Love at Five
Title: Love at Five, Prologue
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: None
Summary: By sheer luck, Sherlock and John stumble over one of Moriarty's schemes. In order to unravel the madman's plans Lestrade all but orders them to go undercover. Unfortunately, for the consulting detective and his blogger, the ruse takes place in a speed dating event. This might not be one of Lestrade's best ideas, but Donovan hadn't laughed so hard in years.
Disclaimer: Seriously, does anyone NOT know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Notes: Gen, but can be read with slash goggles. Also posted on AO3
Lestrade looked at John’s colourful bruises with dismay. “Damn it, Sherlock! What did you do this time?”
No one in the room bothered to correct the DI on his assumption that Sherlock was the lone cause of John’s black eye and heavily bruised chin. And this included Sherlock.
“Testing the tensile strength of various materials that could be utilized as trip wires,” the guilty party promptly answered, his attention clearly focused on his phone.
“Don’t worry,” John said, smiling brightly while revealing the swollen laceration on his lower gum. “I found the last one in front of my wardrobe and relocated it.”
Sherlock immediately stopped texting and stared at John. “Where?”
John looked at him, his smile getting impossibly brighter and bloodier. “Take a guess, you massive tit.”
Greg had to bite the inside of his cheek in order not to laugh at Sherlock’s look of stifled paranoia, and a justified one at that if John was as motivated as Greg believed he was.
“I must insist you tell me,” Sherlock huffed. “If Mrs. Hudson…”
“Shut your gob,” John interrupted without a drop of malice. “I told her where it is. Do you think I’d let anything bad happen to that woman?”
Sherlock harrumphed in his chair and crossed his arms, looking like a spoilt child from a Dickens novel.
“If we’re done discussing your domestic situation, I’d like to talk to you about a strange case.”
Sherlock quickly glanced over Lestrade’s desk. “There is nothing of note that I can see.”
Lestrade knew very well of Sherlock’s ability to speed-read and upside down. Which was why all his files were tucked into plain manila folders. Of course this practice didn’t help much since Sherlock also possessed very light fingers.
With a frown, Lestrade said, “Not from my division, actually. A mate of mine in Bradford got a hold of something. He called me because this event was supposed to take place in London. It got cancelled just yesterday, which actually makes me even more suspicious.”
He handed over a folded piece of paper. Sherlock unfurled the clipping then held it up so John could also read the announcement.
“Well, that is unusual,” John confessed. “But hardly criminal.”
“Garrideb,” Sherlock said the name as if he was rolling it on his tongue, like wine. “The name is very rare. Interesting.”
“Well, that lends credibility to this nonsense,” John said. “So, find three Garridebs and you win the pot.”
Lestrade nodded. “What do you think, John?”
“Stinks,” John said decisively. “And I think your friend was right to contact you.”
Sherlock looked surprised by John’s pronouncement. “What makes you say that?”
“An old adage: If it looks too good to be true, it is.”
Sherlock actually smiled. “Not scientific but correctly based on numerous anecdotal evidence.”
“So, you’ll look in on it?” Lestrade asked. “Because I have a feeling if this isn’t stopped - it will end up in my division.”
“Yes, we will,” Sherlock said, folding up the newsprint and tucking it away in one of many voluminous pockets his coat secretly held.
Then, without a word, he swooped out of Lestrade’s office, once again much like a Dickens’ character.
“How are you doing?” Lestrade asked conversationally.
“About what?” John answered, looking slightly befuddled.
“Moving in with Sherlock. Don’t tell me he isn’t a handful.”
“Oh, he’s a right nightmare,” John agreed readily. “But the mad bastard’s brilliant, and I’ve not been bored since I moved to Baker Street.”
“Is that good enough?”
“More than … what is your given name by the way? I think it’s time I know it.”
Lestrade smiled. “It’s Greg. Greg Lestrade.”
“Nice to meet you, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”
John shook his hand firmly and jogged after Sherlock who was probably waiting impatiently by the elevators.
It was only after John had left that Lestrade realized the doctor never answered his question.
Sherlock was impatient, but also anxious. He knew Lestrade was hedging to talk to John alone. And though he was loath to allow it, Sherlock knew there wasn’t any way for him to stop the DI from speaking with his friend.
John turned the corner and ambled towards Sherlock, giving a nod or a slight wave at various personnel. It never ceased to surprise Sherlock that John was able to make friendly acquaintance with such large and diverse group of people.
