sherlock Holmes missed John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He missed Molly Hooper, even though she had had contact with him a few weeks ago. He even missed his brother.
He never was a man for sentiment, but now it seems that sentiment had him.
"I suppose by now you know," Mycroft said quietly.
"Know what?"
"That my brother is alive."
John's expression became pure rage. "You evil sod - " It was idiotic to take a swing at Mycroft, but he did it anyway.
Sherlock wasn't much of a fighter, so John assumed as much of Mycroft. This assumption earned him a startlingly powerful parry and a wallop to the neck, which stunned him and knocked him to the floor.
"I advise you not to do that again, John."
"You nearly cried at his funeral!" John accused as he returned to his feet.
"Hardly," Mycroft defended. "Besides, at the time I thought he was dead."
John felt confusion seeping into his skin. "Hang on, I thought you said he was alive."
"Ah, so you don't know," Mycroft asserted. "It appears that Miss Molly Hooper aided him. My apologies for assuming you were part of it."
"Molly? Molly?" John repeated in disbelief. "No, that's... how do you even know he's alive?"
"Let's just say that several things have recently come to my attention. The first is that a man matching his description has been spotted around this very residence."
"That's hardly - "
"The second is that several missing artifacts throughout England have, quiet mysteriously, turned up. Each find was attributed to a different name, but the money all wound up in the same place."
"So, what, you think Sherlock's in the countryside, working?" John asked.
"Either that, or he's restrained somewhere," Mycroft replied. "That's the only way he'd keep still, you see."
"Don't do this to me," John said. "If you had caught him, or had some kind of proof, that'd be one thing, but - "
"And third, after receiving said reports about a mysterious detective with many names, I, how shall we say, found an interested party and invested in their way."
"Why can't you just say, 'I set up another one' or something like that?" John asked. Mycroft didn't respond, and after a few seconds of silence, John continued. "Well, what happened?"
"Someone figured the case out, received payments, and in the course of said action, left fingerprints, hair, and considerable video footage. After confirming everything, he suddenly appears back here, right when his name is cleared and an old case of his is put back on track, John. Very interesting timing, don't you think?"
John considered this. "I don't believe you. And even if I did, someone else... contacted me about things, I think. She did something. Dunno what yet, and Lestrade - "
"She?" Mycroft asked.
"All I know is that she gave herself a nickname - "
"Pseudonym," Mycroft corrected.
"Fine, whatever. She's called herself the Engineer."
"Sorry?"
"I thought she was a witness or something, but it turns out she was deeply involved. She apologized and said she was trying to get close to Moriarty... said something about solace and that's it. Lestrade said it was rubbish, nothing to go on, and - "
Mycroft interrupted, "You said the Engineer?"
"Yes, I did," John said. "Why?"
"No, nothing," Mycroft said. "My apologies for disturbing you. It was not my intention."
And with that, John was left alone with his thoughts about Sherlock Holmes. If he had helped John solve the case, why was he still in hiding? Certainly he could expect John to keep his secret, should it still be necessary. Mycroft must be wrong.
John began to pack away his notes from the Fulmer murder, tossing everything into the same bin. His hand grabbed at the napkin that brought him to the pub, and eventually, to the close of the case. DAGGERS, PLUMBING was smeared, as if the ink was newly laid. That couldn't be right, though. Sherlock wrote this months ago. John's heart started to beat out of his chest.
He pulled out his mobile. "Molly? It's John. We need to talk."
<<< Previous Part:
Part Nine: Unwilling Allies
Next Episode: >>>
S3E2 - The Indigo Stain
The Silver Blaze Revival - Series 3, Episode 1 - Primary Post
Subtitle: Boxed Bet
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 1,834
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, minor violence
The cabbie didn't speak for the duration of the drive, and John felt a little unnerved, to the point of taking his mobile out and dialing in case he needed to call for help. But sure enough, the taxi pulled up to 221 B Baker Street. Perhaps Sargent Donovan had mentioned the address.
John fumbled with his wallet for a minute or so before the cabbie said, "No charge, hey."
John stepped out to get a better look at the man. His voice sounded pinched and high, like he was putting it on, and he wore a grey hat. The cab started to move away, but John swore he saw a black curl and a sharp, blue eye that could only belong to Sherlock Holmes.
"Hey, hold on!" John yelled, racing after the cab. "Sherlock! Stop!"
