Sherlock Holmes in New York (pt 2)
Title: Sherlock Holmes in New York
Rating: R for language, violence, allusions to sexuality, drug use
Pairing: Sherlock/ Irene Adler (past), Sherlock/ John bromance (or pre-slash, if you have your slash goggles on)
Warnings: Nothing extremely graphic, see rating.
Spoilers: All three episodes to be safe.
Wordcount: 24,400
Summary: When Sherlock tracks Moriarty to New York City, he's drawn in to helping an old friend. John isn't sure what to make of any of it.
Betas/ Britpickers: pantropia, herovillian, brewsternorth, marshmellowed
Continued from pt 1
They arrived outside a nondescript brown stone townhouse in what appeared to be a nice neighbourhood. John paid the driver while Sherlock bounded up the front steps. John joined him on the top step and the door was answered by a tall woman in her late 20's or early 30's. She was wearing jeans and an over-large hoodie, her longish red fringe hanging in her eyes. She had a pretty face, although she did have rings in her nose and lip and at least eight hoops in each ear. Her face was drawn and puffy around the eyes. John figured she must be an aunt or family friend.
“That was quick,” she croaked, choking off a watery laugh. She stepped back, ushering them inside. She shut and locked the door behind them. She turned and looked at Sherlock then, head to toe, assessing. “You look good.” Her tone was earnest and a little wistful, her smile uncertain.
“Er, quite. You too.” Sherlock swallowed and averted his eyes.
John wasn't sure what to make of Sherlock's behaviour. He'd seen the man use his full repertoire of acting skills to manipulate clients, witnesses, and just about anyone he wanted something from, but this was different. When he'd first seen Sherlock interact with Mycroft there was passive aggression that passed for Holmes sibling rivalry. With that smarmy git Sebastian, Sherlock had been subdued, possibly a little nervous (not that he would ever admit to it), but still confident and collected. He'd seen Sherlock play coy with Molly to get access to the morgue, which was obviously an act to all but her. The last (and only) time John had seen Sherlock exhibiting this type of discomfort was across the table at Angelo's, when he'd thought John was hitting on him.
The woman paused for another few seconds, then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Sherlock's waist. “Thank you for coming,” she said softly against his shoulder. Sherlock rubbed her shoulder in a comforting way. He caught sight of John's raised eyebrow and cleared his throat, stepping back. “This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson.” On cue, John offered his hand and a politely bland smile. “John, Irene Adler.”
So this was the mother, then. John reasoned she must have been very young when she had her son, unless she'd aged very gracefully or had a bit of work done.
Ms. Adler shook his hand with a polite, “Nice to meet you,” and an equally generic smile. “Do you want some coffee or something? I don't know how you normally do this.”
“Coffee's fine,” Sherlock said.
“Kitchen's this way. I just made a full pot. Figured I'd need it, ya know?” She led them through the foyer, decorated in an eclectic colour scheme of olive green walls and aquamarine trim, down a short hallway into a retro-modern kitchen full of chrome and red Formica. She gestured to the breakfast bar as she pulled three mismatched mugs from a cabinet.
“So I'll just start I guess?” she asked, pouring the coffee. At Sherlock's nod, she continued, “Last time I saw my son was around seven yesterday morning. Leaving for school. I called his teachers today and they said he didn't miss class. He usually gets home from school around four, unless he picks up groceries on the way home, and then it's no later than six-thirty. His phone goes straight to voicemail and he's not answering any texts. I called AT&T about the GPS, but we never activated it, so they can't track the phone. I called all the hospitals in Manhattan, but they wouldn't tell me anything, so I filed a police report this morning. I called them at four and they said the hospitals didn't have any John Does fitting his description. They won't do an Amber Alert unless they can call it an abduction, and the douchebag cop made it pretty clear that it wouldn't be considered one unless there were witnesses.” She set the mugs in front of John and Sherlock, along with the sugar bowl and a small carton of heavy cream. “I have milk and non-dairy, if you prefer. No artificial sweeteners though, sorry.”
“It's fine,” Sherlock answered for the both of them. “What year is your son in?”
“He's a senior this year, but he's sixteen.” John noticed Sherlock stiffen ever so slightly next to him. “I home-schooled him until he was fourteen because we were on the road most of the time, and they skipped him a grade because he was advanced. I'm not bragging or anything, but he could've started college at fourteen. But bureaucracy and the 'need for socialization' and all that bullshit, ya know? So they stuck him in tenth grade.”
