An Afternoon Drive Down Lambeth
Title: An Afternoon Drive Down Lambeth, Part I
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes(BBC)
Summary: John bit back a laugh at his friend’s Olivier-worthy antics. The morning was chilly but also sunny enough that he was about to leave the flat himself, as the day was open and John had nothing on schedule. Then, remembering the refrigerator bereft of food, John decided to go shopping first. The next day, John would blame that single act for the ensuing mayhem. That and an old acquaintance named James Bond.
Disclaimer: Seriously, does anyone NOT know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Notes: Gen, but can be read with slash goggles. Also posted on AO3
Sherlock had half in mind to just dump the insipid tea all over the Orwellian-inspired surveillance system before storming out of the room. Of course, Sherlock suspected he’d be grievously wounded before he was out of the compound, but the horrified look on his cousin’s face would have been worth the risk.
Then, he remembered John’s face as he watched Sherlock jump to his supposed death. A cascade of harrowing images of his best friend followed: in the graveyard; the flat; the clinic where he’d worked.
Suddenly, the mean thought of petty violence died an equally mean death, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to return to Baker Street where John would probably be reading the comments on his blog, or the latest medical journals that seemed to triple in number with every passing week.
“Look,” the young man said in a weary tone that sounded remarkably similar to John’s, “all you have to do is find out where the bloody thing is. It should be easy for you.”
“Dull,” Sherlock grumbled. “Tedious. Pedestrian.”
“Boring,” his cousin interrupted with a sweet smile that didn’t fool Sherlock one whit. He remembered all too well what Seeley had done when he’d discovered Sherlock had confiscated his first computer prototype for an experiment.
His hair never returned to its former shade again. In fact, Sherlock had to dye it continuously lest everyone realize he was auburn: not ginger, thank you.
“Nevertheless, it is necessary,” Seeley argued. His voice and patience revealed he’d had oodles of experience dealing with his prickly cousin. “Unless, of course, you’d like John to find out how many viruses you downloaded onto his laptop because you couldn’t be buggered to use your own. And nearly ended up destroying his hard drive at least … seven times by the last count?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
“And the fact that though you are a proper genius,” Seeley added softly, “when it comes to computers you’re not as clever as you make yourself out to be.
“I wonder if Dr. Watson would be disappointed to find out that particular failing of yours. The man does worship the ground you walk on. His faith in you is quite … astonishing.”
Sherlock wondered if he could actually dump his tea on the cardigan-sporting tit before leaving. Maybe even have a crack at those pretentious glasses that Seeley had favored since he’d been a gangly, snooping boy.
As if reading his mind, Seeley calmly pushed the glasses back up until they rested on the bridge of his nose.
“Sherlock, be reasonable.”
Yes, Sherlock will be reasonable. He will be so reasonable that when he was done annihilating his cousin’s base of operations, the entire MI6 branch will be talking about his reasonableness for years to come.
My reasonableness will be legend.
Sherlock put on his leather gloves. No need to cut his knuckles if there was a way to avoid it.
I’ll have to call Mycroft so he could tell John that I’ll be delayed for supper. Damn, I wanted to try the Sambrosa Selit. It sounded interesting.
As if summoned by the mere thinking of his name, John piped out from the doorway, “Um … Sherlock, what am I doing here?”
Seeley shrank back as Sherlock lips peeled back from his teeth.
“I have no idea,” Sherlock said in an icy voice. “This was a family matter.”
“Well,” John said, stepping into the cavernous chamber, “that’s what I thought when two heinously large men grabbed me on my way to the Tube. I blamed Mycroft at first, but then … oh my God, there are three of you?”
Sherlock looked at his friend: his eyebrows clearly broadcasting his disdain for John’s lack of observation skills. “No, this is not my brother.”
“Of course I’m not,” Seeley interjected smoothly. “Aunt Berenice realized how big a mistake she made after having Sherlock and promptly refused to have any more children.
“I am, however, their cousin through the maternal line. I am called ‘Q’. And no, that’s not being Sherlock-dramatic. It is for precautionary sake, only. After dealing with Mycroft’s particular brand of getting-to-know-you, I know you’re not insulted.”
John’s eyes crinkled with humour only for a moment but it was just long enough to irk Sherlock even further.
“We’re leaving," he pronounced loudly.
“I called,” a bored voice announced from a forgotten corner of Q’s domain.
Sherlock had noticed the agent when he first entered and dismissed him just as quickly.
Military, well on his way to becoming an alcoholic. Orphaned at an early age, wears expensive clothes like armour. His timepiece is the only thing that’s even remotely personal. And it was a gift.
John spun around, his face breaking into a genuine smile. “Jesus Christ, Commander Bond!”
The two men embraced like all military men do; their shared connection obvious to even the most casual observer.
“You know each other?” Seeley asked, his eyes glittering with curiosity.
“Captain Watson and the Fusiliers saved my life back in 2008, when an assignment went …”
“FUBAR,” John finished. “My God, I still can’t believe you survived the crash.”
“He stabilized me on the field, and then carried me most of the way back to base,” James explained. “Bloody bad crash it was, too.”
“When we finally arrived at base, the Commander came down with a raging infection,” John added. “We had to keep him on site until he was well enough to travel.”
“I was a complete tosser, and never thanked you or your men for what you did.”
“That’s what we do, Commander,” John said warmly. “Sorry to tell you, but you weren’t that special.”
Sherlock noted that John’s insult was delivered with the usual bonhomie that had half the Yard enamoured of the doctor and the other emulating him to John’s delight.
“Why did you call?” Sherlock asked, his voice sonorous enough that it actually echoed in the room.
Seeley shoved his fist against his lips so he wouldn’t bark out a laugh. He knew his cousin well enough to see that Sherlock was merrily on his way to have an almighty strop.
“Because, Q might have faith in you, Mr. Holmes, but I’ve seen your work, especially that ridiculous suicide stunt you pulled almost four years ago. And the bloody mess you left behind for others to clean up. If we involve you, this assignment is going to become amateur hour. However, with Captain Watson’s participation, there’s less likely chance of everything descending into chaos.
“Something you’re rather famed for.”
There was deadly silence for the agent had breached a topic that neither Sherlock nor John had discussed to any great length, especially with each other.
Seeley estimated Sherlock’s neck elongated to almost twice its length and shot a panicked look at John who seemed to realize what his friend was about to unleash.
“What Sherlock wants to say is,” John said softly but his voice brooking no argument, “that my presence is always required, as I’m the one who usually keep away the great Unwashed when things get interesting.”
Sherlock looked completely derailed by John’s statement. “The great Unwashed? I think I actually heard the capital ‘u’ in that.”
John gave him a fond if also exasperated look. “Yes, Unwashed. The idiots with their tiny brains whom you have trouble conversing without resorting to sarcasm?”
Sherlock paused for a moment. What John said was unfortunately true. One of the most useful things about having someone like John for a partner was the fact that people naturally gravitated towards, jumper-clad, seemingly-gentle John. While Sherlock was the epitome of attractiveness, he was also cold, aloof, and the walking definition of untouchable.
So, people talked to John, even during a full breakdown. And bless John; he actually seems sympathetic to their plight. Sherlock, on the other hand, wished they’d get over their trauma and get on with the facts.
“Exactly what are we looking for?” John politely continued as if he hadn’t diffused a nuclear bomb only moments before.
“A flash drive,” Seeley answered, picking up a rectangular shaped object the size of John’s pinkie. “It looks exactly like this.”
“Would you give me an honest answer if I asked what was in it?” John examined it, curious that it looked like a mini-pen more than anything else.
“It doesn’t contain national secrets,” Seeley said laconically. “But it does contain private information that could be detrimental in the wrong hands.”
“Not some homemade pornography starring a member of the Conservatives, I hope,” Sherlock drawled.
“Nothing like that, and if there were, I’d hardly stand in the way of it leaking,” Seeley said. “It contains beta plans for a piece of equipment.”
Sherlock eyes narrowed. “Tell me you didn’t lose it.”
“For…” Seeley took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, I didn’t lose the damn thing. It wasn’t even from my lab!”
“Baskerville?” John asked in a teasing voice. “Because we…”
Seeley stared at him, eyes wide with genuine shock.
“Oh, hell no,” John snapped. “Those bastards? Tell me it’s not some doomsday device or a genesis bomb or something equally … Mycroft-ish.”
“Baskerville,” Sherlock echoed. “This just became interesting.”
James’s gaze bounced between Sherlock and John. One whose face was painted with unbridled glee, and the other, longing thoughts of outright murder.
James looked down at his watch and sighed. They were still ahead of schedule, but the agent wanted to arrive early in order to match the employee list with the people in actual attendance.
He knew MI5 would be very thorough, but his paranoia had saved his skin on too many occasions for the agent to ignore the warning bell pealing merrily inside his skull.
James heard footsteps clattering down and looked up, once again wincing as he took in the hideous wallpaper.
How anyone could stay sane looking at this pattern is beyond my comprehension.
Of course, Sherlock Holmes could be categorized as many things but sane wasn’t exactly on top of that list. And Dr. Watson, for all his common-man natterings, could derail even faster than his flatmate before jumping back on schedule. And because of his diminutive size and unassuming personality, actually get away with murder.
At first glance Sherlock Holmes look every bit like the posh git he successfully portrayed to the world at large. But underneath the cool façade, James could see the man positively humming with excitement. And not because he was going to attend a party where famous actresses would choose their bed partners for the night.
Oh, no. This madman was ecstatic because he was going to break into Buckingham Palace to steal what rightfully belonged to the government without anyone the wiser.
And that included the Queen, since she had to have plausible deniability.
