Somewhat Shady (1/2)
Author: eldritchhorrors
Title: Somewhat Shady
Beta: pennypaperbrain
Rating: PG-13 this part
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Genre: Romance, Action, Case fic, Humor, Slash
Word Count: 4000
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock and no money is being made from this transformative work.
Notes: This is based on a kink meme prompt that I promptly lost. Au after Afghanistan.
Summary:
John becomes a thief in London. One of the first things he steals is a kiss from Sherlock.
“To steal from a brother or sister is evil. To not steal from the institutions that are the pillars of the Pig Empire is equally immoral.”
― Abby Hoffman, Steal This Book
“Nothing ever happens to me.”
He really should have tacked on the most important bit. Changed the entire meaning, really. Nothing ever happens to me-- anymore.
John had woken up again, expecting to see the spray of arterial blood sinking into sand, smell the overwhelming sulphur of spent shells, but what he woke to was infinitely worse. And those first moments as he segued from sleeping to waking were filled with a desperate disbelief, because this could not be his life.
Shitty little bedsit. Drab walls. Drab carpet. Drab him.
And that was the fuck of it all. He should want that. But given the choice between blood and beige he’d take the blood.
Every time. Any time.
He’d been reading a book in Afghanistan. There were often stretches of boredom to punctuate the stretches of mind-numbing (mind-freeing?) terror (excitement?), and so he read. He couldn’t remember the name of the book -- it honestly wasn’t that interesting -- but it had contained a line that struck him at the time. Potential has a shelf life.
Irony was a bitch goddess in that way.
That line haunted him. He couldn’t go to the shops without looking at the expiration date on a bottle of milk and flinching, wondering if a man on the far side of his use-by date had any business still...he didn’t know what.
So he sat in the flat and held his gun and honestly didn’t really consider suicide. He liked to tell himself that it was because Watsons were made of sterner stuff, but his family usually had the testicular fortitude of rice pudding so that wouldn’t wash. He liked to think that he was above that sort of Hunter S. Thompson farewell, but he had the vague suspicion that his aversion to eating a bullet was a bit of British politeness-- his landlord was a decent bloke and John didn’t want him picking skull sliver shrapnel out of the wall plaster. Bad manners, that.
John realized what he was considering and blanched.
“Bugger this.”
John stood up, feeling like he’d come to a decision even though his brain wasn’t sharing. He grabbed his keys, grabbed his cane and gimped his way out the door, putting distance between himself and the little box he’d been relegated to when he’d shipped home. He didn’t know what he wanted, but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in his do-nothing blog, and it certainly wasn’t inside a slug of metal.
It was late as he limped down the street, but there were still people about to give him a wide berth because of the crazy in his eyes or the stay-off-my-lawn-you-rotten-kids implied by the aluminum cane/emotional crutch combo.
He hadn’t known where he was going, but his feet took him there anyway, to a pub two streets down. It was a weeknight, and the pub wasn’t fashionable so it was three quarters empty. The people gathered at the bar or huddled up to faux rough-planked tables were the serious drinkers, or the heart-broken sad sacks that were both learning to put it away and learning that alcohol couldn’t make you forget.
John should fit right in.
“Gin. Tonic. Light on the tonic. Extra lime.”
--- --- ---
By his third drink he was feeling...not really drunk, but quite loose. He wasn’t much of a drinker so his tolerance was shite.
“You been over there?”
It took John a minute to figure out that the man to his right was talking to him. This wasn’t the sort of place for casual conversation with a stranger. “Excuse me. What?”
“Serving in Iraq?” The man raised an eyebrow at him, his look encompassing the drink and the cane. He was about John’s age, slightly taller, with short-cropped brown hair and a woeful face like a spaniel.
“Afghanistan, actually.”
“I’m Sam.”
“John.”
“I was in Iraq. Basra safe zone, my arse.”
John laughed.
“IED. Told me I was lucky ‘cause I still had all my parts. You?”
“Shot.”
“Nice. Got all yours too?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Feel lucky, do you?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Those cunts don’t know what they’re talking about.” Sam threw back the rest of his whisky and pushed his glass towards the bartender with an impatient hurry-it-up motion that John never employed because he didn’t want anyone to spit in his drink. “So what’d you do?”
John asked for a refill and waited till he had more gin to answer. “Me? I was one of those cunts. Army Medical Corp.”
Sam guffawed and slapped John on the back in some strange male-bonding ritual. “And now? Whatcha doing now?”
“Twiddling my thumbs for the most part.”
“Thought so. You’ve got that look about you.”
John bristled at that, even though he was pretty sure the man was right. Didn’t mean he wanted it to be true.
“Don’t get your knickers in a knot. I’m just saying I know what it’s like.”
“What?”
“Being on the scrap heap.”
John could feel the blood draining from his face, his hand going so rigid around his sweating cocktail that he thought he might break the glass.
“We were living larger than life, real do or die stuff, and now we’re supposed to go back to our civvies, and find a nine to five. A wife and kids.”