Of course, they were all idiots and hardly deserving of John’s consideration. Still, Sherlock had to admit he benefitted from the increasing cooperation from Lestrade and his division. So, he refrained from commenting on the fact that John was able to chat up with Nancy who was harboring a secret crush on him. Or that fool, Constable Nolan, who should have never been given access to firearms as the man obviously had balance issues.
Never mind that he also harbored a secret crush on Sherlock’s friend.
“Any ideas?” John asked.
“What did Lestrade want to talk to you about?”
“To see if he needed to park a car in front of our flat, in case I turned murderous and made you eat one of your experiments.”
Sherlock couldn’t help it - he smiled. It was a small thing, really, but genuine enough to attract great deal of attention: all unwanted.
“What did you say?”
“I told him the car wouldn’t be of any use. They wouldn’t get to us on time, especially if I decided to use that bloody mould experiment you’ve been hiding under the kitchen sink.”
“Ahh,” Sherlock mentally winced.
“You forgot about it, didn’t you?”
Sherlock gave a nonchalant shrug.
“Sherlock, it formed a government body and instituted a welfare programme for the less fortunate. I’m binning it.”
“I won’t stop you.”
“What kind of mould is it anyway?”
“I don’t know. I scraped it from the toenail of the corpse we found in Hampton Court.”
John palmed his face. “That was three weeks ago.”
“Has it been that long?”
To Sherlock’s relief the elevator finally arrived, giving him the chance to evade any more questions. He still had a difficult time adjusting to the fact that there was a human being who was genuinely interested in him for what he was. To John, Sherlock was more than just a brain. He was a brilliant human being whose faults were many but not intolerable.
This levelheaded acceptance was something Sherlock couldn’t fathom. He was all too aware of his faults. There were many people in his life who had little problem listing them, but for all that they never stuck around to help Sherlock correct them.
And yet, here was John, sorting through what had to be a metric ton of problems that Sherlock had scattered in his life, and solving them. Usually dragging Sherlock into the fray whether he wanted to or not. But even then, Sherlock was quietly grateful that there was someone who cared enough to spend his time ensuring that Sherlock learned something, as useless as it may be.
And John asked for so little in return, that Sherlock found it disquieting. In the beginning, he expected the other shoe to drop, and waited anxiously for the day John would finally have had enough and walk away.
But that day never came. And john, in spite of all his grumblings, never abandoned Sherlock. Even in his anger, John always came back to Baker Street and to Sherlock.
It didn't take long for Sherlock to admit he had a friend, and a good friend at that. Something he could never claim throughout his entire life. It was a marvel, really, and Sherlock felt as if someone had secretly given him a hitherto undiscovered work by Sarasate.
So, it was understandable if Sherlock was slightly miserly about his time with John. And bloody hell, if Nolan’s flirting was any more transparent, Lestrade would have to have a talk with the overeager constable.
“Garrideb is the most unusual name I’ve ever seen,” John stated. “I’ve googled it to hell and nothing comes up.”
“By hell, you mean you went through twenty screens?”
“Twenty-two before the links started getting outrageous.”
Sherlock was curious but refrained from asking John what his definition of ‘outrageous’ was. Probably some banal pornography. For an army man, John’s taste in porn was disappointingly mainstream.
“I remote accessed few of the national databases,” Sherlock said, pointing to a screen. “There are seven Garridebs registered with various agencies. Three are too old to travel; one is out of the country on assignment. Another is serving a lengthy jail sentence. That leaves two Garridebs.”
“How many in London?”
“Only one. A Nathan Garrideb.”
John took a peek over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Hmm, looks like a normal bloke.”
“He possesses average intelligence. I also remote…”
“You mean hacked,” John said with laughter in his voice. “Remote accessed sounds terribly legal and all. But what you did is anything but.”
Sherlock raised an elegant eyebrow and continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “Mr. Nathan Garrideb has spent the last two hours scouring the Internet much like us, no doubt looking for other Garridebs. He has also found your blog, and have perused it quite meticulously.”
“You mean he’s going to come to us?”
“I don’t know about that, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped by tom…”
John’s phone rang. He took one look at the caller’s name and gave a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Sherlock smiled and sank back in his chair.
“This is Dr. Watson. Whom am I speaking with?”
In less than a minute John’s smile matched his friend’s.