“Nice suit,” James remarked with a sweeping glance. “Spencer Hart?”
“Of course,” was the cool answer.
All right, posh git he is.
There was a light fumbling above before John yelled, “Sherlock! For the love of God, where is my raincoat?!”
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I burned it for the good of all mankind.”
James chuckled at the answer. Watson was good for many things but fashion sense was not one of them.
“It’s bloody cold out there!” was the plaintive cry.
“We’re being chauffeured,” Sherlock shouted. “Just get down here! The last thing I need is for us to arrive later than scheduled.”
A mighty sigh echoed down before John appeared. His steps deceptively heavy as he clamoured down the stairs.
“Honestly,” he said, adjusting the collar of his jacket. “I feel a right prat in this.”
Sherlock’s gaze was startlingly uneasy as the detective studied his friend. Then the scrutiny turned icier as he focused his attention on the MI6 agent.
“I thought John was part of the waitstaff,” Sherlock said, seething annoyance through every single word.
“He’s one of five bartenders,” James replied smoothly.
“I look like one of those Japanese schoolboys,” John muttered, straightening his cuffs.
The suit was midnight blue, so dark that in the dim hallway lighting it looked black. The mandarin collar was short but stiff, giving only a glimpse of John’s throat, making his neck seem longer. The buttons were gold instead of silver, and they were small enough not to catch anyone’s attention. What was eye catching was the cuffs. The buttons were absent but the seams had been neatly split open, revealing golden fabric underlay.
And the tailoring would’ve made the Army weep with its crispness and ability to hug and flare all of John’s body with neat precision.
“Bartender?” Sherlock said while mentally calculating what he’d have to do to avoid John gaining another girlfriend if not outright betrothed by the end of the bloody night.
“It’s definitely posh, but I’m guessing it’s only appropriate since the party’s at Buckingham.” Here, John gave a chuckle. “Can’t believe we’re going to Buckingham.”
“Why do you sound so thrilled?” Sherlock asked, genuinely puzzled. “We’ve been there before.”
“Yeah, but this time you’re wearing pants, and I am not dying of mortification.”
James' eyebrows shot up at John’s quip but Sherlock refused to acknowledge the comment. Instead, he defiantly marched out the door, not bothering to see if the other two were following.
“Pants?” James whispered.
“Thank God he was wearing a bed sheet is all I can say,” John muttered. “By the way, who made this getup? It looks like one of Sherlock’s tailors.”
James didn’t say it was Spencer Hart. “Someone who owed me a big favor. I told him you were going to Buckingham Palace for dinner. And that you were an old friend who did me a good turn few years back.”
“Thank you,” John said, honestly grateful. “I have to tell you, I was worried about what I could scrounge up to wear when Sherlock told me what we are about to do.”
James felt embarrassed to be the recipient of genuine gratitude. He’d never gotten used to such emotions since he’d rarely ever received them. “Watson, getting the suit is the easy part. It’s burgling Buckingham that you should worry about.”
“I have an idea or two about that,” John said with a wicked grin.
“Does it involve guns?”
“No, pretty ladies are a requirement, though.”
“I like it already.”
Sherlock loathed parties like this. Vapid people talking about useless things, trying to outshine each other by proudly revealing their shortcomings as if they were something to be made public.
Not just dull, but catastrophically dull, Sherlock concluded, looking down at his empty champagne flute. He had his one drink and couldn’t afford to drink another. Not that he had low tolerance for alcohol; growing up wealthy meant certain amount of wine was to be consumed during dinners, even if you were a child.
Then there were the soirees, summer festivals, and the bloody Christmas dinners.
It was a sheer miracle neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were functioning alcoholics by the time they reached age sixteen. Of course, Sherlock discovered cocaine in Oxbridge and Mycroft the joys of sugar rush when he was twelve.
Now feeling depression along with boredom, Sherlock wondered if he could single-handedly retrieve the blasted drive and leave this pitiful display of humanity.
Then, he heard a warm laugh to his right. No, not one but a hushed chorus of genuine, hearty laughter.
Sherlock turned to follow that sound, his curiosity egging him on to discover something interesting. What he found didn’t surprise him one bit: John.
There were no less than five bars stationed all around the ballroom. One in each corner with the grandest one dead center. This made for awkward maneuvering, but since every single dancer seemed incapable of doing anything save the two-foot shuffle, the bars hardly made any difference. If anything, they made a plausible excuse for stepped-on toes and bruised ankles.
John was still buttoned prim and proper, with nary a drop of sweat in sight. And surrounding his bar were women who were draped over the barstools, the actual bar, like rivers of silk splayed out by merchants.
Brunettes, blondes, genuine gingers, tall, petite, model-skinny, luscious, fair, dark, caramel-colored: it made for a heady display.
And in the center of it all was John.
Sherlock had to smile. His friend, no his best friend, never ceased to amaze him.
“Do you know how he does that?” Bond asked softly, coming out from nowhere, startling the detective and earning a glare.
“Yes,” Sherlock said curtly. “It’s part of his charm. They didn’t call him Three-Continent Watson for nothing.”
“Yes, but do you know how he does that?”
Sherlock studied his friend more carefully. “It’s his demeanor. He looks harmless, but sturdy and capable as well. Women are intrigued by the dichotomy.”
“That’s not all,” Bond said. “Look around.”
Sherlock immediately noticed men circling the bar like raptors unable to find purchase.
“Ahh,” he said. “I see.”
“Captain Watson, above all, is a protector and a defender. The women instinctively know he’s safe, trustworthy. So, whatever he’s serving must also be safe. No dodgy mixtures, no nudges and winks with lads who want to walk away with a lady for the night.”
“And the men know it too,” Sherlock added. “They don’t like it, at all.”
“They usually tip the bartenders, some very generously, to get useful information on someone they're interested in. But they’ve not been having any luck with Watson, and are very unhappy with him.”
“Hence the ice pick,” Sherlock said, noting the sharp implement stabbed onto the bar like a knife. It was within easy reaching distance and was placed dead center so John could get to it with either of his hands.
“Two idiots got into a shoving match earlier over a certain Baroness who had absolutely no desire to spend any time with them,” Bond explained. “John was forced to discourage the fools by showing his manual dexterity with sharp objects. Then the lady in question got riled up and had her bodyguards chase away the drunks.
“She’s the ginger in McQueen, by the way.”
“Wouldn’t do to upset the opposite sex in front of John,” Sherlock clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “I’ve seen him pull out a gun for that particular transgression.”
“John has an idea, by the way, and I think it might work.”
Sherlock gave a huge sigh. “Then what are we doing here?”
Bond straightened out his shirt cuffs, making sure they peeked just the right length from the dinner jacket. “We need a diversion.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Oh?”
“Oh.”
James smiled softly at the brunette giggling in his arms. Her soft hair, charming smile and dazzling figure, all made this part easy and regretful at the same time.
He didn’t care to use innocent people to further his goals, not that he had any qualms, but Marie from Brussels, who was probably destined to win the Nobel Prize in Physics before she hit forty, deserved a fond night to remember.
After all, he was supposed to be Prince Charming and they were actually inside a real palace.
Marie looked around the hall. “Oh, dear, should we be here?”
“I believe this is my suite,” James said, looking appropriately inebriated. He rattled the door and heard it click open.
Leave it to Q, James thought warmly.
He looked down at Marie and wondered if she’d date a jumper-clad genius who could give her a proper race to the Nobel Prize podium.
They entered the sumptuously decorated bedroom, complete with a bed that could comfortably fit five adults. Appropriately fitting for Lord Malcolm Duncan whose outlandish living was only outpaced by the sordid gossip that appeared almost on a weekly basis.
Well, the pretentious bastard can add treason to his list of indiscretions, James thought.
Marie looked around, her eyes blinking. “What do you do for the Royal family?”
“International negotiations, mostly politics, sometimes financial,” James replied while mentally adding, usually with extreme violence and copious amounts of explosives.
James fumbled with Marie while navigating them to the bed. He opened the bedside drawer while slowly kissing down Marie’s neck.
His hand clasped around an object that he knew wasn’t a condom.
“What the…” he whispered, looking at the drawer. “Oh damn.”
Marie gave a disgruntled moan. “What is it?”
“This isn’t my room,” James whispered conspiratorially.
“What?”
“I am in the wrong room.”
“Oh … we should get out of here, fast.”
“Wouldn’t do to have the Guards on our arses, especially now.”
The two lovers laughed softly as they snuck out of the suite. James caught a flash of shadow down the corridor and knew it was security. However, he was sure that the man accepted the story that two drunken people got into the wrong room. Alcohol and horniness made for a lot of errors.
They had gotten to another wing when Marie’s mobile chirped. She moaned and said, “I have to answer this.”
James leaned back on the wall and waited. Sherlock, on cue, came strolling down the corridor.
“There you are, you bastard!” he said. “Look, we’re already late, so do get a move on!”
Marie didn’t bother to mask her anger. “And who are you?”
“His business partner,” Sherlock answered primly.
“Not tonight,” James said. “Tonight…”
“I just met Lord Herringford.”
“We can always…”
“Right now,” Sherlock interrupted in a tone that revealed no mercy. “And I hope to God you’re not drunk!”
James looked at Marie who listened to both conversations with growing distress.
“I’m guessing you’re not having a good night, either,” James said.
Marie shook her head and pointed to her mobile. “I have to get this.”
James leaned over and gave a kiss on her temple before smoothing back the curls. “Damn and damn. Hope your problem gets solved quickly. Mine is likely to take all week.”
With that he left with Sherlock whose brisk pace was a bit hard for the shorter man to keep up with.
