Concertos and Blackmail; or, Let's Try This Again, Shall We?
Eternal apologies to my f-list's dash. DD8
I first wrote an adaptation of Doyle's The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton about... nearly two years ago? Born of an insatiable desire to see one of my favourite stories adapted into the BBC Sherlock universe, it was finally posted in early March of last year; part one can be found here, but I urge no one to read it ever, because what's to come is infinitely better.
About a year ago, almost, I started talking to Sig, who is wonderful, and who read the first Concertos and Blackmail and offered significant criticism and suggestions for improvements, mostly involving a more distinct break from the original material. Thence began months of brainstorming, rewriting, editing, and gross procrastination; and finally, after, what -- at least six months? -- here we are, with an entire, new, over-twice-as-long-and-at-least-as-much-better, CaB.
I sincerely hope what readers it may gain will enjoy it. I put a lot of heart and effort into it (despite the occasional weeks of inactivity; I blame university, but that hardly counts when on summer holidays...), and comments and criticism are greatly welcome. (Gently put, please, and not at all if it's to tell me I'm too florid sometimes, I've been well-informed of that fact already. XD)
So anyway, without further ado -- here we go!
Title: Concertos and Blackmail; or, The Updated Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton
Characters/pairings: Sherlock Holmes + John Watson (mostly gen, but can probably be read as pre-slash if so desired); appearances by Greg Lestrade.
Rating: PG to R, for non-graphic violence, occasional swearing, and activities of dubious legality.
Length: ~43000
Author's note: A thousand thank-yous are to be extended to my wonderful critic, beta and general hand-holder Sig; to my father, for his astonishingly good proof-reading skills; and to mintschnapps, for final britpicking and some utterly wonderful encouragements. I am indebted to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, for the original story this is based on (and its deliciously awful antagonist); to Sig, for the inspiration for most of the action scenes; and, of course, to Moffat, Gatiss, and the BBC for the show and characters used.
Summary: It's around about when John's in a white dinner jacket, shooting out security cameras and running from guards through the skyscraper of a media tycoon-cum-gentleman blackmailer, that he realises he's probably gone well and truly mad. He couldn't really care less, though. And hey -- he and Sherlock started out sharing a flat; how appropriate if they end up sharing a prison cell. (Case!fic based on the original ACD story The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton.)
Part One
For anyone else, waking to the knowledge of a day off work would be a blessing; to John Watson, the knowledge represents a mildly daunting challenge.
Sherlock hasn’t had a proper case in two weeks. (According to the detective, the suicide last week was too easy, and according to both of them, a single night’s stakeout to catch a petty thief definitely doesn’t count.) For three days, John’s been able to escape the inevitable depression by being called in to the clinic - but it seems his run of good luck has ended.
At least the bastard likes a lie-in, he thinks as he descends the stairs, yawning and tugging his track pants more firmly up over his bum. I should at least have a peaceful breakfast. And lunch. And who knows, maybe even dinner. Depends on my luck.
Forgoing the living room, John heads straight for the kitchen and the promise of tea, only to be confronted with the sight of a milk carton sitting, warm and half-full, on the counter. Still clinging to the last vestiges of hope that have managed to survive in their impossible flat, he checks the fridge; but, inevitably, Sherlock hasn’t performed a miracle and gone out to buy more. John lets the door swing shut and grimaces, thumping his head against the cool metal.
“Sherlock, I swear to God...” he mutters under his breath.
“Is someone there?”
John nearly jumps out of his skin at the voice, calling from the living room. He tugs open one of the dividing doors and suddenly becomes very conscious of the fact that he’s wearing nothing more than track pants and a vest, and can practically feel how terrible his bed head is.
The voice belongs to a woman, about Sherlock’s age, in an impeccable skirt suit, her light-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She’s sitting on the sofa, legs crossed in a manner that is at once amicable and professional, one simple-but-stylish black stiletto tapping impatiently in the air.
John frowns. “How’d you get in here?” he asks, blaming his bemusement on the lack of tea in his system.
“Your landlady let me in,” the woman answers. “She said she’d wake Mr Holmes.”
“Ah,” John replies.
The woman raises one carefully-pencilled eyebrow. “You’re very laconic,” she says with a mischievous glint in her eye. John shakes himself.
“Right, sorry,” he mumbles, “just got up. Um - how long have you been sitting there?”