“And when is his birthday?” Sherlock's voice was sharp. John had heard the tone countless times in the course of questioning witnesses. It seemed at odds with his behaviour moments before. John quickly replayed the facts presented to determine what detail might have caused Sherlock's abrupt shift. Nothing she'd said so far seemed out of the ordinary for John, except for the “on the road” bit.
Irene turned her head and sighed. Her voice was quiet when she said “March 20th, 1994.”
Sherlock's mouth tightened into a grim line. His voice was clipped when he spoke. “A picture, Irene.”
She left the room and returned a moment later with a framed 8x10 and handed it to him. She was paler than before, obviously anxious. Her eyes never left Sherlock's face.
John studied the portrait. Teenage boy, thin, dark hair cut short, fringe combed forward. Had his mother's eyes and full lips. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Ears stuck out a bit. Kind of odd looking, but not unattractive. The boy didn't look unhappy, just bored, like any other kid having their school photo taken.
Next to him, Sherlock was quiet.
“Say something,” Irene pleaded softly.
Sherlock looked at her then, his face completely blank. “There's nothing for me to say.” His voice was cold.
“I should have expected that,” Irene muttered softly, plucking the photograph from his hand. She set it down on the kitchen table carefully. John heard the rustling and the tell-tale rasp of a cigarette lighter followed by a harsh exhale.
Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, John shifted in his seat. There was obviously something going on that he was missing, but tact prevented him from inquiring about it. Instead he went for politeness. “Do you need a few moments alone?”
“No,” they answered in unison. Irene laughed; a small, bitter sound; shaking her head and dragging on her cigarette. “I'm sorry, Dr. Watson-”
“John, please,” he urged, a reflex.
“-John. Anyway, sorry. I'm kind of a headcase at the moment, I usually have some semblance of manners. What else do you need to know?”
John looked to Sherlock, who gave a slight nod. He had witnessed that particular expression on Sherlock's face in the presence of Mycroft enough to know that, for now, he'd finished talking. Best just go with it and hope to stumble over the right questions. “Who was the last person to see your son?”
“His friends, Fritz and Archie. Fred Brenner and Archie Goodwin. They're in his class and they ride the train together. Archie transfers at 42nd Street and Nero gets off at 72nd Street. Fritz usually stays on until 96th, but he went home with Archie. I talked to both of them last night. Nero was on the train with them. I told them to call me if they heard anything.” She strode over to the worktop and flicked her ash in the sink.
“And he's never gone anywhere without checking in?”
“Christ, you sound just like a cop. Let me impress this upon you now. I know my kid. Fritz and Archie are the first friends he's ever had. Period. Before that it was just me and him...” She twirled her hand in a vague manner.
“Him and me,” Sherlock mumbled.
“You still do that?” She turned to John. “He does that?”
“He does. But you were saying...”
“Whatever. Anyway, he and I are sickly co-dependent. When he was young, I toured a lot. Pretty much non-stop from the ages of three to twelve. I was young when I had him, and in a lot of ways we grew up together.” She paused to take a drag off her cigarette.
“What, ah, what is it you do, exactly?”
“I'm a rockstar.”
Sherlock snorted. “Please. One gold album and a Grammy nomination hardly make you a rock star.”
“I didn't know you cared,” she sneered.
“You're not the only person who can use an internet search engine,” Sherlock bit back.
John cleared his throat, giving Sherlock a pointed look, before trying to get the conversation back on track. “Please continue.”
“It's not like this is some sudden rebellion thing. He's a total hermit, almost to the point of agoraphobia. It's like pulling teeth to get him to go out, unless it's to a grocery store or the Botanical Gardens. He's not like other kids his age at all. He doesn't want to go to shows or the mall or whatever normal kids do. He only uses his phone to call me when he's going to be late, he doesn't even text.”
“Is there anyone you can think of that would want to hurt him, or use him to hurt you?”