Part I
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: None
Summary: By sheer luck, Sherlock and John stumble over one of Moriarty's schemes. In order to unravel the madman's plans Lestrade all but orders them to go undercover. Unfortunately, for the consulting detective and his blogger, the ruse takes place in a speed dating event. This might not be one of Lestrade's best ideas, but Donovan hadn't laughed so hard in years.
Disclaimer: Seriously, does anyone NOT know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Notes: Gen, but can be read with slash goggles. Also posted on AO3
Lestrade looked at John’s colourful bruises with dismay. “Damn it, Sherlock! What did you do this time?”
No one in the room bothered to correct the DI on his assumption that Sherlock was the lone cause of John’s black eye and heavily bruised chin. And this included Sherlock.
“Testing the tensile strength of various materials that could be utilized as trip wires,” the guilty party promptly answered, his attention clearly focused on his phone.
“Don’t worry,” John said, smiling brightly while revealing the swollen laceration on his lower gum. “I found the last one in front of my wardrobe and relocated it.”
Sherlock immediately stopped texting and stared at John. “Where?”
John looked at him, his smile getting impossibly brighter and bloodier. “Take a guess, you massive tit.”
Greg had to bite the inside of his cheek in order not to laugh at Sherlock’s look of stifled paranoia, and a justified one at that if John was as motivated as Greg believed he was.
“I must insist you tell me,” Sherlock huffed. “If Mrs. Hudson…”
“Shut your gob,” John interrupted without a drop of malice. “I told her where it is. Do you think I’d let anything bad happen to that woman?”
Sherlock harrumphed in his chair and crossed his arms, looking like a spoilt child from a Dickens novel.
“If we’re done discussing your domestic situation, I’d like to talk to you about a strange case.”
Sherlock quickly glanced over Lestrade’s desk. “There is nothing of note that I can see.”
Lestrade knew very well of Sherlock’s ability to speed-read and upside down. Which was why all his files were tucked into plain manila folders. Of course this practice didn’t help much since Sherlock also possessed very light fingers.
With a frown, Lestrade said, “Not from my division, actually. A mate of mine in Bradford got a hold of something. He called me because this event was supposed to take place in London. It got cancelled just yesterday, which actually makes me even more suspicious.”
He handed over a folded piece of paper. Sherlock unfurled the clipping then held it up so John could also read the announcement.
“Well, that is unusual,” John confessed. “But hardly criminal.”
“Garrideb,” Sherlock said the name as if he was rolling it on his tongue, like wine. “The name is very rare. Interesting.”
“Well, that lends credibility to this nonsense,” John said. “So, find three Garridebs and you win the pot.”
Lestrade nodded. “What do you think, John?”
“Stinks,” John said decisively. “And I think your friend was right to contact you.”
Sherlock looked surprised by John’s pronouncement. “What makes you say that?”
“An old adage: If it looks too good to be true, it is.”
Sherlock actually smiled. “Not scientific but correctly based on numerous anecdotal evidence.”
“So, you’ll look in on it?” Lestrade asked. “Because I have a feeling if this isn’t stopped - it will end up in my division.”
“Yes, we will,” Sherlock said, folding up the newsprint and tucking it away in one of many voluminous pockets his coat secretly held.
Then, without a word, he swooped out of Lestrade’s office, once again much like a Dickens’ character.
“How are you doing?” Lestrade asked conversationally.
“About what?” John answered, looking slightly befuddled.
“Moving in with Sherlock. Don’t tell me he isn’t a handful.”
“Oh, he’s a right nightmare,” John agreed readily. “But the mad bastard’s brilliant, and I’ve not been bored since I moved to Baker Street.”
“Is that good enough?”
“More than … what is your given name by the way? I think it’s time I know it.”
Lestrade smiled. “It’s Greg. Greg Lestrade.”
“Nice to meet you, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”
John shook his hand firmly and jogged after Sherlock who was probably waiting impatiently by the elevators.
It was only after John had left that Lestrade realized the doctor never answered his question.
Sherlock was impatient, but also anxious. He knew Lestrade was hedging to talk to John alone. And though he was loath to allow it, Sherlock knew there wasn’t any way for him to stop the DI from speaking with his friend.
John turned the corner and ambled towards Sherlock, giving a nod or a slight wave at various personnel. It never ceased to surprise Sherlock that John was able to make friendly acquaintance with such large and diverse group of people.