“About twenty minutes,” she answers without looking at her watch.
“Right. And, er - Sherlock hasn’t been out, has he?”
The woman smiles to one side. “No.”
John feels the urge to beat his head against the fridge again. “Hold on a second,” he sighs, “I’ll go wake him.”
“Your landlady didn’t have much luck,” she calls after him, as if in warning.
Sherlock’s bedroom lies at the end of the hall from the kitchen, a short trek which John thinks should be named something ominous, preferably containing the word ‘doom’. It requires a significant amount of effort to open the door, considering the mound of books that has recently materialised behind it, and John counts it as a point in his favour that he makes it the entire two metres to the bed without tripping over any of the many and varied tomes. He finds Sherlock lying on his front with a pillow clutched over his head, his long limbs sprawled across the mattress like pieces of a scarecrow ready for assembly.
“Sherlock, get up, you’ve got a client,” John orders, nudging at Sherlock’s hip. The detective groans and curls up on his side in response, his back to John. “Seriously Sherlock, get the fuck up, she’s been waiting for twenty minutes.”
The only answer is a half-hearted flailing of one leg which might have resembled a vengeful kick if there had been any actual strength behind it. Rolling his eyes, John rips the pillow from Sherlock’s hand and flicks his ear. “Up.”
“Go away,” Sherlock grumbles, tugging the blanket up and over his head. “I’m sleeping.”
“No,” says John, thumping him over the head with the pillow, “you’re getting dressed and you’re going out to talk to the woman who’s been sitting on our sofa for twenty minutes.”
Sherlock snatches his pillow back and wraps it across his ears. “I’m sleeping,” he repeats, muffled by the pillow.
“Oh, no you’re not,” John snaps, pushing at Sherlock’s shoulder. “Get up!” When there’s no response, he half-kneels on the bed and shoves against Sherlock’s back, rolling him toward the edge of the mattress. Sherlock shouts, flailing, and fails to grip John’s arm as he falls, tumbling to the floor in a twisted mess of limbs and sheets.
John stands back, hands resting on his hips. With a grunt and a groan, Sherlock extracts himself from the coiled blanket and drags himself back onto the mattress, burying himself once more in the pillows.
“Oh for God’s sake -”
“Fine!” Sherlock shouts, kicking off the covers and rolling to his feet like a very tall boy unwilling to go to school. “I’ll talk to this idiotic woman, tell her how boring her so-called case is, and go back to sleep.”
John says nothing, deciding to quit while he’s ahead and leaving Sherlock to tug a heavy red dressing grown over his pyjamas. He pops his head into the living room to tell the woman that they’ll be there in a moment before continuing upstairs to dress properly. He returns at the same time that Sherlock appears in suit trousers and a pressed shirt, smoothing down his hair with one hand and buckling his belt with the other.
“Tea,” he says imperiously, sweeping through the kitchen.
“Can’t.” John follows him into the living room and drops into his armchair. “You let the milk spoil.”
The woman on the sofa smiles as they enter. “Having a bit of a tiff, are we?” she jokes. John’s about to protest when Sherlock speaks.
“What do you want?” he demands, folding himself into the chair opposite John.
The woman sobers, taken aback. “I know I can trust you, Mr Holmes, but who’s this?” she says, nodding in John’s direction.
“This is my associate, Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock replies in a monotone.
The woman’s immaculate eyebrow rises again. “No offence to your friend -”
“And colleague,” Sherlock interrupts.
With a furtive glance at John, the woman continues. “This is a very delicate matter, Mr Holmes,” she says, brimming with restrained diplomacy. “The fewer people who know about it, the better.”
“I promise, you won’t find a more trustworthy man than John,” says Sherlock, signalling the end of the dispute. John stares at him, unregarded, stunned by Sherlock’s nonchalant high opinion of him and not a little offended that he’s never said as much to his face. The woman glances at him again, but remains silent. “Good,” Sherlock continues. “Now, if you could tell me who you are and what you want, we can get started.”
The woman takes a fortifying breath. “My name is Eva Brackwell,” she says, “and I’m being blackmailed.”
John sits back and glances at Sherlock, taken aback by the bluntness of the statement. The detective’s face brightens, and he clasps his hands together before his mouth, staring across at Eva Brackwell with intent and intrigue.