“So, that was John’s plan?” Sherlock asked, lighting up a cigarette.
James yanked it out of his lips and tossed it out of the window, earning a vicious glare from the detective.
“Yes, it was,” James answered, keeping his focus on the driving. “Simple but effective.”
“Just like John.”
“And he calls you friend,” James said acerbically. “I don’t know if he’s aiming for sainthood or justifiable murder.”
“Neither,” Sherlock answered. “John is quite capable of handling my brand of honesty.”
“Really? Is that what you called that miserable stunt you pulled? Because that … well, that seems like anything but honest.”
“Do not presume to know me well enough to judge…”
“I don’t presume,” James said. “Because I don’t know you. But I do know John and you … well, you’re not what he needs as a friend. I can tell you that much.”
The heavy silence told James he’d hit the mark with his usual accuracy.
“What I don’t understand is why did you come back?” James nearly smiled at the sharp intake of breath. “You were dead but exonerated. You could’ve set up shop somewhere else, anywhere else. Done anything, become anyone without fear of looking over your shoulders.
“And Watson was safe, right? Everyone believed him and his grief.”
“Because I can’t be anyone else,” Sherlock answered softly. “I can pretend for a little while, that’s not the problem. But no one can accept me for who I am.”
“Except for John, which is why I don’t understand why you couldn’t give him the same benefit of the doubt that he gave you over and over.”
“I couldn’t afford the risk.”
“You mean John couldn’t afford the risk.”
“Yes, that.”
“No, not that. You meant you couldn’t handle losing John. So, it wasn’t a game to you. Not when you found out your friend's life was hanging in the balance.
“He’d already killed for me, nearly died so many times over for me. Did you know Moriarty kidnapped him, beat him, and then turned him into a suicide bomber? And after all that, John, while still wearing that bloody vest, threw himself over Moriarty to buy me enough time to get away?”
James couldn’t stop his fingers from tightening on the steering wheel. “No, I had no idea the bastard went that far.”
“But that last time … he wouldn’t have been so lucky, Commander. He would’ve died. Moran never missed. Not once. And he had John in his scope for three bloody years.”
“I believe you.”
Sherlock turned to face him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I believe you. So, why don’t you tell John what you just told me instead of trying to distract him with your flashy brilliance? He might have forgiven you, but do you really think he’ll be able to move forward without knowing the truth?”
“What if the truth isn’t good enough? What if … what if he doesn’t stay after I tell him everything?”
“Bloody hell, he’s your friend, Sherlock. He stayed faithful to you while you dragged him after serial killers and international villains who were insane enough to scare even me. He stayed faithful to you when he’d believed you were dead.
“I think a little truth wouldn’t discourage him, do you?”
Sherlock did not answer. He didn’t have to. James could see the man’s indecision in the systematic curling and uncurling of the fingers. The agent didn’t want to push the man any further, but he’d seen the tension between John and Sherlock. And unless the wound was lanced soon, their friendship would become history before the year was over.
And James liked John’s blog. Whatever hell he was assigned to work in, he could taste a bit of London in John’s hilarious descriptions. More than once James had wondered if his friend was taking a piss, but after careful perusing, the agent realized that no, John was actually living a civilian life that was almost as dangerous as his.
James also noted Sherlock’s snappy behavior the moment John had descended the stairs. The man was a genius, no doubt as Q had described, but it was obvious that unlike his cousin Sherlock never learned how to share. It may be that he was spoiled as a child because of his looks and brilliance, but something told James that it was more in the vein of a man hoarding food after years of systematic starvation.
And John was so generous with his gratitude and praises. Never sycophantic, but the classic good man: public with praise, private with censure.
No wonder he was so damn popular back at base. At first James was confused as to how the world’s most active Hobbit managed to become Captain and earn the respect of everyone serving under him. John was without doubt the smallest man in the unit, not to mention the quietest. And yet, Captain Watson’s orders were rarely questioned while his words carried solid weight for all concerned.
It irked him. As Commander Bond he was respected but not very well liked, which was fine. Better to earn respect than popularity he had been trained to believe. Somehow John managed to do both and in Afghanistan of all places.
Sherlock coughed a little, warning James of incoming barrage. “Why are you so interested in John?”
And there’s the rub, James thought. He wondered if their relationship was purely platonic, or if either ever fancied the idea of having a go at a more romantic turn of events. He didn’t think John would mind, not that the man gave any inkling to his preference. As for Sherlock, he was basically a human cactus so James couldn’t imagine anyone willing to put up with him except for John.
“He saved my life,” James answered truthfully. “It was pretty much damn near miracle that I was able to make it out of Afghanistan alive. After they got me to base, the infection went into my kidneys, and they started shutting down.
“The medical teams were talking about last rites and notifying people. They were treating me as if I were already dead even though I was conscious. John never gave up. The bastard fought for me; the only one who did, actually. And because he was the Captain, the personnel did what he told them to do. Otherwise, they would’ve just fed me morphine until I died.
“How can you repay someone for that kind of stubbornness? Heroism? I don’t know what to call it.”
“But that’s not why.”
“Not the only reason,” James confessed. “It’s also because you’re hurting him.”
Sherlock flinched.
“John believes you think he doesn’t deserve the truth about it all, and that your silence is implicitly agreeing with his assumption. Whether he’s right or wrong is useless. The fact that he believes it is making John wonder about his place in your life.
“Yes, he’s your blogger, your colleague, and maybe your friend. But for a man like John … friendships define a great deal. And right now he believes you don’t hold his in any great estimation.”
“That’s just ridiculous.”
‘Really? So prove it. If it’s so patently false, prove him wrong.”
Sherlock refused to meet James’ cool gaze. “I guess I have no choice then.”
“None whatsoever.”
“By the way, we were too late.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Whoever was to meet up Lord Malcolm double crossed him. So, the plans, whatever they are, have been leaked.”
James slammed the Jaguar’s breaks with satisfying violence. “How do you know this?”
“Malcolm is left-dominant. So, when he was in bed, he would have hidden or placed any object on the left side. The drive was found on the right night table. Someone got to the room before us and downloaded the drive. He was done but was unable to escape due to your unexpected arrival.”
“And you couldn’t have told me this earlier?”
“Because then you would’ve started a fight with the agent. In the middle of Buckingham Palace. Attracting all the attention Q said he never wanted.”
James gave Sherlock good five second glare of icy rage before calling Q. “We were too late,” he growled. “And your cousin is a complete bastard. Thought you should know.”
James gathered whatever guilt the detective was feeling was completely gone as he watched a small but genuine smile blooming on Sherlock’s lips.
James barely managed to hide his grim satisfaction as Sherlock’s amusement died an agonizing death in the face of John’s soft but implacable disappointment.
He had to have learned that from his mother, James concluded as John shook his head softly, sighing. Thank God mine was a complete ice queen.
He took a look at Seeley whose eyes were fairly dancing as he examined his cousin’s guilty countenance.
“And you couldn’t have told James before we left Buckingham?” John asked.
“Not a chance,” was the terse answer.
John gave an apologetic look at James and Q. “Yes, his answers leave a lot to be desired, but if Sherlock says it, then it is true. The bloody git.”
The last part should have been insulting but James noted Sherlock’s shoulders slowly uncurling from tension as the detective visibly looked brighter.
So, the insult was the last salvo. No grudges, all is forgiven, James noted. This is why I like Watson.
“Is there any way for us to know what was in the drive?” John asked patiently.
Seeley shook his head. “It’s an electronic device. And that is all I can say.”
Sherlock took a glance at the flash drive on the console and said, “It originated from Baskerville, so it either contains formula to make bunnies glow…”
Here John gave a small chuckle. Sherlock’s lips quirked upwards before continuing, “Or a device useful to the military, considering they used landmines to secure the area.”
Here, John’s humor died a quick death.
“From what I gathered I don’t believe it is designed to hurt people,” Q said calmly.
“John, did you know Lord Malcolm used to be very famous?” Sherlock queried.
“Yeah, the name sounded familiar,” John answered. “I can’t place it, though.”
“Between 1999 and 2006 he was a communications tycoon. Made a metric ton of money producing cheap mobiles for users who couldn’t afford the more expensive ones.”
“Oh God, I remember those,” John said. “The damn things used to be everywhere. Couldn’t get a working signal at Barts no matter where you were.”
“Hideous too,” Sherlock added with a delicate shudder. “Made Nokia look positively sleek.”
“What happened?” John asked.
“Smart phones happened; iPhone happened. By 2007 he’d lost the stranglehold he had on the market. From what I’ve read he was looking into satellites.”
“Jesus, that would have been a travesty,” John quipped.
“Indeed, if Lord Malcolm develops satellites the way he did mobiles,” Q added. He noted a chirp from the main console and tapped onto a keyboard to check.
The sudden hardening of his stance told James the news was not good.
“Let me guess,” Sherlock said, his stance also tensing. “Lord Malcolm was found dead.”
“Not at Buckingham, but at his London residence. The Met is there now,” Q stated flatly.
“Let’s hope it’s Lestrade,” John said, standing up from his chair.
Sherlock nodded as he began furiously texting. The two men didn’t say anything else and James didn’t require any sort of conversation as he drove them to the dead man’s townhouse.
He parked at a discreet distance and watched the odd pair make their way to the chaos. “Should I shadow them?” he asked.
“No,” Q answered. “I’ll be able to monitor them from here.”
“Who is Lestrade?”
“A Detective Inspector who helped Sherlock during a rough patch. So, Sherlock returns the favor whenever possible.”
James studied Sherlock towering over a man who was probably the DI. “By yelling at him in front of his people?”
“He has an odd way of showing his gratitude.”