Tolbert knew the punishment should be more severe. He should put him on suspension and have an official inquiry, but all that would do was strain their resources and toss out additional fodder for the newspapers.
The forensics reports were disturbing. Someone had utilized a lot of resources to sully the name of Sherlock Holmes, not just through the secure police databases but also banks and financial institutions. Were it not for the work of Indigo Kendall Berwyn, they might still be in the dark. Tolbert imagined that her skill in uncovering such crimes was the primary reason behind her disappearance. Her flat had all the signs of an abduction, and a violent one at that. He could only hope to figure out what happened to her some day.
Still, even before Tolbert became Chief Inspector, it was his general opinion that there were very few reasons to expend this much energy on a single person, and all of those reasons indicated that the targeted individual pissed off people in power. Sherlock Holmes clearly had managed that; why else would a master criminal give up his entire career and future to destroy the man?
"So Lestrade," Tolbert said. "Looks like the allegations against Sherlock Holmes were false."
"Yes, sir."
"And that he managed to take down James Moriarty, who has a hefty national file as well as a file with the likes of Interpol."
"Yes, sir."
"Let me make one thing very clear, Lestrade," Tolbert said dangerously. "This is the kind of mistake that, when repeated, ends more than your career. You understand?"
"Sherlock Holmes is dead," Lestrade replied. "I couldn't ask him to consult on another case - "
"Don't be an idiot," Tolbert interrupted. "We have procedure. Clearances. Basic investigative rules. Given this Mr. Holmes's family and connections, he could have been an official consulting detective without much fuss."
"Yes, sir."
"Then why didn't you bother with it?" Tolbert asked. "A few fingerprints, a background check, and this entire mess, the Fulmer Murder Case, would've never had a hitch!"
"I understand that, sir - "
"But instead you brought this man in with no clearance and kept little to no record of his involvement. And then there's this..." Tolbert picked up the report that he received a few hours ago. "A case out in Baskerville, is it?"
"Oh, right," Lestrade replied. "That was, uh, I was on holiday, and - "
"Stop," Tolbert said. "You respected the man, I understand. This other case tells me you'd follow him into hell after monster dogs, and I can only hope he deserved that kind of loyalty."
"He did. Mostly."
"If you ever bring another consultant in off the books ever again, you'll be out of more than your job, Lestrade," Tolbert said. "That being said, since things have been mostly cleared, you're on probation."
"Thank you, sir."
"Shut up," Tolbert added. "And this whole mess? Do us both a favor and don't spread it around. I've got enough to explain. You're dismissed."
John returned, defeated and breathless, to 221 B Baker Street. He was losing his mind, chasing after cabbies because of their hair and eye color. It occurred him, dimly, that Mycroft could pay the entire cost of the flat. He didn't have to keep living here with the echoes of Sherlock's memory casting a shadow over his life.
Odd, for a man with little sentiment and as many photographs, that so much of him seemed to stick after death. No matter how he arranged the living room of the flat, it reflected Sherlock.
John didn't like the idea of leaving Mrs. Hudson, but she could find new tenants with ease, given the prime location of the flat.
It was with this thought that John walked into his living room to find Mycroft Holmes.
"Ah, hello," he said.
"Dr. Watson."
Sherlock Holmes rarely felt guilty. There were a few times when, seeing someone's reaction, an unfamiliar emotion stirred. One of the most palpable times was his analysis of Molly Hooper's Christmas present. When it turned out to be for him, he apologized. And he meant it.
His death guaranteed the lives of John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and he hardly felt guilty over outwitting Moriarty and surviving. But he did feel guilty over making John his confessor and witness.
Thoracic outlet syndrome gave him the idea. It was predicated on the notion that certain muscles, when overly tightened or strained, could compress arteries limiting or even preventing blood flow to the arms. Pectoralis minor syndrome, a related phenomenon, made the radial pulse incredibly weak and even nonexistent when the arm was at certain angles. Members of the ever-reliable Homeless Network Sherlock constantly tapped into, decked out in costume, only had to keep Watson far enough away to prevent him from trying to take his carotid pulse.
With John Watson confirming his death, and Molly Hooper performing a proper autopsy, Sherlock Holmes was officially expired. It was necessary, absolutely necessary. Had Sherlock involved his brother in the charade, someone would have figured it out.
Yet he still felt like he'd done John wrong. Pointing him in the right direction on this case made Sherlock, of all things, nostalgic.