Sam brought his face close to John’s ear, as if sharing a secret. “You want a nine to five and two point five brats, John?”
“No. God, no.”
“Ask me what I’m doing here.”
John thought about getting up and leaving this increasingly uncomfortable conversation, but Sam’s hand suddenly fell on his and tightened, and despite being uncomfortable and freakier by the moment it was still the most interesting thing that had happened to him in six months. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
Sam grinned and leaned back, gesturing expansively with his drink. “Me? I’m celebrating.”
“Celebrating?”
“My liberation! I don’t need an office job, or a wife, or the kids my stupid gobshite of a therapist thinks I need to fit her definition of normal.”
John snorted, thinking about his own stupid gobshite of a therapist, and took another swallow of liquor. “Mine wants me to write a blog.”
“Fuck a blog! See, that! That right there is what I’m talking about. Blogs are for people not doing anything-- I found me some things that need doing.”
“Yeah?”
Sam leaned in again, conspiratorial. “There’s this man. Found him through a friend of a friend. He’s like a fucking agony aunt for people like us. If you need something done or need something to do, he’s your guy.”
“Sounds shady.”
“Pfft. Can’t smoke or piss without breaking a law nowadays.” Sam pointed at the bartender then hiked his thumb at John’s drink. John hadn’t realized it was empty. “But it’s not all shady. A lot of it is things people just can’t go to the police for.”
“But some of it is, isn’t it?”
Sam leaned back and gave John a long, considering look, spaniel eyes turned penetrating. And that’s when John realized that this man’s looks were just as deceptive as his own.
“Think back to Afghanistan, John. Think good and hard about it. What was the absolute worst thing you ever had to do there? What act did you commit that keeps you awake nights?”
“Jesus.”
“Then ask yourself. Ask yourself if a little bit of shady is a patch on that.”
--- --- ---
That night, when John stumbled back into his room he was more than a little drunk and a whole lot conflicted. There was a pub napkin with an email address in his pocket but it felt like a weight he couldn’t ignore.
He went and sat at the desk, burying his head in his hands. The room wasn’t spinning, not really. He wasn’t pissed enough for that. It was the half-arsed offer, reeling in his head. His eyes fell on his laptop, then migrated to the desk drawer where he kept his Sig. The Sig that had been keeping him far too much company.
He opened the drawer and looked at the black steel and harsh geometry of his pistol. He reached out a hand without thinking, ready to pick it up. Cradle it. Hold it and...
He pulled his hand back and pushed the drawer closed with a click that carried a quiet finality.
When he looked back to the laptop he was breathing heavier, and his heart was tripping along at a pace he hadn’t felt since before his injury. He had a choice, and when he examined it dispassionately it really didn’t seem like a difficult one. Useful versus useless. Living versus living death.
Fuck obsolescence. He opened his laptop and began to type before he could talk himself out of it. The rather ironic flashbacks to his childhood it inspired helped with that.
nbsp; Dear Jim,
I was told that you are the universal fix-it man, and that...
--- --- ---
Two Years Later...
Sherlock was sprinting along a rooftop, fumbling with his phone. Running too erratically to text.
Typical Monday night.
The phone finally made it to his ear but he almost dropped it when he had to leap a one meter gap that came out of nowhere. “Bradstreet! I told you so!”
Sherlock listened to the man bleat for five seconds then cut him off. “They aren’t hitting the Hayward Gallery! It’s a ruse. They’ve yet to repeat a crime.” Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear as Bradstreet yelled something stupid and hopped a railing “No! Listen to me you ignorant hack! Get some men to the Southbank--”
The phone went dead in his hand and Sherlock cursed the bruised ego that made Bradstreet hang up on him.
Sherlock pocketed his phone and came to an abrupt stop at a gap between buildings. There was a narrow plank bridging them that had been placed there by the thieves and when he tested it with his foot it seemed sound, reinforced, so he crossed it carefully and cursed the fact that he wasn’t wearing a practical pair of trainers. Bespoke leather shoes weren’t the best choice for a five storey balancing act.
Sherlock touched down and ran to the other end of the roof, orienting himself. He was on top of the exchange, the vault was on the south side, and this team was smart-- they accessed less heavily protected upper floors.
There. Rope.
Sherlock went to the south edge and looked down to see the abseiling equipment jittering in the slight breeze.
Trainers. Definitely needed trainers.
Sherlock stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He left the gloves on because the thieves hadn’t been polite enough to leave an extra descender. He was going to have to use his body for friction but he’d rather not sacrifice his hands. At least he only had to descend a story and a half; he might actually escape rope burns on his arms and the ruination of his trousers.
He eased himself over the edge, and that first moment when he had to redistribute his weight and maintain a purchase on the smooth wall face with slick-soled leather was heart-pounding. His trip down wasn’t easy or fun, but he made it to the hole cut in the glass with economical movement and a firm suppression of the natural fear response triggered by dangling five stories up without a safety harness or even some decent footwear.