Sherlock swept his way into the building while John spent few moments placating the DI and anyone who got caught up in the maelstrom generated by the detective.
“He has a way about him,” James noted laconically, “that makes me wish for the days where I could use the garrote and not have the Uppers yell at me for my lack of finesse.”
“Sherlock is very proficient at martial arts,” Q said, “and he is a decent boxer.”
“He’s all joints,” James countered, “all I have to do is take out a knee. The rest will come down.”
“Then there is the doctor.”
“Yeah, John might take offense if I cripple his flatmate.”
“I heard your conversation with Sherlock in the car. Bond, exactly what were you hoping to achieve?”
“To stave off two men going through unnecessary crippling emotional letdown followed by an alcoholic binge by one and a cocaine bender by the other. And topping off all of this will be the unavoidable intervention by the eldest Holmes, which will do more damage than good.
“You get the idea?”
“Yes, I do actually,” Q sighed. “Sherlock is scared. You know that, right?”
“The only way he could’ve been more obvious about his claim over John would be marking his territory by pissing on the poor bastard. And the way he was going I was half worried he might.”
“My cousin … never had any luck with friends. There was Victor during his Uni days, but the man was actually sane and Sherlock was well on his way to becoming an addict when they’d first met.”
“So he cut his losses?”
“Only after Sherlock got high and set Victor’s dog on fire.”
“Bloody hell…”
“That’s when Victor cut all ties. Couldn’t blame him.”
“No, I really can’t.”
“Thank heavens Dr. Watson has no pets, though nowadays the excuses would be more in the name of experiments and gathering data.”
James had to chuckle at that.
John felt completely ill at ease. There was no subtle display of wealth within these four walls. In fact, Lord Malcolm’s house was practically dripping with money.
“The only way this could be more ostentatious would be if he had the chandelier made out of gold,” John remarked as he studied the library and personal office of the recently deceased.
“Baccarat crystal,” Sherlock muttered, pointing upwards, “manufactured during Napoleon’s reign. It’s better than gold, actually.”
John winced as he studied the glittering display of light and wealth. “Well, I guess business was and still is booming, then.”
“But what business, John?” Sherlock whispered. “His finances weren’t dire, but to be able to afford this address - it takes more than money. A lot more.”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m missing something?”
Sherlock smile was both mischievous and completely angelic. “Where should I start? Well, Mycroft lives in that hideously faux-Georgian house right behind this one. That in it of itself is very telling.”
“Shit,” John whispered. “Are you pulling my leg?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No. And Mycroft would have most certainly vetted any neighbors within stone’s throw from his backyard.”
“Shouldn’t we tell Mycroft?” John paused as he considered what he’d just said. “Never mind. Just … delete that, please.”
Sherlock opened his mobile. “One text from the fat git…”
“Sherlock, stop.”
The sudden harsh tone in John’s voice did, in fact, quiet Sherlock.
“Do you actually see your brother?” John whispered. “He’d lost at least a stone if not more after your stunt. And he hasn’t gained it back.
“Now, granted he does seem to run the government, but Sherlock, really … he’s well on his way to fitting your bloody tailored trousers. So stop calling him fat or needling him about his eating habits. The truth is he’s not eating near enough, Sherlock. And if he keeps losing weight at that rate … I’m going to have to kidnap She-Who-Must- Not-Be-Named and have a serious conversation about his health.”
Sherlock blinked rapidly as he digested his friend’s words. “You’re seriously concerned about his health?”
“Yes, I am. I know he has access to the best of doctors, but I really prefer that he not have to go to them because … well, a man his age, Sherlock, it’s best that his health stay optimum without medical intervention.”
John saw it then: the truth hitting Sherlock with the force of a gale.
Mycroft was mortal, and one day, he will die and there was nothing Sherlock could do to stop it.
John placed a gentle hand on Sherlock’s left wrist. The detective whirled to face him, his eyes piercing and all-knowing. John knew Sherlock could see more grays in his hair, more lines around his eyes, bracketing his mouth, but he had never bothered to come to the conclusion about the subtle changes until now.
I am mortal, too, John thought sadly. You knew that I could die from bullets and violence, but old age and all the indignities that come with it - that has somehow escaped that great brain of yours.
Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about the case. Must have drifted off for a moment.”
John let him have the lie. After all, what cost to him for a shared moment of kindness? “I wonder how that’s possible considering we’re standing under the world’s most expensive disco ball.”
Sherlock’s bark of laughter was harsh. “As always, you see but do not observe.”
John firmly studied the chandelier even as his eyes teared up. Then, he noticed.
“Umm … what the hell happened to the ceiling?”
James watched a slew of emergency medics pour into the house. “Do I need to go in?”
To his shock, Q’s laughter was the answer. “No, Bond, nothing’s wrong. My cousin thought it would be fantastic to have a go at some evidence before ‘the imbeciles at the Met destroy it beyond redemption’. So, he took a desk, piled a chair on it to get to a chandelier…”
“Let me guess, he brought down the house.”
“No, just the chandelier. From what John’s barking out Sherlock probably bruised his tail bone.”
James winced. “That would be extraordinarily painful.”
Q’s laughter grew. “My God, I think he might have actually swung on the bloody thing before it crashed down…”
John looked at the crystals strewn about his feet like diamonds. He actually felt giddy as they winked lights at him. Then Sherlock’s yelling broke the trance.
“I am not taking off anything! John can examine me when we get home…”
Yes, still not gay, John thought tiredly though he did have to laugh at Sherlock’s tone of matronly outrage. Obviously Sherlocked though, aren’t I?
He approached the melee with his usual calm, bland smile. “I’ll take care of this.”
The medics were more than happy to dump their kit and run off before the madman actually started biting them and gave them rabies, perhaps.
“So, what have we learned today?” John asked as he began dabbing antiseptic at the myriad of shallow cuts on Sherlock’s hands.
“That the ceiling canopy couldn’t support an idea?”
John actually giggled. “You’d think something that held probably half-tonne of weight for nearly two centuries could handle your skinny arse!”
One of the forensic personnel relegated to sifting through the mess picked up something from underneath one of the chandelier branches. She stared at it in complete puzzlement.
John saw Sherlock open his mouth and hissed, “Shut it.”
Sherlock gave him an imperious look but said nothing. John gave a smile of thanks before gently calling out, “Anything interesting, Mita?”
The woman looked up at him and smiled. “Define interesting?”
“Worth bringing down the ceiling?”
Mita laughed as she walked towards them. “I don’t know if it’s worth that much but it’s different.”
She opened her palm and revealed a small, black object.
“That’s…” Sherlock paused for a moment. “That’s the smallest tyre I’ve ever seen.”
“For a Matchbox car, maybe?” John offered.
“No, too big for those,” Mita said. “My brother used to have a huge collection when he was a kid.”
“I’d have envied him,” John said. “Wanted those myself.”
For a moment Sherlock’s vision blurred. For most families the toy cars were very affordable. But it was obvious that for the Watsons they were anything but. He caught Mita’s bright gaze on John only for a moment but the two shared an understanding that made both very uncomfortable.
“Perhaps one of those radio controlled things?” Mita said. “I’ll get it checked out.”
“Maybe you’ll find the rest of the car in bits and bobs,” John said, waving his hand at the mess.
“Probably,” Mita agreed. Then she leaned forward and whispered. “Anderson’s been called in because of what just happened. So, if I were you, I’d scramble out of here. I’m sure the Detective Inspector will tell you if anything interesting comes up.”
“Thank you,” John said with fervent gratitude. “C’mon, Sherlock, let’s get out of here. I think we’ve done enough damage for the day.”
“But I didn’t get to examine all the evidence!”
“No, you didn’t, and you won’t because your hands are a mess, and unless you feel like bleeding all over the place, we’re not going to stick around to witness Anderson venting his spleen.”
Sherlock studied the crystal-strewn floor and then his hands, which were even then welling with pinpricks of blood. “Agreed.”
DI Lestrade watched all this transpire from the doorway. He had half in mind to toss out the posh bastard when the chandelier came crashing down. Not because of the evidentiary problems, but for a moment he’d thought Sherlock had broken his scrawny neck.
It wasn’t until John yanked him out of the debris and yelling on top of his lungs that Lestrade managed to start breathing again.
“Sorry about the mess,” John said apologetically.
“Go, just … go,” Lestrade answered, waving his hand.
He watched them leave the townhouse, talking animatedly each other.
Probably thinks they’re in the clear, he thought with a smug smile. A sleek, black car prowled down the lane, slowing down noticeably as it approached the men.
Sherlock’s lanky frame tensed up while John’s slumped forward.
The door opened and a pretty brunette majestically stepped out, looking as if she was about to go to a Vanity Fair photo shoot. Her attention seemed riveted to the phone in her hand but Lestrade had suspicions that she was actually very interested in the two men she had cornered. There was a terse exchange, but Sherlock and John got in the car.
Then, without warning, the woman looked right at Lestrade, smiled, and winked playfully before entering the Mercedes. Lestrade laughed a little and went back to work.
What I’d give to be there when Mycroft dresses down his little brother for this fiasco.
Bond knew where the car was going and decided not to give chase. Instead, he decided to turn in for the night.
He seriously considered going to a hotel bar to find some company but refrained from doing so. It was already past eleven, and most of the beautiful women who were still occupying the barstools were usually professionals.
Not that Bond had problems with prostitutes. Sometimes, a night without any kind of substantial transaction save for financial ones were preferable, but tonight he felt off.
“I’m turning in, Q.”
“Take care, 007.”
James wondered if Q had guessed his name was no longer a secret.
“Seeley,” he mouthed silently.
What kind of family allows their children to be called Mycroft, Sherlock, and Seeley?!