Not that he hadn't been working on mysteries in the past few weeks. Of course he had. Six weeks of lying low, doing nothing, and Sherlock Holmes would be dead. Without John, though, he just didn't make as much headway. Sherlock's people skills had always been lacking, from a child, and John helped him navigate the human factor at a new level of efficiency.
Also, John was an excellent shot and carried a handgun. Sherlock had minor fighting skills but never was much good with projectile weapons, try as he might. A soldier with a medical background who could write about complex (at least, complex to inferior minds) criminal cases? John Watson was brilliant in his own right.
Not that Sherlock would ever say such things.
As he watched John give up chasing the cab, saw his step falter, the guilt came back.
Sherlock Holmes missed John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He missed Molly Hooper, even though she had had contact with him a few weeks ago. He even missed his brother.
He never was a man for sentiment, but now it seems that sentiment had him.
"I suppose by now you know," Mycroft said quietly.
"Know what?"
"That my brother is alive."
John's expression became pure rage. "You evil sod - " It was idiotic to take a swing at Mycroft, but he did it anyway.
Sherlock wasn't much of a fighter, so John assumed as much of Mycroft. This assumption earned him a startlingly powerful parry and a wallop to the neck, which stunned him and knocked him to the floor.
"I advise you not to do that again, John."
"You nearly cried at his funeral!" John accused as he returned to his feet.
"Hardly," Mycroft defended. "Besides, at the time I thought he was dead."
John felt confusion seeping into his skin. "Hang on, I thought you said he was alive."
"Ah, so you don't know," Mycroft asserted. "It appears that Miss Molly Hooper aided him. My apologies for assuming you were part of it."
"Molly? Molly?" John repeated in disbelief. "No, that's... how do you even know he's alive?"
"Let's just say that several things have recently come to my attention. The first is that a man matching his description has been spotted around this very residence."
"That's hardly - "
"The second is that several missing artifacts throughout England have, quiet mysteriously, turned up. Each find was attributed to a different name, but the money all wound up in the same place."
"So, what, you think Sherlock's in the countryside, working?" John asked.
"Either that, or he's restrained somewhere," Mycroft replied. "That's the only way he'd keep still, you see."
"Don't do this to me," John said. "If you had caught him, or had some kind of proof, that'd be one thing, but - "
"And third, after receiving said reports about a mysterious detective with many names, I, how shall we say, found an interested party and invested in their way."
"Why can't you just say, 'I set up another one' or something like that?" John asked. Mycroft didn't respond, and after a few seconds of silence, John continued. "Well, what happened?"
"Someone figured the case out, received payments, and in the course of said action, left fingerprints, hair, and considerable video footage. After confirming everything, he suddenly appears back here, right when his name is cleared and an old case of his is put back on track, John. Very interesting timing, don't you think?"
John considered this. "I don't believe you. And even if I did, someone else... contacted me about things, I think. She did something. Dunno what yet, and Lestrade - "
"She?" Mycroft asked.
"All I know is that she gave herself a nickname - "
"Pseudonym," Mycroft corrected.
"Fine, whatever. She's called herself the Engineer."
"Sorry?"
"I thought she was a witness or something, but it turns out she was deeply involved. She apologized and said she was trying to get close to Moriarty... said something about solace and that's it. Lestrade said it was rubbish, nothing to go on, and - "
Mycroft interrupted, "You said the Engineer?"
"Yes, I did," John said. "Why?"
"No, nothing," Mycroft said. "My apologies for disturbing you. It was not my intention."
And with that, John was left alone with his thoughts about Sherlock Holmes. If he had helped John solve the case, why was he still in hiding? Certainly he could expect John to keep his secret, should it still be necessary. Mycroft must be wrong.
John began to pack away his notes from the Fulmer murder, tossing everything into the same bin. His hand grabbed at the napkin that brought him to the pub, and eventually, to the close of the case. DAGGERS, PLUMBING was smeared, as if the ink was newly laid. That couldn't be right, though. Sherlock wrote this months ago. John's heart started to beat out of his chest.
He pulled out his mobile. "Molly? It's John. We need to talk."
<<< Previous Part:
Part Nine: Unwilling Allies
Next Episode: >>>
S3E2 - The Indigo Stain
The Silver Blaze Revival - Series 3, Episode 1 - Primary Post