He swung his legs into the hole and did an awkward roll. He hit the ground and ended up on his back, gasping and looking at the horrible acoustic ceiling tiles ubiquitous in middle management offices.
There was a tear in his trousers.
He heaved himself up and onto his feet, and made his way to the stairwell. The lights were hooked up to motion sensors but they weren’t activating, and Sherlock brought out his penlight so he could see as he descended to the ground floor.
The lower level was all about hyper-expensive modern minimalism, chrome and pale grey on grey interspersed with thick smoked glass and lush green plants. It was quiet and empty. Sherlock edged around a corner and saw the open door of the security room and walked over on the balls of his feet so that the slap of his inconvenient heels on the silver granite slab wouldn’t give him away.
He needn’t have bothered. The security guard was snoring like a pug-faced dog, and he wouldn’t wake up when Sherlock shook him; wouldn’t wake up when Sherlock tipped a water bottle over his head. Drugged. Hadn’t even known someone was there with him. Gas? Something in his water bottle? He’d have to pocket that later for analysis.
Sherlock checked the cameras but they’d been permanently disabled. He was willing to bet that there would be no video remaining, even if the security company received the feed off-site.
He swept out of the office and crossed the lobby to the far end where a key card door stood open. The first and very minimal bit of security. He walked down the bare hallway it revealed and encountered a second door with a biometric fingerprint scanner that Sherlock looked at with contempt. An ambitious toddler could have got around that but Sherlock wouldn’t have to-- it stood wide open as well.
There was a set of floor to ceiling jail-style bars the length of the room, a portion of which was swung towards him, its old school key lock looking quite pathetic in the face of defeat. The entire set up was obviously for show; if it looked intimidating enough your average criminal would give it a miss. These were clearly not average criminals.
Excellent.
Sherlock eased his head further around the door jamb and was treated to the sight of the vault door that sat perpendicular to the doorway he was currently inhabiting. The heavy steel had been opened about a third of a meter instead of being shoved wide and it took only a moment to figure out why. His guess was that the board of the diamond exchange would murder whomever designed the security system.
The door itself was heavy and colossal and made to look impossible, but the door was a blind; a door was only as good as its lock and alarm system. And this system was magnet-based. Instead of cutting through the obvious and testosterone fueled door like some challenged amateur the thieves had made elegant cuts in two small places, one to afford easier lock access on the door and an equally simple cut to free the magnet on the frame. The alarm would only go off if the magnets separated, so the magnet was removed from the frame and duct taped to its sister magnet on the door, a trail of thin wires leading back to the wall.
As good a way to summon the yard as any. Sherlock quickly walked through the bars and reached out to yank the wires from the magnet. He was close when suddenly his legs were swept out from underneath him and he fell back, away from the alarm system. He rolled as he fell so that he landed in a crouch instead of prone, and he could see that he had one attacker. Short, about 168 cm. Fit, muscular but compact, likely military training from his stance. Gray trousers, gray jumper, charcoal balaclava, black gloves, black military style jump boots, all new, all bargain chain store finds, blond stubble, blue eyes, liked breath mints before breaking the law. Not much to read.
Brilliant.
“Hello.”
Very odd. They didn’t usually want to talk. At least, not politely. Scream invective, yes. Tell him how much he was going to regret whatever it was he had done, certainly. But never a chat. “Hello yourself.”
“You must be Sherlock. Nice to meet you.”
“Waiting for me?”
“Figured you’d show up one day. Heard a lot about you.” The former soldier drew up one side of his mouth in a smile. “Fantastic!”
“Fan...tastic?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“And you. Well done with that,” Sherlock nodded his head up and over, “that was...good.”
“Nice climb. Never enough security on the upper floors.”
“No.” Sherlock could see the magnets in his far peripheral vision. He could lunge for the security magnets but he didn’t know how many others were in the vault itself. And they might not be as...affable as this one. Or as unarmed. He’d have to be quick, and cautious.
“Oh, I’m armed.” The criminal grinned full-on this time, pleased that he had correctly deduced Sherlock’s thoughts. “Try me.”
Sherlock gave it to him with rapid-fire delivery. “Your accent; Southampton. Military training, an officer, invalided home, it’s in the way you hold yourself, compensating for an injury. Military injury, Afghanistan or Iraq. You could have had something to do with military security or intelligence which segues nicely into breaking into high security areas.” Sherlock shook his head at that. “More likely you were just bored.”
“That’s amazing.”
“That’s not what people usually say.” Sherlock shifted his weight in preparation.
“What do they usually say when you’re trying to distract them?”
“Piss off.” That was when Sherlock made his move. He lunged for the dangling wires, but the other man had been anticipating his motion. Sherlock dodged but didn’t clear the lightning-fast leg sweep that caught his shin. Sherlock went down hard on his right knee, barely catching himself with his palms. It didn’t matter. The thief grabbed hold of his ankle and yanked the knee out from under him and pulled him back so that he was flat on the ground.