“Go on.”
Eva takes a moment to uncross her legs and lean forward. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of me, but I’m a politician,” she explains. “I currently hold a minor role in the Labour Party. You wouldn’t have heard of any of this, but plans have been set in motion which would give me a chance at gaining a... higher office than my current position. These are just plans, you understand, and the - person whose position I will be taking over will, of course -”
Sherlock emits a bored grunt. “Mrs Brackwell, I really don’t care about your political machinations,” he snaps. “You’re looking at a promotion, that’s all that matters.”
A slight frown appears between Eva’s brows. “How did you know I was married?” she asks. “I don’t wear a ring.”
“You just told me,” Sherlock replies with an air of smug frustration. “Now, if we could move on to the blackmail you mentioned earlier…”
“Yes, well - my enemies, especially in the Coalition, will take whatever they can get to defame me,” Eva says delicately. “The scandal that this would produce would reflect on my entire party as well, so I’ll have no support there.”
“What have you done, Mrs Brackwell?”
After a brief hesitation, Eva sighs, meeting Sherlock’s eye. “When I was in university, I was a member of a socialist community there,” she says. “I’d started out studying journalism, and I wrote a couple of articles that were published in one of the Marxist Society’s papers. Someone’s got hold of them.”
There is a moment of silence in which Sherlock’s eyes take on a familiar, glazed look. His presses his fingertips together, tapping them against his lips. “Which university?” he asks.
“London,” Eva answers.
“And the paper?”
“Alternative,” she sighs, as if in mortification. “It was published monthly.”
“How many articles are there?”
“Just the two, both from ’96.”
Sherlock presses his lips together for a moment, thinking. “How bad are they?”
Eva hesitates again, as if weighing her options. “They aren’t entirely horrible,” she says, though even John can tell she’s understating. “Just some objective criticism of capitalism and idealistic praise of communist theory. I grew out of the ideas years ago, but if they came out - or, God forbid, get published - well, I’ll be nothing more than a label, won’t I? The socialist, the communist. I’ll never hold any significant office again.”
“Hang on,” John interrupts, holding up a finger and frowning. “Is it just me, or are we forgetting something here?”
Sherlock’s gaze flicks up to him. “Forgetting something?” he repeats.
John glances between client and detective and back again. “Who’s blackmailing you?”
“Oh, I think I know that already,” says Sherlock. “Anyone else and you wouldn’t need my help, would you, Eva?” He pins her in his gaze and John watches as she holds her breath, blanching.
“Yes,” she says, resignation in the sigh of her breath. “There’s no negotiating with him, not in my position. I didn’t know what else to do, so - I came to you.”
Sherlock nods once with deliberation, the lines around his mouth tightening. “Charles Milverton.” He glances again at Eva. “Yes?”
Eva swallows. “Yes.”
Sherlock takes a breath, and John watches him shift infinitesimally, his muscles tensing and an expression of careful neutrality falling across his features.
“He’s asking seventy thousand to keep it quiet,” Eva continues - “I can’t afford that. Not right before a promotion, not now. Even if it stops that scandal, I won’t be able to keep up my public image. People will talk. It won’t be as bad, but it definitely won’t be good.”
Sherlock says nothing, coiled in his chair, deep in thought and heedless of Eva’s rapt, anxious attention. John remains ignored.
Eventually, Sherlock breaks the silence.
“I’ll need access to your financials,” he murmurs, still staring into space. “How long has he given you?”
“Till next Sunday,” says Eva - “the fourteenth.”
Sherlock thinks for a moment longer before nodding and springing to his feet. “Thank you, Mrs Brackwell,” he says, crossing the room and holding out his hand for Eva to shake. “I’ll need your details by this afternoon - the email’s on the website.”
Eva stands, shaking Sherlock’s hand and raising her chin. “I give you full authority to make negotiations with him on my behalf,” she says. “You’ll have the information you need by lunchtime.”
With a final nod, Eva Brackwell leaves the flat, her heels clicking down the stairs with professional ease. Sherlock doesn’t move from his place by the sofa, pressing his palms together in front of his chin as his fingers tap an arrhythmic beat. The sound of a car pulling away from the curb reaches them, and John clears his throat and looks across at the still and silent detective.