Prologue * Part II
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes(BBC)
Summary: John bit back a laugh at his friend’s Olivier-worthy antics. The morning was chilly but also sunny enough that he was about to leave the flat himself, as the day was open and John had nothing on schedule. Then, remembering the refrigerator bereft of food, John decided to go shopping first. The next day, John would blame that single act for the ensuing mayhem. That and an old acquaintance named James Bond.
Disclaimer: Seriously, does anyone NOT know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Notes: Gen, but can be read with slash goggles. Also posted on AO3
Sherlock had half in mind to just dump the insipid tea all over the Orwellian-inspired surveillance system before storming out of the room. Of course, Sherlock suspected he’d be grievously wounded before he was out of the compound, but the horrified look on his cousin’s face would have been worth the risk.
Then, he remembered John’s face as he watched Sherlock jump to his supposed death. A cascade of harrowing images of his best friend followed: in the graveyard; the flat; the clinic where he’d worked.
Suddenly, the mean thought of petty violence died an equally mean death, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to return to Baker Street where John would probably be reading the comments on his blog, or the latest medical journals that seemed to triple in number with every passing week.
“Look,” the young man said in a weary tone that sounded remarkably similar to John’s, “all you have to do is find out where the bloody thing is. It should be easy for you.”
“Dull,” Sherlock grumbled. “Tedious. Pedestrian.”
“Boring,” his cousin interrupted with a sweet smile that didn’t fool Sherlock one whit. He remembered all too well what Seeley had done when he’d discovered Sherlock had confiscated his first computer prototype for an experiment.
His hair never returned to its former shade again. In fact, Sherlock had to dye it continuously lest everyone realize he was auburn: not ginger, thank you.
“Nevertheless, it is necessary,” Seeley argued. His voice and patience revealed he’d had oodles of experience dealing with his prickly cousin. “Unless, of course, you’d like John to find out how many viruses you downloaded onto his laptop because you couldn’t be buggered to use your own. And nearly ended up destroying his hard drive at least … seven times by the last count?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
“And the fact that though you are a proper genius,” Seeley added softly, “when it comes to computers you’re not as clever as you make yourself out to be.
“I wonder if Dr. Watson would be disappointed to find out that particular failing of yours. The man does worship the ground you walk on. His faith in you is quite … astonishing.”
Sherlock wondered if he could actually dump his tea on the cardigan-sporting tit before leaving. Maybe even have a crack at those pretentious glasses that Seeley had favored since he’d been a gangly, snooping boy.
As if reading his mind, Seeley calmly pushed the glasses back up until they rested on the bridge of his nose.
“Sherlock, be reasonable.”
Yes, Sherlock will be reasonable. He will be so reasonable that when he was done annihilating his cousin’s base of operations, the entire MI6 branch will be talking about his reasonableness for years to come.
My reasonableness will be legend.
Sherlock put on his leather gloves. No need to cut his knuckles if there was a way to avoid it.
I’ll have to call Mycroft so he could tell John that I’ll be delayed for supper. Damn, I wanted to try the Sambrosa Selit. It sounded interesting.
As if summoned by the mere thinking of his name, John piped out from the doorway, “Um … Sherlock, what am I doing here?”
Seeley shrank back as Sherlock lips peeled back from his teeth.
“I have no idea,” Sherlock said in an icy voice. “This was a family matter.”
“Well,” John said, stepping into the cavernous chamber, “that’s what I thought when two heinously large men grabbed me on my way to the Tube. I blamed Mycroft at first, but then … oh my God, there are three of you?”
Sherlock looked at his friend: his eyebrows clearly broadcasting his disdain for John’s lack of observation skills. “No, this is not my brother.”
“Of course I’m not,” Seeley interjected smoothly. “Aunt Berenice realized how big a mistake she made after having Sherlock and promptly refused to have any more children.
“I am, however, their cousin through the maternal line. I am called ‘Q’. And no, that’s not being Sherlock-dramatic. It is for precautionary sake, only. After dealing with Mycroft’s particular brand of getting-to-know-you, I know you’re not insulted.”
John’s eyes crinkled with humour only for a moment but it was just long enough to irk Sherlock even further.
“We’re leaving," he pronounced loudly.
“I called,” a bored voice announced from a forgotten corner of Q’s domain.
Sherlock had noticed the agent when he first entered and dismissed him just as quickly.
Military, well on his way to becoming an alcoholic. Orphaned at an early age, wears expensive clothes like armour. His timepiece is the only thing that’s even remotely personal. And it was a gift.
John spun around, his face breaking into a genuine smile. “Jesus Christ, Commander Bond!”
The two men embraced like all military men do; their shared connection obvious to even the most casual observer.
“You know each other?” Seeley asked, his eyes glittering with curiosity.
“Captain Watson and the Fusiliers saved my life back in 2008, when an assignment went …”
“FUBAR,” John finished. “My God, I still can’t believe you survived the crash.”
“He stabilized me on the field, and then carried me most of the way back to base,” James explained. “Bloody bad crash it was, too.”
“When we finally arrived at base, the Commander came down with a raging infection,” John added. “We had to keep him on site until he was well enough to travel.”
“I was a complete tosser, and never thanked you or your men for what you did.”
“That’s what we do, Commander,” John said warmly. “Sorry to tell you, but you weren’t that special.”
Sherlock noted that John’s insult was delivered with the usual bonhomie that had half the Yard enamoured of the doctor and the other emulating him to John’s delight.
“Why did you call?” Sherlock asked, his voice sonorous enough that it actually echoed in the room.
Seeley shoved his fist against his lips so he wouldn’t bark out a laugh. He knew his cousin well enough to see that Sherlock was merrily on his way to have an almighty strop.
“Because, Q might have faith in you, Mr. Holmes, but I’ve seen your work, especially that ridiculous suicide stunt you pulled almost four years ago. And the bloody mess you left behind for others to clean up. If we involve you, this assignment is going to become amateur hour. However, with Captain Watson’s participation, there’s less likely chance of everything descending into chaos.
“Something you’re rather famed for.”
There was deadly silence for the agent had breached a topic that neither Sherlock nor John had discussed to any great length, especially with each other.
Seeley estimated Sherlock’s neck elongated to almost twice its length and shot a panicked look at John who seemed to realize what his friend was about to unleash.
“What Sherlock wants to say is,” John said softly but his voice brooking no argument, “that my presence is always required, as I’m the one who usually keep away the great Unwashed when things get interesting.”
Sherlock looked completely derailed by John’s statement. “The great Unwashed? I think I actually heard the capital ‘u’ in that.”
John gave him a fond if also exasperated look. “Yes, Unwashed. The idiots with their tiny brains whom you have trouble conversing without resorting to sarcasm?”
Sherlock paused for a moment. What John said was unfortunately true. One of the most useful things about having someone like John for a partner was the fact that people naturally gravitated towards, jumper-clad, seemingly-gentle John. While Sherlock was the epitome of attractiveness, he was also cold, aloof, and the walking definition of untouchable.
So, people talked to John, even during a full breakdown. And bless John; he actually seems sympathetic to their plight. Sherlock, on the other hand, wished they’d get over their trauma and get on with the facts.
“Exactly what are we looking for?” John politely continued as if he hadn’t diffused a nuclear bomb only moments before.
“A flash drive,” Seeley answered, picking up a rectangular shaped object the size of John’s pinkie. “It looks exactly like this.”
“Would you give me an honest answer if I asked what was in it?” John examined it, curious that it looked like a mini-pen more than anything else.
“It doesn’t contain national secrets,” Seeley said laconically. “But it does contain private information that could be detrimental in the wrong hands.”
“Not some homemade pornography starring a member of the Conservatives, I hope,” Sherlock drawled.
“Nothing like that, and if there were, I’d hardly stand in the way of it leaking,” Seeley said. “It contains beta plans for a piece of equipment.”
Sherlock eyes narrowed. “Tell me you didn’t lose it.”
“For…” Seeley took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, I didn’t lose the damn thing. It wasn’t even from my lab!”
“Baskerville?” John asked in a teasing voice. “Because we…”
Seeley stared at him, eyes wide with genuine shock.
“Oh, hell no,” John snapped. “Those bastards? Tell me it’s not some doomsday device or a genesis bomb or something equally … Mycroft-ish.”
“Baskerville,” Sherlock echoed. “This just became interesting.”
James’s gaze bounced between Sherlock and John. One whose face was painted with unbridled glee, and the other, longing thoughts of outright murder.
James looked down at his watch and sighed. They were still ahead of schedule, but the agent wanted to arrive early in order to match the employee list with the people in actual attendance.
He knew MI5 would be very thorough, but his paranoia had saved his skin on too many occasions for the agent to ignore the warning bell pealing merrily inside his skull.
James heard footsteps clattering down and looked up, once again wincing as he took in the hideous wallpaper.
How anyone could stay sane looking at this pattern is beyond my comprehension.
Of course, Sherlock Holmes could be categorized as many things but sane wasn’t exactly on top of that list. And Dr. Watson, for all his common-man natterings, could derail even faster than his flatmate before jumping back on schedule. And because of his diminutive size and unassuming personality, actually get away with murder.
At first glance Sherlock Holmes look every bit like the posh git he successfully portrayed to the world at large. But underneath the cool façade, James could see the man positively humming with excitement. And not because he was going to attend a party where famous actresses would choose their bed partners for the night.
Oh, no. This madman was ecstatic because he was going to break into Buckingham Palace to steal what rightfully belonged to the government without anyone the wiser.
And that included the Queen, since she had to have plausible deniability.
“Nice suit,” James remarked with a sweeping glance. “Spencer Hart?”