Sherlock pushed away from the tile and spun to face the ceiling (he’d spent an awful lot of time on his back this evening), breaking the ankle hold, but that just left him looking up at his assailant. Sherlock brought his knees up, feet out and ready to kick, and scowled at the other man who had the temerity to look pleased as Punch.
This man was becoming even more interesting. “Martial arts. Kickboxing. Good, especially for your size.”
“Jiu jitsu and some sambo too. You?”
“Krav maga.”
“Puts you at a bit of a disadvantage, especially on the ground.”
Sherlock kicked out. He was hoping that it would force the other man into backing away but he suddenly found himself under a fucking dervish, and Christ! He couldn’t let the other man get the mount so he tried to turn, turn them both so he could get an upper hand and fuck. Fuck! No, the man had him in a hammerlock, face pressed to the cold, waxy floor, arms pulled behind him.
He had settled his weight into Sherlock, draped over his back and arse.
When he spoke, it was conversationally. “You know, I usually buy a bloke dinner before we get to this point.”
Sherlock snorted and almost smiled, despite his predicament.
“Nothing to say to that?”
Sherlock could feel the man rooting around in his pocket before he extracted something. A set of zip-tie disposable cuffs. Sherlock struggled as they went around his wrists, pulled too tight to break free of. But that was fine. As soon as the thief moved away enough Sherlock could...
“And I’ll be taking this with me.”
Sherlock almost thumped his own head against the floor as the man removed the straight pin from his sleeve; the straight pin that could have released the cuffs.
Before he knew it Sherlock was jerked to his feet and tethered while standing to the bars between the entrance door and the vault.
His...assailant? Adversary? Most interesting person in a year of Sundays? He was dusting off the front of Sherlock’s shirt, straightening his collar, and taking his time about it.
“You’ve made it a very interesting evening. Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock.”
“I’d like to say the same but I don’t even know your name.”
“Well I could tell you my name was Bob or Rupert, but I don’t think you’d believe me.” He patted Sherlock on the cheek then ducked around the bars and into the vault where he rummaged around for a minute before strolling back into view with a well-padded, medium-sized duffel bag. New, of course.
“So I should just call you John Doe?”
The man gave a bark of laughter and Sherlock could barely see the way the laugh lines around his eyes crinkled up. “That works. John works just fine.”
“Bit odd, your friends not showing themselves at all, John.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t a question, really, but a statement. It was obvious that John was here alone, when Sherlock had been assuming a team.
It was John’s turn to make a scoffing noise. “Don’t have those kinds of friends. No friends at all, really.”
Sherlock could only stare at him, recalling his own empty flat and social isolation, uncomfortable with this sudden feeling of kinship. “Me neither.”
John hitched the bag higher on his shoulder and leaned in to Sherlock’s ear. “Would you like one?”
Before Sherlock could answer John’s mouth covered his own and if Sherlock were in his right mind he would be biting instead of kissing back but John’s mouth was firm and full and felt absolutely scorching against his own, and John’s tongue was against his, stroking and plunging and just as much of a bulldozer as John himself.
Shit.
Goddamn.
Fuck.
Sherlock would never again be able to deny getting an erection at a crime scene.
John pulled away on a sucking breath as air became scarce. He still hovered close, looking at Sherlock like he was deducing the deducer.
His chest was heaving as well, he was as affected as Sherlock, so Sherlock didn’t feel too bad about being so discombobulated over simple lip to lip contact.
“Right. Well.” John pulled back a bit, putting at least a foot of air and common sense in between them. “Thanks for that.”
For once Sherlock had nothing intelligent or even intelligible to contribute so he stayed mute.
John shifted his bag to his other arm and the slight jerkiness of the motion told him where John’s war injury was. John leaned into him again, and Sherlock closed his eyes thinking that he was about to receive another kiss, but John leaned past him, brushed Sherlock’s side, and when Sherlock opened his eyes it was to see John grab the wires leading to the magnet, and yank.
A blaring claxon filled the room, a pulsing whahwhahwhah, and an extra set of lights came on, flooding the room with an unnatural luminescence that made Sherlock flinch.
John turned to him, reached out a hand to ruffle Sherlock’s hair, and casually walked away.
“See you, Sherlock.”
--- --- ---
Later, much later, after the Yard had burst into the room, and chuckles were had at his expense, and photos of Sherlock were taken and emailed , and the questioning had gone on for hours...
Later, after he had taken a water sample from the security room and promised a bitter Bradstreet a morning meeting...
Later, after finding out just how much the diamond haul amounted to...
...Sherlock made his way up to the roof to retrieve his favorite coat.
And found it gone. A post-it with a smiley face was left in its place. The small block caps penciled at the bottom said LATER.
Bugger.
--- --- ---
The crime was based on one of the largest heists in history. They really did only have to duct tape two magnets. And yes, you can get out of zip tie cuffs with a straight pin. It is harder than getting out of police issue steel cuffs, especially behind the back, but it can be done with a little practice. Sherlock seems like the type that would practice.
Reviews make my day. For real.