“Not really. I mean, sometimes I get weird fan mail, but nothing overly creepy, or anything that would send up a red flag. No like, Mark David Chapman shit or anything. I'm really not that famous or anything, but I have a solid fanbase. Mostly 20-something hipsters and college kids. I don't like, owe money to the mob. I might have a nice house, but I'm not really rich, and there was no ransom note or anything.” She tapped the pads of her fingers on the worktop, thinking. “Um... As for personal relationships- there hasn't been one in a long time. Last guy I seriously dated was like seven years ago. He was the lawyer for my old record label. It was serious for a while, but he couldn't deal with my lifestyle. It was an amicable parting, and last I talked to him, he was getting married to some chick. That was like... three? years ago, something like that. No jilted ex- lovers or anything.”
“And, uh, what about his father?”
“Not in the picture.”
“When is the last time you or your son had contact with him?”
“Not 'til about two hours ago,” she replied with a rueful grin.
“John,” Sherlock said softly.
“And before that?”
“John.” Sherlock gave him a sideways look.
“Seventeen years and change.”
“Oh.” Then everything slotted into place, starting with the odd tension and ending with the boy's cheekbones. “What? No.” John felt his face heat as he looked to Sherlock. “You? Wait. What?”
“Yes John, the boy is obviously my son, and his mother neglected to share that detail with me.” He jumped from his stool and began pacing. “Tell me, Reeny, how many people have you deigned important enough to know?”
Irene stubbed her cigarette in the sink and wheeled on Sherlock. “No one knows. Not my parents, not him. Your name's not even on his birth certificate. He knows that I'll tell him when he turns eighteen and is then legally old enough to get any answers he wants for himself. If I die before he turns eighteen, there's a safety deposit box in Trenton with all the Adler family documents, and in there is a picture of you with your name written on the back. There's one key, and I keep it in the safe in my bedroom.”
“And when he turned eighteen were you going to tell me too? Or just let him turn up on my doorstep so we could have some teary-eyed reunion and hug?”
“You're a bastard, you know that?” Irene was trembling with rage.
“No, I think you'll find our son is a bastard,” he said, voice dripping with venom.
John could see the punch in slow motion, but Sherlock must have been too worked up to anticipate it. Irene's fist landed squarely on Sherlock's jaw with a dull, meaty thud. He staggered back, his hand coming up to cradle his face automatically.
“Fuck,” she hissed, shaking out her hand. She grabbed the dish towel hanging from the stove handle and went to the freezer. Sherlock stood stock still, tracking her movement with his eyes. She filled the towel with ice and handed it to him. “I'm not sorry,” she said, her voice low. “I made a choice.” She pulled another towel out of a drawer and iced her own hand. She looked John straight in the eyes. “He brings out the worst in me. Please, you have to understand, I'm not a violent or angry person, I swear. I haven't hit anybody since I was a kid. He just knows how to push.” The last was said with an icy glare at the detective. She grabbed the cigarettes off the table and lit two. She handed one to Sherlock, who accepted it with out any hint of facial expression. The gesture seemed one born of familiarity.
John had quite possibly just witnessed the quickest and strangest domestic he had ever seen (and there had been many occasions to witness in his childhood). The woman was clearly taxed beyond her limits with worry, and Sherlock was often a catalyst for violence. John was also still processing the fact that Sherlock, like all normal teenagers, had had sex. Moreover, sex with a female. For the last nine months, John had been operating under the assumption that Sherlock was homosexual (Angelo, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock's own brother assuming they were an item, along with that early awkward conversation), or possibly asexual, since he'd never shown any interest or inclination. As he looked between the two of them, John tried valiantly not to picture the logistics.
John had been privy to many dark secrets being revealed while on the case with Sherlock, but never any of Sherlock's own. Well, the thing about the drugs, but that was apparently common knowledge at the Yard. This was something private. Personal.
Not wanting to intrude further, but feeling a need to diffuse the tension, John coughed politely into his fist. “I could. Um. Take a look at your hand, if you'd like. I am a medical doctor.”
Irene broke eye contact with Sherlock and offered John a courteous smile. “No, but thank you. It's fine. I really am sorry for my behaviour.”
“I understand. This is a stressful situation.”
“My jaw is fine, John, thanks for asking. Just a hairline fracture, I'm sure,” Sherlock sniped from his position near the kitchen window.
John steadfastly ignored Sherlock. “As I was saying, I know this is a highly emotional situation, but-” John was stopped by three simultaneous chirps. John and Sherlock shared a look as they dug their phones from their pockets. . John thumbed open the new text with a knot of dread forming in his stomach.
Feeling left out, Johnny?
“John, what does it say?”