“Of course,” was the cool answer.
All right, posh git he is.
There was a light fumbling above before John yelled, “Sherlock! For the love of God, where is my raincoat?!”
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I burned it for the good of all mankind.”
James chuckled at the answer. Watson was good for many things but fashion sense was not one of them.
“It’s bloody cold out there!” was the plaintive cry.
“We’re being chauffeured,” Sherlock shouted. “Just get down here! The last thing I need is for us to arrive later than scheduled.”
A mighty sigh echoed down before John appeared. His steps deceptively heavy as he clamoured down the stairs.
“Honestly,” he said, adjusting the collar of his jacket. “I feel a right prat in this.”
Sherlock’s gaze was startlingly uneasy as the detective studied his friend. Then the scrutiny turned icier as he focused his attention on the MI6 agent.
“I thought John was part of the waitstaff,” Sherlock said, seething annoyance through every single word.
“He’s one of five bartenders,” James replied smoothly.
“I look like one of those Japanese schoolboys,” John muttered, straightening his cuffs.
The suit was midnight blue, so dark that in the dim hallway lighting it looked black. The mandarin collar was short but stiff, giving only a glimpse of John’s throat, making his neck seem longer. The buttons were gold instead of silver, and they were small enough not to catch anyone’s attention. What was eye catching was the cuffs. The buttons were absent but the seams had been neatly split open, revealing golden fabric underlay.
And the tailoring would’ve made the Army weep with its crispness and ability to hug and flare all of John’s body with neat precision.
“Bartender?” Sherlock said while mentally calculating what he’d have to do to avoid John gaining another girlfriend if not outright betrothed by the end of the bloody night.
“It’s definitely posh, but I’m guessing it’s only appropriate since the party’s at Buckingham.” Here, John gave a chuckle. “Can’t believe we’re going to Buckingham.”
“Why do you sound so thrilled?” Sherlock asked, genuinely puzzled. “We’ve been there before.”
“Yeah, but this time you’re wearing pants, and I am not dying of mortification.”
James' eyebrows shot up at John’s quip but Sherlock refused to acknowledge the comment. Instead, he defiantly marched out the door, not bothering to see if the other two were following.
“Pants?” James whispered.
“Thank God he was wearing a bed sheet is all I can say,” John muttered. “By the way, who made this getup? It looks like one of Sherlock’s tailors.”
James didn’t say it was Spencer Hart. “Someone who owed me a big favor. I told him you were going to Buckingham Palace for dinner. And that you were an old friend who did me a good turn few years back.”
“Thank you,” John said, honestly grateful. “I have to tell you, I was worried about what I could scrounge up to wear when Sherlock told me what we are about to do.”
James felt embarrassed to be the recipient of genuine gratitude. He’d never gotten used to such emotions since he’d rarely ever received them. “Watson, getting the suit is the easy part. It’s burgling Buckingham that you should worry about.”
“I have an idea or two about that,” John said with a wicked grin.
“Does it involve guns?”
“No, pretty ladies are a requirement, though.”
“I like it already.”
Sherlock loathed parties like this. Vapid people talking about useless things, trying to outshine each other by proudly revealing their shortcomings as if they were something to be made public.
Not just dull, but catastrophically dull, Sherlock concluded, looking down at his empty champagne flute. He had his one drink and couldn’t afford to drink another. Not that he had low tolerance for alcohol; growing up wealthy meant certain amount of wine was to be consumed during dinners, even if you were a child.
Then there were the soirees, summer festivals, and the bloody Christmas dinners.
It was a sheer miracle neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were functioning alcoholics by the time they reached age sixteen. Of course, Sherlock discovered cocaine in Oxbridge and Mycroft the joys of sugar rush when he was twelve.
Now feeling depression along with boredom, Sherlock wondered if he could single-handedly retrieve the blasted drive and leave this pitiful display of humanity.
Then, he heard a warm laugh to his right. No, not one but a hushed chorus of genuine, hearty laughter.
Sherlock turned to follow that sound, his curiosity egging him on to discover something interesting. What he found didn’t surprise him one bit: John.
There were no less than five bars stationed all around the ballroom. One in each corner with the grandest one dead center. This made for awkward maneuvering, but since every single dancer seemed incapable of doing anything save the two-foot shuffle, the bars hardly made any difference. If anything, they made a plausible excuse for stepped-on toes and bruised ankles.
John was still buttoned prim and proper, with nary a drop of sweat in sight. And surrounding his bar were women who were draped over the barstools, the actual bar, like rivers of silk splayed out by merchants.
Brunettes, blondes, genuine gingers, tall, petite, model-skinny, luscious, fair, dark, caramel-colored: it made for a heady display.
And in the center of it all was John.
Sherlock had to smile. His friend, no his best friend, never ceased to amaze him.
“Do you know how he does that?” Bond asked softly, coming out from nowhere, startling the detective and earning a glare.
“Yes,” Sherlock said curtly. “It’s part of his charm. They didn’t call him Three-Continent Watson for nothing.”
“Yes, but do you know how he does that?”
Sherlock studied his friend more carefully. “It’s his demeanor. He looks harmless, but sturdy and capable as well. Women are intrigued by the dichotomy.”
“That’s not all,” Bond said. “Look around.”
Sherlock immediately noticed men circling the bar like raptors unable to find purchase.
“Ahh,” he said. “I see.”
“Captain Watson, above all, is a protector and a defender. The women instinctively know he’s safe, trustworthy. So, whatever he’s serving must also be safe. No dodgy mixtures, no nudges and winks with lads who want to walk away with a lady for the night.”
“And the men know it too,” Sherlock added. “They don’t like it, at all.”
“They usually tip the bartenders, some very generously, to get useful information on someone they're interested in. But they’ve not been having any luck with Watson, and are very unhappy with him.”
“Hence the ice pick,” Sherlock said, noting the sharp implement stabbed onto the bar like a knife. It was within easy reaching distance and was placed dead center so John could get to it with either of his hands.
“Two idiots got into a shoving match earlier over a certain Baroness who had absolutely no desire to spend any time with them,” Bond explained. “John was forced to discourage the fools by showing his manual dexterity with sharp objects. Then the lady in question got riled up and had her bodyguards chase away the drunks.
“She’s the ginger in McQueen, by the way.”
“Wouldn’t do to upset the opposite sex in front of John,” Sherlock clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “I’ve seen him pull out a gun for that particular transgression.”
“John has an idea, by the way, and I think it might work.”
Sherlock gave a huge sigh. “Then what are we doing here?”
Bond straightened out his shirt cuffs, making sure they peeked just the right length from the dinner jacket. “We need a diversion.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Oh?”
“Oh.”
James smiled softly at the brunette giggling in his arms. Her soft hair, charming smile and dazzling figure, all made this part easy and regretful at the same time.
He didn’t care to use innocent people to further his goals, not that he had any qualms, but Marie from Brussels, who was probably destined to win the Nobel Prize in Physics before she hit forty, deserved a fond night to remember.
After all, he was supposed to be Prince Charming and they were actually inside a real palace.
Marie looked around the hall. “Oh, dear, should we be here?”
“I believe this is my suite,” James said, looking appropriately inebriated. He rattled the door and heard it click open.
Leave it to Q, James thought warmly.
He looked down at Marie and wondered if she’d date a jumper-clad genius who could give her a proper race to the Nobel Prize podium.
They entered the sumptuously decorated bedroom, complete with a bed that could comfortably fit five adults. Appropriately fitting for Lord Malcolm Duncan whose outlandish living was only outpaced by the sordid gossip that appeared almost on a weekly basis.
Well, the pretentious bastard can add treason to his list of indiscretions, James thought.
Marie looked around, her eyes blinking. “What do you do for the Royal family?”
“International negotiations, mostly politics, sometimes financial,” James replied while mentally adding, usually with extreme violence and copious amounts of explosives.
James fumbled with Marie while navigating them to the bed. He opened the bedside drawer while slowly kissing down Marie’s neck.
His hand clasped around an object that he knew wasn’t a condom.
“What the…” he whispered, looking at the drawer. “Oh damn.”
Marie gave a disgruntled moan. “What is it?”
“This isn’t my room,” James whispered conspiratorially.
“What?”
“I am in the wrong room.”
“Oh … we should get out of here, fast.”
“Wouldn’t do to have the Guards on our arses, especially now.”
The two lovers laughed softly as they snuck out of the suite. James caught a flash of shadow down the corridor and knew it was security. However, he was sure that the man accepted the story that two drunken people got into the wrong room. Alcohol and horniness made for a lot of errors.
They had gotten to another wing when Marie’s mobile chirped. She moaned and said, “I have to answer this.”
James leaned back on the wall and waited. Sherlock, on cue, came strolling down the corridor.
“There you are, you bastard!” he said. “Look, we’re already late, so do get a move on!”
Marie didn’t bother to mask her anger. “And who are you?”
“His business partner,” Sherlock answered primly.
“Not tonight,” James said. “Tonight…”
“I just met Lord Herringford.”
“We can always…”
“Right now,” Sherlock interrupted in a tone that revealed no mercy. “And I hope to God you’re not drunk!”
James looked at Marie who listened to both conversations with growing distress.
“I’m guessing you’re not having a good night, either,” James said.
Marie shook her head and pointed to her mobile. “I have to get this.”
James leaned over and gave a kiss on her temple before smoothing back the curls. “Damn and damn. Hope your problem gets solved quickly. Mine is likely to take all week.”
With that he left with Sherlock whose brisk pace was a bit hard for the shorter man to keep up with.
“So, that was John’s plan?” Sherlock asked, lighting up a cigarette.