Thank you for reading. Part two is still in bits and pieces but it is coming together. So is Cold Song 6.
Title: Somewhat Shady
Beta: pennypaperbrain
Rating: PG-13 this part
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Genre: Romance, Action, Case fic, Humor, Slash
Word Count: 4000
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock and no money is being made from this transformative work.
Notes: This is based on a kink meme prompt that I promptly lost. Au after Afghanistan.
Summary:
John becomes a thief in London. One of the first things he steals is a kiss from Sherlock.
“To steal from a brother or sister is evil. To not steal from the institutions that are the pillars of the Pig Empire is equally immoral.”
― Abby Hoffman, Steal This Book
“Nothing ever happens to me.”
He really should have tacked on the most important bit. Changed the entire meaning, really. Nothing ever happens to me-- anymore.
John had woken up again, expecting to see the spray of arterial blood sinking into sand, smell the overwhelming sulphur of spent shells, but what he woke to was infinitely worse. And those first moments as he segued from sleeping to waking were filled with a desperate disbelief, because this could not be his life.
Shitty little bedsit. Drab walls. Drab carpet. Drab him.
And that was the fuck of it all. He should want that. But given the choice between blood and beige he’d take the blood.
Every time. Any time.
He’d been reading a book in Afghanistan. There were often stretches of boredom to punctuate the stretches of mind-numbing (mind-freeing?) terror (excitement?), and so he read. He couldn’t remember the name of the book -- it honestly wasn’t that interesting -- but it had contained a line that struck him at the time. Potential has a shelf life.
Irony was a bitch goddess in that way.
That line haunted him. He couldn’t go to the shops without looking at the expiration date on a bottle of milk and flinching, wondering if a man on the far side of his use-by date had any business still...he didn’t know what.
So he sat in the flat and held his gun and honestly didn’t really consider suicide. He liked to tell himself that it was because Watsons were made of sterner stuff, but his family usually had the testicular fortitude of rice pudding so that wouldn’t wash. He liked to think that he was above that sort of Hunter S. Thompson farewell, but he had the vague suspicion that his aversion to eating a bullet was a bit of British politeness-- his landlord was a decent bloke and John didn’t want him picking skull sliver shrapnel out of the wall plaster. Bad manners, that.
John realized what he was considering and blanched.
“Bugger this.”
John stood up, feeling like he’d come to a decision even though his brain wasn’t sharing. He grabbed his keys, grabbed his cane and gimped his way out the door, putting distance between himself and the little box he’d been relegated to when he’d shipped home. He didn’t know what he wanted, but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in his do-nothing blog, and it certainly wasn’t inside a slug of metal.
It was late as he limped down the street, but there were still people about to give him a wide berth because of the crazy in his eyes or the stay-off-my-lawn-you-rotten-kids implied by the aluminum cane/emotional crutch combo.
He hadn’t known where he was going, but his feet took him there anyway, to a pub two streets down. It was a weeknight, and the pub wasn’t fashionable so it was three quarters empty. The people gathered at the bar or huddled up to faux rough-planked tables were the serious drinkers, or the heart-broken sad sacks that were both learning to put it away and learning that alcohol couldn’t make you forget.
John should fit right in.
“Gin. Tonic. Light on the tonic. Extra lime.”
--- --- ---
By his third drink he was feeling...not really drunk, but quite loose. He wasn’t much of a drinker so his tolerance was shite.
“You been over there?”
It took John a minute to figure out that the man to his right was talking to him. This wasn’t the sort of place for casual conversation with a stranger. “Excuse me. What?”
“Serving in Iraq?” The man raised an eyebrow at him, his look encompassing the drink and the cane. He was about John’s age, slightly taller, with short-cropped brown hair and a woeful face like a spaniel.
“Afghanistan, actually.”
“I’m Sam.”
“John.”
“I was in Iraq. Basra safe zone, my arse.”
John laughed.
“IED. Told me I was lucky ‘cause I still had all my parts. You?”
“Shot.”
“Nice. Got all yours too?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Feel lucky, do you?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Those cunts don’t know what they’re talking about.” Sam threw back the rest of his whisky and pushed his glass towards the bartender with an impatient hurry-it-up motion that John never employed because he didn’t want anyone to spit in his drink. “So what’d you do?”
John asked for a refill and waited till he had more gin to answer. “Me? I was one of those cunts. Army Medical Corp.”
Sam guffawed and slapped John on the back in some strange male-bonding ritual. “And now? Whatcha doing now?”
“Twiddling my thumbs for the most part.”
“Thought so. You’ve got that look about you.”
John bristled at that, even though he was pretty sure the man was right. Didn’t mean he wanted it to be true.
“Don’t get your knickers in a knot. I’m just saying I know what it’s like.”
“What?”
“Being on the scrap heap.”
John could feel the blood draining from his face, his hand going so rigid around his sweating cocktail that he thought he might break the glass.
“We were living larger than life, real do or die stuff, and now we’re supposed to go back to our civvies, and find a nine to five. A wife and kids.”