“Who’s Charles Milverton?” he asks. Sherlock says nothing. “I take it you’ve dealt with him before,” John persists. “What is he, some kind of - professional blackmailer? He’s got a front, I’m assuming. Something with access to people’s dirty laundry.” He glances up, hoping his attempts at deduction will at least coax Sherlock to prove him wrong. “Is he a lawyer or something? Or a - doctor?”
Sherlock remains silent.
“All right, don’t tell me,” John grumbles, pushing himself out of his chair. “Have we got any eggs?” When no answer seems forthcoming, John sighs and crosses to the fridge to check for himself. As it turns out, there are still four, reasonably safe eggs left in the carton, and as John pulls out the frying pan and oil, Sherlock stirs, sitting down at the desk in the living room and opening his laptop.
“You going to eat this morning?” John calls, turning on the stove.
“Some tea would be nice,” Sherlock replies.
John rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, so would some fresh milk.”
“I bought some on Wednesday!”
“Yeah, and you left it out to spoil last night,” John retorts. “Thought you were meant to be smart, world’s only consulting detective and all.”
Sherlock scowls at his computer, but doesn’t reply; John bites his tongue. The approaching sulk is almost tangible, but John resolutely ignores it as the pan begins to sizzle and pop. He cracks two eggs and starts scrambling.
After a while, Sherlock’s restlessness overcomes his need to annoy John, and he rises impatiently from the desk.
“Where are you off to?” John asks, glancing over as Sherlock tugs on his coat.
“I’m buying the milk.”
John frowns, taken aback, his scrambling slowing. “Really?”
“No, I’m just saying that to placate you,” Sherlock replies, straight-faced and indifferent, “I’m actually going out to check if the construction site on Osnaburgh Street is still disrupting traffic.”
“Sherlock.”
He drapes his scarf around his neck and holds back a smile, ignoring the spatula pointed threateningly in his direction. “Yes, I’m getting the milk.”
John’s lips purse in irritation, and he turns back to his eggs. “Just don’t get distracted by some bloody mud patterns or something,” he grumbles. “Again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock smirks, tugging on his gloves. “I assure you, the milk is my highest priority.”
John levels a glare at him, but as he descends the stairs, it’s to the sound of John’s rueful chuckle joining the sizzling of oil in the kitchen.
(Next)
I first wrote an adaptation of Doyle's The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton about... nearly two years ago? Born of an insatiable desire to see one of my favourite stories adapted into the BBC Sherlock universe, it was finally posted in early March of last year; part one can be found here, but I urge no one to read it ever, because what's to come is infinitely better.
About a year ago, almost, I started talking to Sig, who is wonderful, and who read the first Concertos and Blackmail and offered significant criticism and suggestions for improvements, mostly involving a more distinct break from the original material. Thence began months of brainstorming, rewriting, editing, and gross procrastination; and finally, after, what -- at least six months? -- here we are, with an entire, new, over-twice-as-long-and-at-least-as-much-better, CaB.
I sincerely hope what readers it may gain will enjoy it. I put a lot of heart and effort into it (despite the occasional weeks of inactivity; I blame university, but that hardly counts when on summer holidays...), and comments and criticism are greatly welcome. (Gently put, please, and not at all if it's to tell me I'm too florid sometimes, I've been well-informed of that fact already. XD)
So anyway, without further ado -- here we go!
Title: Concertos and Blackmail; or, The Updated Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton
Characters/pairings: Sherlock Holmes + John Watson (mostly gen, but can probably be read as pre-slash if so desired); appearances by Greg Lestrade.
Rating: PG to R, for non-graphic violence, occasional swearing, and activities of dubious legality.
Length: ~43000
Author's note: A thousand thank-yous are to be extended to my wonderful critic, beta and general hand-holder Sig; to my father, for his astonishingly good proof-reading skills; and to mintschnapps, for final britpicking and some utterly wonderful encouragements. I am indebted to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, for the original story this is based on (and its deliciously awful antagonist); to Sig, for the inspiration for most of the action scenes; and, of course, to Moffat, Gatiss, and the BBC for the show and characters used.
Summary: It's around about when John's in a white dinner jacket, shooting out security cameras and running from guards through the skyscraper of a media tycoon-cum-gentleman blackmailer, that he realises he's probably gone well and truly mad. He couldn't really care less, though. And hey -- he and Sherlock started out sharing a flat; how appropriate if they end up sharing a prison cell. (Case!fic based on the original ACD story The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton.)