Of course, they were all idiots and hardly deserving of John’s consideration. Still, Sherlock had to admit he benefitted from the increasing cooperation from Lestrade and his division. So, he refrained from commenting on the fact that John was able to chat up with Nancy who was harboring a secret crush on him. Or that fool, Constable Nolan, who should have never been given access to firearms as the man obviously had balance issues.
Never mind that he also harbored a secret crush on Sherlock’s friend.
“Any ideas?” John asked.
“What did Lestrade want to talk to you about?”
“To see if he needed to park a car in front of our flat, in case I turned murderous and made you eat one of your experiments.”
Sherlock couldn’t help it - he smiled. It was a small thing, really, but genuine enough to attract great deal of attention: all unwanted.
“What did you say?”
“I told him the car wouldn’t be of any use. They wouldn’t get to us on time, especially if I decided to use that bloody mould experiment you’ve been hiding under the kitchen sink.”
“Ahh,” Sherlock mentally winced.
“You forgot about it, didn’t you?”
Sherlock gave a nonchalant shrug.
“Sherlock, it formed a government body and instituted a welfare programme for the less fortunate. I’m binning it.”
“I won’t stop you.”
“What kind of mould is it anyway?”
“I don’t know. I scraped it from the toenail of the corpse we found in Hampton Court.”
John palmed his face. “That was three weeks ago.”
“Has it been that long?”
To Sherlock’s relief the elevator finally arrived, giving him the chance to evade any more questions. He still had a difficult time adjusting to the fact that there was a human being who was genuinely interested in him for what he was. To John, Sherlock was more than just a brain. He was a brilliant human being whose faults were many but not intolerable.
This levelheaded acceptance was something Sherlock couldn’t fathom. He was all too aware of his faults. There were many people in his life who had little problem listing them, but for all that they never stuck around to help Sherlock correct them.
And yet, here was John, sorting through what had to be a metric ton of problems that Sherlock had scattered in his life, and solving them. Usually dragging Sherlock into the fray whether he wanted to or not. But even then, Sherlock was quietly grateful that there was someone who cared enough to spend his time ensuring that Sherlock learned something, as useless as it may be.
And John asked for so little in return, that Sherlock found it disquieting. In the beginning, he expected the other shoe to drop, and waited anxiously for the day John would finally have had enough and walk away.
But that day never came. And john, in spite of all his grumblings, never abandoned Sherlock. Even in his anger, John always came back to Baker Street and to Sherlock.
It didn't take long for Sherlock to admit he had a friend, and a good friend at that. Something he could never claim throughout his entire life. It was a marvel, really, and Sherlock felt as if someone had secretly given him a hitherto undiscovered work by Sarasate.
So, it was understandable if Sherlock was slightly miserly about his time with John. And bloody hell, if Nolan’s flirting was any more transparent, Lestrade would have to have a talk with the overeager constable.
“Garrideb is the most unusual name I’ve ever seen,” John stated. “I’ve googled it to hell and nothing comes up.”
“By hell, you mean you went through twenty screens?”
“Twenty-two before the links started getting outrageous.”
Sherlock was curious but refrained from asking John what his definition of ‘outrageous’ was. Probably some banal pornography. For an army man, John’s taste in porn was disappointingly mainstream.
“I remote accessed few of the national databases,” Sherlock said, pointing to a screen. “There are seven Garridebs registered with various agencies. Three are too old to travel; one is out of the country on assignment. Another is serving a lengthy jail sentence. That leaves two Garridebs.”
“How many in London?”
“Only one. A Nathan Garrideb.”
John took a peek over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Hmm, looks like a normal bloke.”
“He possesses average intelligence. I also remote…”
“You mean hacked,” John said with laughter in his voice. “Remote accessed sounds terribly legal and all. But what you did is anything but.”
Sherlock raised an elegant eyebrow and continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “Mr. Nathan Garrideb has spent the last two hours scouring the Internet much like us, no doubt looking for other Garridebs. He has also found your blog, and have perused it quite meticulously.”
“You mean he’s going to come to us?”
“I don’t know about that, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped by tom…”
John’s phone rang. He took one look at the caller’s name and gave a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Sherlock smiled and sank back in his chair.
“This is Dr. Watson. Whom am I speaking with?”
In less than a minute John’s smile matched his friend’s.
Part I