Sam brought his face close to John’s ear, as if sharing a secret. “You want a nine to five and two point five brats, John?”
“No. God, no.”
“Ask me what I’m doing here.”
John thought about getting up and leaving this increasingly uncomfortable conversation, but Sam’s hand suddenly fell on his and tightened, and despite being uncomfortable and freakier by the moment it was still the most interesting thing that had happened to him in six months. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
Sam grinned and leaned back, gesturing expansively with his drink. “Me? I’m celebrating.”
“Celebrating?”
“My liberation! I don’t need an office job, or a wife, or the kids my stupid gobshite of a therapist thinks I need to fit her definition of normal.”
John snorted, thinking about his own stupid gobshite of a therapist, and took another swallow of liquor. “Mine wants me to write a blog.”
“Fuck a blog! See, that! That right there is what I’m talking about. Blogs are for people not doing anything-- I found me some things that need doing.”
“Yeah?”
Sam leaned in again, conspiratorial. “There’s this man. Found him through a friend of a friend. He’s like a fucking agony aunt for people like us. If you need something done or need something to do, he’s your guy.”
“Sounds shady.”
“Pfft. Can’t smoke or piss without breaking a law nowadays.” Sam pointed at the bartender then hiked his thumb at John’s drink. John hadn’t realized it was empty. “But it’s not all shady. A lot of it is things people just can’t go to the police for.”
“But some of it is, isn’t it?”
Sam leaned back and gave John a long, considering look, spaniel eyes turned penetrating. And that’s when John realized that this man’s looks were just as deceptive as his own.
“Think back to Afghanistan, John. Think good and hard about it. What was the absolute worst thing you ever had to do there? What act did you commit that keeps you awake nights?”
“Jesus.”
“Then ask yourself. Ask yourself if a little bit of shady is a patch on that.”
--- --- ---
That night, when John stumbled back into his room he was more than a little drunk and a whole lot conflicted. There was a pub napkin with an email address in his pocket but it felt like a weight he couldn’t ignore.
He went and sat at the desk, burying his head in his hands. The room wasn’t spinning, not really. He wasn’t pissed enough for that. It was the half-arsed offer, reeling in his head. His eyes fell on his laptop, then migrated to the desk drawer where he kept his Sig. The Sig that had been keeping him far too much company.
He opened the drawer and looked at the black steel and harsh geometry of his pistol. He reached out a hand without thinking, ready to pick it up. Cradle it. Hold it and...
He pulled his hand back and pushed the drawer closed with a click that carried a quiet finality.
When he looked back to the laptop he was breathing heavier, and his heart was tripping along at a pace he hadn’t felt since before his injury. He had a choice, and when he examined it dispassionately it really didn’t seem like a difficult one. Useful versus useless. Living versus living death.
Fuck obsolescence. He opened his laptop and began to type before he could talk himself out of it. The rather ironic flashbacks to his childhood it inspired helped with that.
nbsp; Dear Jim,
I was told that you are the universal fix-it man, and that...
--- --- ---
Two Years Later...
Sherlock was sprinting along a rooftop, fumbling with his phone. Running too erratically to text.
Typical Monday night.
The phone finally made it to his ear but he almost dropped it when he had to leap a one meter gap that came out of nowhere. “Bradstreet! I told you so!”
Sherlock listened to the man bleat for five seconds then cut him off. “They aren’t hitting the Hayward Gallery! It’s a ruse. They’ve yet to repeat a crime.” Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear as Bradstreet yelled something stupid and hopped a railing “No! Listen to me you ignorant hack! Get some men to the Southbank--”
The phone went dead in his hand and Sherlock cursed the bruised ego that made Bradstreet hang up on him.
Sherlock pocketed his phone and came to an abrupt stop at a gap between buildings. There was a narrow plank bridging them that had been placed there by the thieves and when he tested it with his foot it seemed sound, reinforced, so he crossed it carefully and cursed the fact that he wasn’t wearing a practical pair of trainers. Bespoke leather shoes weren’t the best choice for a five storey balancing act.
Sherlock touched down and ran to the other end of the roof, orienting himself. He was on top of the exchange, the vault was on the south side, and this team was smart-- they accessed less heavily protected upper floors.
There. Rope.
Sherlock went to the south edge and looked down to see the abseiling equipment jittering in the slight breeze.
Trainers. Definitely needed trainers.
Sherlock stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He left the gloves on because the thieves hadn’t been polite enough to leave an extra descender. He was going to have to use his body for friction but he’d rather not sacrifice his hands. At least he only had to descend a story and a half; he might actually escape rope burns on his arms and the ruination of his trousers.
He eased himself over the edge, and that first moment when he had to redistribute his weight and maintain a purchase on the smooth wall face with slick-soled leather was heart-pounding. His trip down wasn’t easy or fun, but he made it to the hole cut in the glass with economical movement and a firm suppression of the natural fear response triggered by dangling five stories up without a safety harness or even some decent footwear.