Part One
For anyone else, waking to the knowledge of a day off work would be a blessing; to John Watson, the knowledge represents a mildly daunting challenge.
Sherlock hasn’t had a proper case in two weeks. (According to the detective, the suicide last week was too easy, and according to both of them, a single night’s stakeout to catch a petty thief definitely doesn’t count.) For three days, John’s been able to escape the inevitable depression by being called in to the clinic - but it seems his run of good luck has ended.
At least the bastard likes a lie-in, he thinks as he descends the stairs, yawning and tugging his track pants more firmly up over his bum. I should at least have a peaceful breakfast. And lunch. And who knows, maybe even dinner. Depends on my luck.
Forgoing the living room, John heads straight for the kitchen and the promise of tea, only to be confronted with the sight of a milk carton sitting, warm and half-full, on the counter. Still clinging to the last vestiges of hope that have managed to survive in their impossible flat, he checks the fridge; but, inevitably, Sherlock hasn’t performed a miracle and gone out to buy more. John lets the door swing shut and grimaces, thumping his head against the cool metal.
“Sherlock, I swear to God...” he mutters under his breath.
“Is someone there?”
John nearly jumps out of his skin at the voice, calling from the living room. He tugs open one of the dividing doors and suddenly becomes very conscious of the fact that he’s wearing nothing more than track pants and a vest, and can practically feel how terrible his bed head is.
The voice belongs to a woman, about Sherlock’s age, in an impeccable skirt suit, her light-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She’s sitting on the sofa, legs crossed in a manner that is at once amicable and professional, one simple-but-stylish black stiletto tapping impatiently in the air.
John frowns. “How’d you get in here?” he asks, blaming his bemusement on the lack of tea in his system.
“Your landlady let me in,” the woman answers. “She said she’d wake Mr Holmes.”
“Ah,” John replies.
The woman raises one carefully-pencilled eyebrow. “You’re very laconic,” she says with a mischievous glint in her eye. John shakes himself.
“Right, sorry,” he mumbles, “just got up. Um - how long have you been sitting there?”
“About twenty minutes,” she answers without looking at her watch.
“Right. And, er - Sherlock hasn’t been out, has he?”
The woman smiles to one side. “No.”
John feels the urge to beat his head against the fridge again. “Hold on a second,” he sighs, “I’ll go wake him.”
“Your landlady didn’t have much luck,” she calls after him, as if in warning.
Sherlock’s bedroom lies at the end of the hall from the kitchen, a short trek which John thinks should be named something ominous, preferably containing the word ‘doom’. It requires a significant amount of effort to open the door, considering the mound of books that has recently materialised behind it, and John counts it as a point in his favour that he makes it the entire two metres to the bed without tripping over any of the many and varied tomes. He finds Sherlock lying on his front with a pillow clutched over his head, his long limbs sprawled across the mattress like pieces of a scarecrow ready for assembly.
“Sherlock, get up, you’ve got a client,” John orders, nudging at Sherlock’s hip. The detective groans and curls up on his side in response, his back to John. “Seriously Sherlock, get the fuck up, she’s been waiting for twenty minutes.”
The only answer is a half-hearted flailing of one leg which might have resembled a vengeful kick if there had been any actual strength behind it. Rolling his eyes, John rips the pillow from Sherlock’s hand and flicks his ear. “Up.”
“Go away,” Sherlock grumbles, tugging the blanket up and over his head. “I’m sleeping.”
“No,” says John, thumping him over the head with the pillow, “you’re getting dressed and you’re going out to talk to the woman who’s been sitting on our sofa for twenty minutes.”
Sherlock snatches his pillow back and wraps it across his ears. “I’m sleeping,” he repeats, muffled by the pillow.
“Oh, no you’re not,” John snaps, pushing at Sherlock’s shoulder. “Get up!” When there’s no response, he half-kneels on the bed and shoves against Sherlock’s back, rolling him toward the edge of the mattress. Sherlock shouts, flailing, and fails to grip John’s arm as he falls, tumbling to the floor in a twisted mess of limbs and sheets.
John stands back, hands resting on his hips. With a grunt and a groan, Sherlock extracts himself from the coiled blanket and drags himself back onto the mattress, burying himself once more in the pillows.