James yanked it out of his lips and tossed it out of the window, earning a vicious glare from the detective.
“Yes, it was,” James answered, keeping his focus on the driving. “Simple but effective.”
“Just like John.”
“And he calls you friend,” James said acerbically. “I don’t know if he’s aiming for sainthood or justifiable murder.”
“Neither,” Sherlock answered. “John is quite capable of handling my brand of honesty.”
“Really? Is that what you called that miserable stunt you pulled? Because that … well, that seems like anything but honest.”
“Do not presume to know me well enough to judge…”
“I don’t presume,” James said. “Because I don’t know you. But I do know John and you … well, you’re not what he needs as a friend. I can tell you that much.”
The heavy silence told James he’d hit the mark with his usual accuracy.
“What I don’t understand is why did you come back?” James nearly smiled at the sharp intake of breath. “You were dead but exonerated. You could’ve set up shop somewhere else, anywhere else. Done anything, become anyone without fear of looking over your shoulders.
“And Watson was safe, right? Everyone believed him and his grief.”
“Because I can’t be anyone else,” Sherlock answered softly. “I can pretend for a little while, that’s not the problem. But no one can accept me for who I am.”
“Except for John, which is why I don’t understand why you couldn’t give him the same benefit of the doubt that he gave you over and over.”
“I couldn’t afford the risk.”
“You mean John couldn’t afford the risk.”
“Yes, that.”
“No, not that. You meant you couldn’t handle losing John. So, it wasn’t a game to you. Not when you found out your friend's life was hanging in the balance.
“He’d already killed for me, nearly died so many times over for me. Did you know Moriarty kidnapped him, beat him, and then turned him into a suicide bomber? And after all that, John, while still wearing that bloody vest, threw himself over Moriarty to buy me enough time to get away?”
James couldn’t stop his fingers from tightening on the steering wheel. “No, I had no idea the bastard went that far.”
“But that last time … he wouldn’t have been so lucky, Commander. He would’ve died. Moran never missed. Not once. And he had John in his scope for three bloody years.”
“I believe you.”
Sherlock turned to face him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I believe you. So, why don’t you tell John what you just told me instead of trying to distract him with your flashy brilliance? He might have forgiven you, but do you really think he’ll be able to move forward without knowing the truth?”
“What if the truth isn’t good enough? What if … what if he doesn’t stay after I tell him everything?”
“Bloody hell, he’s your friend, Sherlock. He stayed faithful to you while you dragged him after serial killers and international villains who were insane enough to scare even me. He stayed faithful to you when he’d believed you were dead.
“I think a little truth wouldn’t discourage him, do you?”
Sherlock did not answer. He didn’t have to. James could see the man’s indecision in the systematic curling and uncurling of the fingers. The agent didn’t want to push the man any further, but he’d seen the tension between John and Sherlock. And unless the wound was lanced soon, their friendship would become history before the year was over.
And James liked John’s blog. Whatever hell he was assigned to work in, he could taste a bit of London in John’s hilarious descriptions. More than once James had wondered if his friend was taking a piss, but after careful perusing, the agent realized that no, John was actually living a civilian life that was almost as dangerous as his.
James also noted Sherlock’s snappy behavior the moment John had descended the stairs. The man was a genius, no doubt as Q had described, but it was obvious that unlike his cousin Sherlock never learned how to share. It may be that he was spoiled as a child because of his looks and brilliance, but something told James that it was more in the vein of a man hoarding food after years of systematic starvation.
And John was so generous with his gratitude and praises. Never sycophantic, but the classic good man: public with praise, private with censure.
No wonder he was so damn popular back at base. At first James was confused as to how the world’s most active Hobbit managed to become Captain and earn the respect of everyone serving under him. John was without doubt the smallest man in the unit, not to mention the quietest. And yet, Captain Watson’s orders were rarely questioned while his words carried solid weight for all concerned.
It irked him. As Commander Bond he was respected but not very well liked, which was fine. Better to earn respect than popularity he had been trained to believe. Somehow John managed to do both and in Afghanistan of all places.
Sherlock coughed a little, warning James of incoming barrage. “Why are you so interested in John?”
And there’s the rub, James thought. He wondered if their relationship was purely platonic, or if either ever fancied the idea of having a go at a more romantic turn of events. He didn’t think John would mind, not that the man gave any inkling to his preference. As for Sherlock, he was basically a human cactus so James couldn’t imagine anyone willing to put up with him except for John.
“He saved my life,” James answered truthfully. “It was pretty much damn near miracle that I was able to make it out of Afghanistan alive. After they got me to base, the infection went into my kidneys, and they started shutting down.
“The medical teams were talking about last rites and notifying people. They were treating me as if I were already dead even though I was conscious. John never gave up. The bastard fought for me; the only one who did, actually. And because he was the Captain, the personnel did what he told them to do. Otherwise, they would’ve just fed me morphine until I died.
“How can you repay someone for that kind of stubbornness? Heroism? I don’t know what to call it.”
“But that’s not why.”
“Not the only reason,” James confessed. “It’s also because you’re hurting him.”
Sherlock flinched.
“John believes you think he doesn’t deserve the truth about it all, and that your silence is implicitly agreeing with his assumption. Whether he’s right or wrong is useless. The fact that he believes it is making John wonder about his place in your life.
“Yes, he’s your blogger, your colleague, and maybe your friend. But for a man like John … friendships define a great deal. And right now he believes you don’t hold his in any great estimation.”
“That’s just ridiculous.”
‘Really? So prove it. If it’s so patently false, prove him wrong.”
Sherlock refused to meet James’ cool gaze. “I guess I have no choice then.”
“None whatsoever.”
“By the way, we were too late.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Whoever was to meet up Lord Malcolm double crossed him. So, the plans, whatever they are, have been leaked.”
James slammed the Jaguar’s breaks with satisfying violence. “How do you know this?”
“Malcolm is left-dominant. So, when he was in bed, he would have hidden or placed any object on the left side. The drive was found on the right night table. Someone got to the room before us and downloaded the drive. He was done but was unable to escape due to your unexpected arrival.”
“And you couldn’t have told me this earlier?”
“Because then you would’ve started a fight with the agent. In the middle of Buckingham Palace. Attracting all the attention Q said he never wanted.”
James gave Sherlock good five second glare of icy rage before calling Q. “We were too late,” he growled. “And your cousin is a complete bastard. Thought you should know.”
James gathered whatever guilt the detective was feeling was completely gone as he watched a small but genuine smile blooming on Sherlock’s lips.
James barely managed to hide his grim satisfaction as Sherlock’s amusement died an agonizing death in the face of John’s soft but implacable disappointment.
He had to have learned that from his mother, James concluded as John shook his head softly, sighing. Thank God mine was a complete ice queen.
He took a look at Seeley whose eyes were fairly dancing as he examined his cousin’s guilty countenance.
“And you couldn’t have told James before we left Buckingham?” John asked.
“Not a chance,” was the terse answer.
John gave an apologetic look at James and Q. “Yes, his answers leave a lot to be desired, but if Sherlock says it, then it is true. The bloody git.”
The last part should have been insulting but James noted Sherlock’s shoulders slowly uncurling from tension as the detective visibly looked brighter.
So, the insult was the last salvo. No grudges, all is forgiven, James noted. This is why I like Watson.
“Is there any way for us to know what was in the drive?” John asked patiently.
Seeley shook his head. “It’s an electronic device. And that is all I can say.”
Sherlock took a glance at the flash drive on the console and said, “It originated from Baskerville, so it either contains formula to make bunnies glow…”
Here John gave a small chuckle. Sherlock’s lips quirked upwards before continuing, “Or a device useful to the military, considering they used landmines to secure the area.”
Here, John’s humor died a quick death.
“From what I gathered I don’t believe it is designed to hurt people,” Q said calmly.
“John, did you know Lord Malcolm used to be very famous?” Sherlock queried.
“Yeah, the name sounded familiar,” John answered. “I can’t place it, though.”
“Between 1999 and 2006 he was a communications tycoon. Made a metric ton of money producing cheap mobiles for users who couldn’t afford the more expensive ones.”
“Oh God, I remember those,” John said. “The damn things used to be everywhere. Couldn’t get a working signal at Barts no matter where you were.”
“Hideous too,” Sherlock added with a delicate shudder. “Made Nokia look positively sleek.”
“What happened?” John asked.
“Smart phones happened; iPhone happened. By 2007 he’d lost the stranglehold he had on the market. From what I’ve read he was looking into satellites.”
“Jesus, that would have been a travesty,” John quipped.
“Indeed, if Lord Malcolm develops satellites the way he did mobiles,” Q added. He noted a chirp from the main console and tapped onto a keyboard to check.
The sudden hardening of his stance told James the news was not good.
“Let me guess,” Sherlock said, his stance also tensing. “Lord Malcolm was found dead.”
“Not at Buckingham, but at his London residence. The Met is there now,” Q stated flatly.
“Let’s hope it’s Lestrade,” John said, standing up from his chair.
Sherlock nodded as he began furiously texting. The two men didn’t say anything else and James didn’t require any sort of conversation as he drove them to the dead man’s townhouse.
He parked at a discreet distance and watched the odd pair make their way to the chaos. “Should I shadow them?” he asked.
“No,” Q answered. “I’ll be able to monitor them from here.”
“Who is Lestrade?”
“A Detective Inspector who helped Sherlock during a rough patch. So, Sherlock returns the favor whenever possible.”
James studied Sherlock towering over a man who was probably the DI. “By yelling at him in front of his people?”
“He has an odd way of showing his gratitude.”
Sherlock swept his way into the building while John spent few moments placating the DI and anyone who got caught up in the maelstrom generated by the detective.