He swung his legs into the hole and did an awkward roll. He hit the ground and ended up on his back, gasping and looking at the horrible acoustic ceiling tiles ubiquitous in middle management offices.
There was a tear in his trousers.
He heaved himself up and onto his feet, and made his way to the stairwell. The lights were hooked up to motion sensors but they weren’t activating, and Sherlock brought out his penlight so he could see as he descended to the ground floor.
The lower level was all about hyper-expensive modern minimalism, chrome and pale grey on grey interspersed with thick smoked glass and lush green plants. It was quiet and empty. Sherlock edged around a corner and saw the open door of the security room and walked over on the balls of his feet so that the slap of his inconvenient heels on the silver granite slab wouldn’t give him away.
He needn’t have bothered. The security guard was snoring like a pug-faced dog, and he wouldn’t wake up when Sherlock shook him; wouldn’t wake up when Sherlock tipped a water bottle over his head. Drugged. Hadn’t even known someone was there with him. Gas? Something in his water bottle? He’d have to pocket that later for analysis.
Sherlock checked the cameras but they’d been permanently disabled. He was willing to bet that there would be no video remaining, even if the security company received the feed off-site.
He swept out of the office and crossed the lobby to the far end where a key card door stood open. The first and very minimal bit of security. He walked down the bare hallway it revealed and encountered a second door with a biometric fingerprint scanner that Sherlock looked at with contempt. An ambitious toddler could have got around that but Sherlock wouldn’t have to-- it stood wide open as well.
There was a set of floor to ceiling jail-style bars the length of the room, a portion of which was swung towards him, its old school key lock looking quite pathetic in the face of defeat. The entire set up was obviously for show; if it looked intimidating enough your average criminal would give it a miss. These were clearly not average criminals.
Excellent.
Sherlock eased his head further around the door jamb and was treated to the sight of the vault door that sat perpendicular to the doorway he was currently inhabiting. The heavy steel had been opened about a third of a meter instead of being shoved wide and it took only a moment to figure out why. His guess was that the board of the diamond exchange would murder whomever designed the security system.
The door itself was heavy and colossal and made to look impossible, but the door was a blind; a door was only as good as its lock and alarm system. And this system was magnet-based. Instead of cutting through the obvious and testosterone fueled door like some challenged amateur the thieves had made elegant cuts in two small places, one to afford easier lock access on the door and an equally simple cut to free the magnet on the frame. The alarm would only go off if the magnets separated, so the magnet was removed from the frame and duct taped to its sister magnet on the door, a trail of thin wires leading back to the wall.
As good a way to summon the yard as any. Sherlock quickly walked through the bars and reached out to yank the wires from the magnet. He was close when suddenly his legs were swept out from underneath him and he fell back, away from the alarm system. He rolled as he fell so that he landed in a crouch instead of prone, and he could see that he had one attacker. Short, about 168 cm. Fit, muscular but compact, likely military training from his stance. Gray trousers, gray jumper, charcoal balaclava, black gloves, black military style jump boots, all new, all bargain chain store finds, blond stubble, blue eyes, liked breath mints before breaking the law. Not much to read.
Brilliant.
“Hello.”
Very odd. They didn’t usually want to talk. At least, not politely. Scream invective, yes. Tell him how much he was going to regret whatever it was he had done, certainly. But never a chat. “Hello yourself.”
“You must be Sherlock. Nice to meet you.”
“Waiting for me?”
“Figured you’d show up one day. Heard a lot about you.” The former soldier drew up one side of his mouth in a smile. “Fantastic!”
“Fan...tastic?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“And you. Well done with that,” Sherlock nodded his head up and over, “that was...good.”
“Nice climb. Never enough security on the upper floors.”
“No.” Sherlock could see the magnets in his far peripheral vision. He could lunge for the security magnets but he didn’t know how many others were in the vault itself. And they might not be as...affable as this one. Or as unarmed. He’d have to be quick, and cautious.
“Oh, I’m armed.” The criminal grinned full-on this time, pleased that he had correctly deduced Sherlock’s thoughts. “Try me.”
Sherlock gave it to him with rapid-fire delivery. “Your accent; Southampton. Military training, an officer, invalided home, it’s in the way you hold yourself, compensating for an injury. Military injury, Afghanistan or Iraq. You could have had something to do with military security or intelligence which segues nicely into breaking into high security areas.” Sherlock shook his head at that. “More likely you were just bored.”
“That’s amazing.”
“That’s not what people usually say.” Sherlock shifted his weight in preparation.
“What do they usually say when you’re trying to distract them?”
“Piss off.” That was when Sherlock made his move. He lunged for the dangling wires, but the other man had been anticipating his motion. Sherlock dodged but didn’t clear the lightning-fast leg sweep that caught his shin. Sherlock went down hard on his right knee, barely catching himself with his palms. It didn’t matter. The thief grabbed hold of his ankle and yanked the knee out from under him and pulled him back so that he was flat on the ground.