“Oh for God’s sake -”
“Fine!” Sherlock shouts, kicking off the covers and rolling to his feet like a very tall boy unwilling to go to school. “I’ll talk to this idiotic woman, tell her how boring her so-called case is, and go back to sleep.”
John says nothing, deciding to quit while he’s ahead and leaving Sherlock to tug a heavy red dressing grown over his pyjamas. He pops his head into the living room to tell the woman that they’ll be there in a moment before continuing upstairs to dress properly. He returns at the same time that Sherlock appears in suit trousers and a pressed shirt, smoothing down his hair with one hand and buckling his belt with the other.
“Tea,” he says imperiously, sweeping through the kitchen.
“Can’t.” John follows him into the living room and drops into his armchair. “You let the milk spoil.”
The woman on the sofa smiles as they enter. “Having a bit of a tiff, are we?” she jokes. John’s about to protest when Sherlock speaks.
“What do you want?” he demands, folding himself into the chair opposite John.
The woman sobers, taken aback. “I know I can trust you, Mr Holmes, but who’s this?” she says, nodding in John’s direction.
“This is my associate, Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock replies in a monotone.
The woman’s immaculate eyebrow rises again. “No offence to your friend -”
“And colleague,” Sherlock interrupts.
With a furtive glance at John, the woman continues. “This is a very delicate matter, Mr Holmes,” she says, brimming with restrained diplomacy. “The fewer people who know about it, the better.”
“I promise, you won’t find a more trustworthy man than John,” says Sherlock, signalling the end of the dispute. John stares at him, unregarded, stunned by Sherlock’s nonchalant high opinion of him and not a little offended that he’s never said as much to his face. The woman glances at him again, but remains silent. “Good,” Sherlock continues. “Now, if you could tell me who you are and what you want, we can get started.”
The woman takes a fortifying breath. “My name is Eva Brackwell,” she says, “and I’m being blackmailed.”
John sits back and glances at Sherlock, taken aback by the bluntness of the statement. The detective’s face brightens, and he clasps his hands together before his mouth, staring across at Eva Brackwell with intent and intrigue.
“Go on.”
Eva takes a moment to uncross her legs and lean forward. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of me, but I’m a politician,” she explains. “I currently hold a minor role in the Labour Party. You wouldn’t have heard of any of this, but plans have been set in motion which would give me a chance at gaining a... higher office than my current position. These are just plans, you understand, and the - person whose position I will be taking over will, of course -”
Sherlock emits a bored grunt. “Mrs Brackwell, I really don’t care about your political machinations,” he snaps. “You’re looking at a promotion, that’s all that matters.”
A slight frown appears between Eva’s brows. “How did you know I was married?” she asks. “I don’t wear a ring.”
“You just told me,” Sherlock replies with an air of smug frustration. “Now, if we could move on to the blackmail you mentioned earlier…”
“Yes, well - my enemies, especially in the Coalition, will take whatever they can get to defame me,” Eva says delicately. “The scandal that this would produce would reflect on my entire party as well, so I’ll have no support there.”
“What have you done, Mrs Brackwell?”
After a brief hesitation, Eva sighs, meeting Sherlock’s eye. “When I was in university, I was a member of a socialist community there,” she says. “I’d started out studying journalism, and I wrote a couple of articles that were published in one of the Marxist Society’s papers. Someone’s got hold of them.”
There is a moment of silence in which Sherlock’s eyes take on a familiar, glazed look. His presses his fingertips together, tapping them against his lips. “Which university?” he asks.
“London,” Eva answers.
“And the paper?”
“Alternative,” she sighs, as if in mortification. “It was published monthly.”
“How many articles are there?”
“Just the two, both from ’96.”
Sherlock presses his lips together for a moment, thinking. “How bad are they?”
Eva hesitates again, as if weighing her options. “They aren’t entirely horrible,” she says, though even John can tell she’s understating. “Just some objective criticism of capitalism and idealistic praise of communist theory. I grew out of the ideas years ago, but if they came out - or, God forbid, get published - well, I’ll be nothing more than a label, won’t I? The socialist, the communist. I’ll never hold any significant office again.”
“Hang on,” John interrupts, holding up a finger and frowning. “Is it just me, or are we forgetting something here?”
Sherlock’s gaze flicks up to him. “Forgetting something?” he repeats.