John glanced at Irene, who had gone white as a sheet. John repeated the message. “Yours?”
“It's eleven pm, do you know where your children are?”
“Same,” Irene croaked. She paused for a moment, looking dazed, then bolted through the door in the hallway into the lounge, John and Sherlock followed quickly behind. She turned on the TV and flicked through the channels until she found the station she was looking for. There was a car commercial on.
“Irene, what-” Sherlock began.
“It was this old PSA from when I was kid. Everyone knows it. It used to run just before the news came on. Oh God, what is this?” She abruptly stopped talking as the theme music played.
They watched in silence as the anchor read through reports of homicide and robbery. “And tonight's top story- a fire gutted a Lower Manhattan nightclub in the early hours of the morning.” Images of a burning building and fire-fighters. The camera cut to a crowd of bystanders as the voice-over continued, “Fire officials are still investigating the source of the blaze at Love, a popular dance club on West 8th Street. Witnesses say the fire started in the back of the club.” They cut to an on-the-street view of club patrons milling about behind a barricade.
John's breath left him when the camera cut to the eyewitness being interviewed. “It was horrible, just horrible! I mean there was smoke everywhere and all these people were just trying to get out...” John could barely discern the words over the pounding of the blood in his ears. The blue bar beneath the man read Artie Moore, but it was most definitely Jim Moriarty (gelled hair and eye make-up, shimmery tight black sleeveless shirt, black and reflective neon green rave trousers) on the screen. His accent was very gay and a little New York, not a hint of Irish to be heard.
There was another eyewitness interview and the anchor, atonal and solemn, wrapped up with, “Fire officials have not released information on how many perished in that fire in Greenwich Village.” The program cut to commercial.
Sherlock began frantic pacing. “He led us here. How long has he been planning this?” He wheeled on Irene and grabbed her arms. “Who else knows I'm the boy's father?”
“No one! I told you!”
“Think, Irene!” He gave her a little shake for emphasis. “You never mentioned it in passing to anyone, even just my first or last name?”
She opened her mouth, about to vehemently deny it, when a look of recognition crossed her features. “Our first album. The liner notes. Oh God. Let go, let me look!” Sherlock released her and she turned to one of the bookcases lining the wall. She grabbed a CD and ripped out the insert, flipping it open. She scanned the inside of the back page and read aloud, “Irene would like to thank blah blah blah, S. H., for giving her the only gift she could never replace. Fuck. It's vague, I meant it to be vague!”
John caught a glimpse of the album cover. A black and white photo of a woman dressed in Victorian lingerie pointing to a man in a top hat wearing a corset and suit trousers. Across the bottom, in a font reminiscent of a period newspaper, the title read “The Scandal In Bohemia!”
“It's obvious, Irene! You may as well have written 'To Sherlock Holmes, the father of my illegitimate child and given my address and phone number!” He threw his hands in the air, bending until his nose was almost touching hers. Irene looked stricken.
“Sherlock!”
With one final gnashing of teeth, the detective straightened and twirled, stalking to the opposite side of the room.
Irene's face flushed a deep red. “You knew that man. Who is he? Would one of you tell me what the fucking hell is going on?” She screeched.
“Shut up! I need to think!” Sherlock bellowed.
“Both of you just calm down!” Irene and Sherlock both startled at John's exclamation. He took a deep breath through his nose and raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Ms. Adler, we'll explain everything, we really will.” He turned his eyes to Sherlock. “The nightclub fire, a nightclub named 'Love,' this is a message.” He held up a palm to stave off Sherlock's no doubt snide remark. “Is he aware that you didn't know you had a son?”
“At the very least he thinks we're estranged. We don't have time for this! He's left us something in that club.” Sherlock resumed his frantic pacing. “I have no resources here, no network. The police will have already found anything and have it locked up in evidence-”
“We do have one resource,” John said, drawing out his phone.
“No.”
“Sherlock.”
“No! I will not owe him another favour.”
“Sherlock! There is a boy out there, your child, being held by a madman. Your rivalry getting in the way of finding him is just about as not good as you can get.” John didn't like it either, truth be told, but it was the only viable option at this point.
John took it as permission when Sherlock ruffled his hands through his hair and stalked out of the lounge.
Mycroft answered on the third ring. “Ah, Doctor Watson. To what do I owe the pleasure at this early hour? Has my brother already caused an international incident?”
Continued here