Sherlock pushed away from the tile and spun to face the ceiling (he’d spent an awful lot of time on his back this evening), breaking the ankle hold, but that just left him looking up at his assailant. Sherlock brought his knees up, feet out and ready to kick, and scowled at the other man who had the temerity to look pleased as Punch.
This man was becoming even more interesting. “Martial arts. Kickboxing. Good, especially for your size.”
“Jiu jitsu and some sambo too. You?”
“Krav maga.”
“Puts you at a bit of a disadvantage, especially on the ground.”
Sherlock kicked out. He was hoping that it would force the other man into backing away but he suddenly found himself under a fucking dervish, and Christ! He couldn’t let the other man get the mount so he tried to turn, turn them both so he could get an upper hand and fuck. Fuck! No, the man had him in a hammerlock, face pressed to the cold, waxy floor, arms pulled behind him.
He had settled his weight into Sherlock, draped over his back and arse.
When he spoke, it was conversationally. “You know, I usually buy a bloke dinner before we get to this point.”
Sherlock snorted and almost smiled, despite his predicament.
“Nothing to say to that?”
Sherlock could feel the man rooting around in his pocket before he extracted something. A set of zip-tie disposable cuffs. Sherlock struggled as they went around his wrists, pulled too tight to break free of. But that was fine. As soon as the thief moved away enough Sherlock could...
“And I’ll be taking this with me.”
Sherlock almost thumped his own head against the floor as the man removed the straight pin from his sleeve; the straight pin that could have released the cuffs.
Before he knew it Sherlock was jerked to his feet and tethered while standing to the bars between the entrance door and the vault.
His...assailant? Adversary? Most interesting person in a year of Sundays? He was dusting off the front of Sherlock’s shirt, straightening his collar, and taking his time about it.
“You’ve made it a very interesting evening. Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock.”
“I’d like to say the same but I don’t even know your name.”
“Well I could tell you my name was Bob or Rupert, but I don’t think you’d believe me.” He patted Sherlock on the cheek then ducked around the bars and into the vault where he rummaged around for a minute before strolling back into view with a well-padded, medium-sized duffel bag. New, of course.
“So I should just call you John Doe?”
The man gave a bark of laughter and Sherlock could barely see the way the laugh lines around his eyes crinkled up. “That works. John works just fine.”
“Bit odd, your friends not showing themselves at all, John.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t a question, really, but a statement. It was obvious that John was here alone, when Sherlock had been assuming a team.
It was John’s turn to make a scoffing noise. “Don’t have those kinds of friends. No friends at all, really.”
Sherlock could only stare at him, recalling his own empty flat and social isolation, uncomfortable with this sudden feeling of kinship. “Me neither.”
John hitched the bag higher on his shoulder and leaned in to Sherlock’s ear. “Would you like one?”
Before Sherlock could answer John’s mouth covered his own and if Sherlock were in his right mind he would be biting instead of kissing back but John’s mouth was firm and full and felt absolutely scorching against his own, and John’s tongue was against his, stroking and plunging and just as much of a bulldozer as John himself.
Shit.
Goddamn.
Fuck.
Sherlock would never again be able to deny getting an erection at a crime scene.
John pulled away on a sucking breath as air became scarce. He still hovered close, looking at Sherlock like he was deducing the deducer.
His chest was heaving as well, he was as affected as Sherlock, so Sherlock didn’t feel too bad about being so discombobulated over simple lip to lip contact.
“Right. Well.” John pulled back a bit, putting at least a foot of air and common sense in between them. “Thanks for that.”
For once Sherlock had nothing intelligent or even intelligible to contribute so he stayed mute.
John shifted his bag to his other arm and the slight jerkiness of the motion told him where John’s war injury was. John leaned into him again, and Sherlock closed his eyes thinking that he was about to receive another kiss, but John leaned past him, brushed Sherlock’s side, and when Sherlock opened his eyes it was to see John grab the wires leading to the magnet, and yank.
A blaring claxon filled the room, a pulsing whahwhahwhah, and an extra set of lights came on, flooding the room with an unnatural luminescence that made Sherlock flinch.
John turned to him, reached out a hand to ruffle Sherlock’s hair, and casually walked away.
“See you, Sherlock.”
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Later, much later, after the Yard had burst into the room, and chuckles were had at his expense, and photos of Sherlock were taken and emailed , and the questioning had gone on for hours...
Later, after he had taken a water sample from the security room and promised a bitter Bradstreet a morning meeting...
Later, after finding out just how much the diamond haul amounted to...
...Sherlock made his way up to the roof to retrieve his favorite coat.
And found it gone. A post-it with a smiley face was left in its place. The small block caps penciled at the bottom said LATER.
Bugger.
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The crime was based on one of the largest heists in history. They really did only have to duct tape two magnets. And yes, you can get out of zip tie cuffs with a straight pin. It is harder than getting out of police issue steel cuffs, especially behind the back, but it can be done with a little practice. Sherlock seems like the type that would practice.
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Thank you for reading. Part two is still in bits and pieces but it is coming together. So is Cold Song 6.