John glances between client and detective and back again. “Who’s blackmailing you?”
“Oh, I think I know that already,” says Sherlock. “Anyone else and you wouldn’t need my help, would you, Eva?” He pins her in his gaze and John watches as she holds her breath, blanching.
“Yes,” she says, resignation in the sigh of her breath. “There’s no negotiating with him, not in my position. I didn’t know what else to do, so - I came to you.”
Sherlock nods once with deliberation, the lines around his mouth tightening. “Charles Milverton.” He glances again at Eva. “Yes?”
Eva swallows. “Yes.”
Sherlock takes a breath, and John watches him shift infinitesimally, his muscles tensing and an expression of careful neutrality falling across his features.
“He’s asking seventy thousand to keep it quiet,” Eva continues - “I can’t afford that. Not right before a promotion, not now. Even if it stops that scandal, I won’t be able to keep up my public image. People will talk. It won’t be as bad, but it definitely won’t be good.”
Sherlock says nothing, coiled in his chair, deep in thought and heedless of Eva’s rapt, anxious attention. John remains ignored.
Eventually, Sherlock breaks the silence.
“I’ll need access to your financials,” he murmurs, still staring into space. “How long has he given you?”
“Till next Sunday,” says Eva - “the fourteenth.”
Sherlock thinks for a moment longer before nodding and springing to his feet. “Thank you, Mrs Brackwell,” he says, crossing the room and holding out his hand for Eva to shake. “I’ll need your details by this afternoon - the email’s on the website.”
Eva stands, shaking Sherlock’s hand and raising her chin. “I give you full authority to make negotiations with him on my behalf,” she says. “You’ll have the information you need by lunchtime.”
With a final nod, Eva Brackwell leaves the flat, her heels clicking down the stairs with professional ease. Sherlock doesn’t move from his place by the sofa, pressing his palms together in front of his chin as his fingers tap an arrhythmic beat. The sound of a car pulling away from the curb reaches them, and John clears his throat and looks across at the still and silent detective.
“Who’s Charles Milverton?” he asks. Sherlock says nothing. “I take it you’ve dealt with him before,” John persists. “What is he, some kind of - professional blackmailer? He’s got a front, I’m assuming. Something with access to people’s dirty laundry.” He glances up, hoping his attempts at deduction will at least coax Sherlock to prove him wrong. “Is he a lawyer or something? Or a - doctor?”
Sherlock remains silent.
“All right, don’t tell me,” John grumbles, pushing himself out of his chair. “Have we got any eggs?” When no answer seems forthcoming, John sighs and crosses to the fridge to check for himself. As it turns out, there are still four, reasonably safe eggs left in the carton, and as John pulls out the frying pan and oil, Sherlock stirs, sitting down at the desk in the living room and opening his laptop.
“You going to eat this morning?” John calls, turning on the stove.
“Some tea would be nice,” Sherlock replies.
John rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, so would some fresh milk.”
“I bought some on Wednesday!”
“Yeah, and you left it out to spoil last night,” John retorts. “Thought you were meant to be smart, world’s only consulting detective and all.”
Sherlock scowls at his computer, but doesn’t reply; John bites his tongue. The approaching sulk is almost tangible, but John resolutely ignores it as the pan begins to sizzle and pop. He cracks two eggs and starts scrambling.
After a while, Sherlock’s restlessness overcomes his need to annoy John, and he rises impatiently from the desk.
“Where are you off to?” John asks, glancing over as Sherlock tugs on his coat.
“I’m buying the milk.”
John frowns, taken aback, his scrambling slowing. “Really?”
“No, I’m just saying that to placate you,” Sherlock replies, straight-faced and indifferent, “I’m actually going out to check if the construction site on Osnaburgh Street is still disrupting traffic.”
“Sherlock.”
He drapes his scarf around his neck and holds back a smile, ignoring the spatula pointed threateningly in his direction. “Yes, I’m getting the milk.”
John’s lips purse in irritation, and he turns back to his eggs. “Just don’t get distracted by some bloody mud patterns or something,” he grumbles. “Again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock smirks, tugging on his gloves. “I assure you, the milk is my highest priority.”
John levels a glare at him, but as he descends the stairs, it’s to the sound of John’s rueful chuckle joining the sizzling of oil in the kitchen.
(Next)