“He has a way about him,” James noted laconically, “that makes me wish for the days where I could use the garrote and not have the Uppers yell at me for my lack of finesse.”
“Sherlock is very proficient at martial arts,” Q said, “and he is a decent boxer.”
“He’s all joints,” James countered, “all I have to do is take out a knee. The rest will come down.”
“Then there is the doctor.”
“Yeah, John might take offense if I cripple his flatmate.”
“I heard your conversation with Sherlock in the car. Bond, exactly what were you hoping to achieve?”
“To stave off two men going through unnecessary crippling emotional letdown followed by an alcoholic binge by one and a cocaine bender by the other. And topping off all of this will be the unavoidable intervention by the eldest Holmes, which will do more damage than good.
“You get the idea?”
“Yes, I do actually,” Q sighed. “Sherlock is scared. You know that, right?”
“The only way he could’ve been more obvious about his claim over John would be marking his territory by pissing on the poor bastard. And the way he was going I was half worried he might.”
“My cousin … never had any luck with friends. There was Victor during his Uni days, but the man was actually sane and Sherlock was well on his way to becoming an addict when they’d first met.”
“So he cut his losses?”
“Only after Sherlock got high and set Victor’s dog on fire.”
“Bloody hell…”
“That’s when Victor cut all ties. Couldn’t blame him.”
“No, I really can’t.”
“Thank heavens Dr. Watson has no pets, though nowadays the excuses would be more in the name of experiments and gathering data.”
James had to chuckle at that.
John felt completely ill at ease. There was no subtle display of wealth within these four walls. In fact, Lord Malcolm’s house was practically dripping with money.
“The only way this could be more ostentatious would be if he had the chandelier made out of gold,” John remarked as he studied the library and personal office of the recently deceased.
“Baccarat crystal,” Sherlock muttered, pointing upwards, “manufactured during Napoleon’s reign. It’s better than gold, actually.”
John winced as he studied the glittering display of light and wealth. “Well, I guess business was and still is booming, then.”
“But what business, John?” Sherlock whispered. “His finances weren’t dire, but to be able to afford this address - it takes more than money. A lot more.”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m missing something?”
Sherlock smile was both mischievous and completely angelic. “Where should I start? Well, Mycroft lives in that hideously faux-Georgian house right behind this one. That in it of itself is very telling.”
“Shit,” John whispered. “Are you pulling my leg?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No. And Mycroft would have most certainly vetted any neighbors within stone’s throw from his backyard.”
“Shouldn’t we tell Mycroft?” John paused as he considered what he’d just said. “Never mind. Just … delete that, please.”
Sherlock opened his mobile. “One text from the fat git…”
“Sherlock, stop.”
The sudden harsh tone in John’s voice did, in fact, quiet Sherlock.
“Do you actually see your brother?” John whispered. “He’d lost at least a stone if not more after your stunt. And he hasn’t gained it back.
“Now, granted he does seem to run the government, but Sherlock, really … he’s well on his way to fitting your bloody tailored trousers. So stop calling him fat or needling him about his eating habits. The truth is he’s not eating near enough, Sherlock. And if he keeps losing weight at that rate … I’m going to have to kidnap She-Who-Must- Not-Be-Named and have a serious conversation about his health.”
Sherlock blinked rapidly as he digested his friend’s words. “You’re seriously concerned about his health?”
“Yes, I am. I know he has access to the best of doctors, but I really prefer that he not have to go to them because … well, a man his age, Sherlock, it’s best that his health stay optimum without medical intervention.”
John saw it then: the truth hitting Sherlock with the force of a gale.
Mycroft was mortal, and one day, he will die and there was nothing Sherlock could do to stop it.
John placed a gentle hand on Sherlock’s left wrist. The detective whirled to face him, his eyes piercing and all-knowing. John knew Sherlock could see more grays in his hair, more lines around his eyes, bracketing his mouth, but he had never bothered to come to the conclusion about the subtle changes until now.
I am mortal, too, John thought sadly. You knew that I could die from bullets and violence, but old age and all the indignities that come with it - that has somehow escaped that great brain of yours.
Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about the case. Must have drifted off for a moment.”
John let him have the lie. After all, what cost to him for a shared moment of kindness? “I wonder how that’s possible considering we’re standing under the world’s most expensive disco ball.”
Sherlock’s bark of laughter was harsh. “As always, you see but do not observe.”
John firmly studied the chandelier even as his eyes teared up. Then, he noticed.
“Umm … what the hell happened to the ceiling?”
James watched a slew of emergency medics pour into the house. “Do I need to go in?”
To his shock, Q’s laughter was the answer. “No, Bond, nothing’s wrong. My cousin thought it would be fantastic to have a go at some evidence before ‘the imbeciles at the Met destroy it beyond redemption’. So, he took a desk, piled a chair on it to get to a chandelier…”
“Let me guess, he brought down the house.”
“No, just the chandelier. From what John’s barking out Sherlock probably bruised his tail bone.”
James winced. “That would be extraordinarily painful.”
Q’s laughter grew. “My God, I think he might have actually swung on the bloody thing before it crashed down…”
John looked at the crystals strewn about his feet like diamonds. He actually felt giddy as they winked lights at him. Then Sherlock’s yelling broke the trance.
“I am not taking off anything! John can examine me when we get home…”
Yes, still not gay, John thought tiredly though he did have to laugh at Sherlock’s tone of matronly outrage. Obviously Sherlocked though, aren’t I?
He approached the melee with his usual calm, bland smile. “I’ll take care of this.”
The medics were more than happy to dump their kit and run off before the madman actually started biting them and gave them rabies, perhaps.
“So, what have we learned today?” John asked as he began dabbing antiseptic at the myriad of shallow cuts on Sherlock’s hands.
“That the ceiling canopy couldn’t support an idea?”
John actually giggled. “You’d think something that held probably half-tonne of weight for nearly two centuries could handle your skinny arse!”
One of the forensic personnel relegated to sifting through the mess picked up something from underneath one of the chandelier branches. She stared at it in complete puzzlement.
John saw Sherlock open his mouth and hissed, “Shut it.”
Sherlock gave him an imperious look but said nothing. John gave a smile of thanks before gently calling out, “Anything interesting, Mita?”
The woman looked up at him and smiled. “Define interesting?”
“Worth bringing down the ceiling?”
Mita laughed as she walked towards them. “I don’t know if it’s worth that much but it’s different.”
She opened her palm and revealed a small, black object.
“That’s…” Sherlock paused for a moment. “That’s the smallest tyre I’ve ever seen.”
“For a Matchbox car, maybe?” John offered.
“No, too big for those,” Mita said. “My brother used to have a huge collection when he was a kid.”
“I’d have envied him,” John said. “Wanted those myself.”
For a moment Sherlock’s vision blurred. For most families the toy cars were very affordable. But it was obvious that for the Watsons they were anything but. He caught Mita’s bright gaze on John only for a moment but the two shared an understanding that made both very uncomfortable.
“Perhaps one of those radio controlled things?” Mita said. “I’ll get it checked out.”
“Maybe you’ll find the rest of the car in bits and bobs,” John said, waving his hand at the mess.
“Probably,” Mita agreed. Then she leaned forward and whispered. “Anderson’s been called in because of what just happened. So, if I were you, I’d scramble out of here. I’m sure the Detective Inspector will tell you if anything interesting comes up.”
“Thank you,” John said with fervent gratitude. “C’mon, Sherlock, let’s get out of here. I think we’ve done enough damage for the day.”
“But I didn’t get to examine all the evidence!”
“No, you didn’t, and you won’t because your hands are a mess, and unless you feel like bleeding all over the place, we’re not going to stick around to witness Anderson venting his spleen.”
Sherlock studied the crystal-strewn floor and then his hands, which were even then welling with pinpricks of blood. “Agreed.”
DI Lestrade watched all this transpire from the doorway. He had half in mind to toss out the posh bastard when the chandelier came crashing down. Not because of the evidentiary problems, but for a moment he’d thought Sherlock had broken his scrawny neck.
It wasn’t until John yanked him out of the debris and yelling on top of his lungs that Lestrade managed to start breathing again.
“Sorry about the mess,” John said apologetically.
“Go, just … go,” Lestrade answered, waving his hand.
He watched them leave the townhouse, talking animatedly each other.
Probably thinks they’re in the clear, he thought with a smug smile. A sleek, black car prowled down the lane, slowing down noticeably as it approached the men.
Sherlock’s lanky frame tensed up while John’s slumped forward.
The door opened and a pretty brunette majestically stepped out, looking as if she was about to go to a Vanity Fair photo shoot. Her attention seemed riveted to the phone in her hand but Lestrade had suspicions that she was actually very interested in the two men she had cornered. There was a terse exchange, but Sherlock and John got in the car.
Then, without warning, the woman looked right at Lestrade, smiled, and winked playfully before entering the Mercedes. Lestrade laughed a little and went back to work.
What I’d give to be there when Mycroft dresses down his little brother for this fiasco.
Bond knew where the car was going and decided not to give chase. Instead, he decided to turn in for the night.
He seriously considered going to a hotel bar to find some company but refrained from doing so. It was already past eleven, and most of the beautiful women who were still occupying the barstools were usually professionals.
Not that Bond had problems with prostitutes. Sometimes, a night without any kind of substantial transaction save for financial ones were preferable, but tonight he felt off.
“I’m turning in, Q.”
“Take care, 007.”
James wondered if Q had guessed his name was no longer a secret.
“Seeley,” he mouthed silently.
What kind of family allows their children to be called Mycroft, Sherlock, and Seeley?!
Prologue * Part II