Chameleon Chapter 5
Title: Chameleon
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John, iffily platonic Harry/John
Rating: R
Features/Warnings: Crossover with the Sentinel, AU, Plotfic. Forced Bonding, Non-con, coersion, imprisonment, incesty vibes, mild violence.
Summary: Written for This Prompt: In a world filled with Sentinels with heightened senses, strength and endurance, and Guides, with seductive empathy, who knew that seeming "ordinary" could be John's greatest strength.
Word count: 4300
A/N: Pretending to be British is freaking tough. I tried my best but if you see an obvious Americanism, let me know.
I'm taking tons of liberties with the layout and size of Barts. Surprisingly enough, they don't have their floorplans on line. Anyway, if you've been to Barts and noticed that they don't actually have a working A & E anymore, then... remember this is an AU and laugh.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Hope caught Mycroft in the hall, jogging up to him on his small legs. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you.”
“I trust it wasn’t too difficult a search,” said Mycroft dryly. They were ten feet outside of his office, where, outside of fetching Sherlock, he’d been all day.
“If we could - in your office.” Hope didn’t wait. Moving with nervous energy he opened the door to Mycroft’s office and stepped in. Reluctantly Mycroft followed. Hope closed the door behind him and stood stolidly on his heels in front of it, as if to use his slight body to block Mycroft from escaping. “So. You remember the bit of a cock up we had last night with the flighty Guide?”
Mycroft sighed. “I’m painfully aware of it.” His legs were still feeling last night’s run. Not waiting (or expecting) for Hope to settle down, he sat down behind his desk and crossed his arms.
“Well, it turned into a bit more of a cock up this morning, I’m afraid. Home Office is not happy with us.” Hope pressed his lips together and made a comically deep frown. “Bonding-On-Site is bad enough, but the breaking and entering and property damage is right over the top.”
“I talked to Sentinel Wilkes this morning and explained the situation,” said Mycroft, tiredly. Wilkes was the deputy director for Sentinel Affairs in charge of London and South-East England. Bright, ambitious, and as to be expected given the plum position, greedy. And young as well - a good six years younger than Mycroft. Mycroft couldn’t help but admire the ruthless way he used his natural handsomeness and energy to achieve his goals. He certainly knew how to sweep a matter under a rug. “Home Office is appraised of all the details.”
“Yeah, I know you did,” said Hope doing a fair job of disguising his anger behind a false smile, “Got my ear just about torn off over it. Not our best career move I have to admit.” You are in this with me, he didn’t say, If I go down, I’m taking you with me.
As if.
Mycroft sighed. “Wilkes told me that the situation was being turned over to the PR department. The damages will be paid for. He agreed that, under the circumstances, Ames could hardly be faulted for being over zealous.” Mycroft suddenly frowned. Hope already knew all this. “What’s the problem?”
“Ye-ah,” said Hope slowly, “So, see, there’s been a development.”
Mycroft put a hand to his chin. Not good.
“The PR man says that they found bloody fingerprints at the scene. On the broken door to be exact.”
“Ames.“ Mycroft nodded. “He injured his hand in the fight.”
“Yeah, we know that, Home Office knows that, but the Guide’s wife thinks it was her husband’s blood. She’s calling a news conference in an hour claiming that London Tower is abusing it’s Guides. That we are too rough in our hunts. She is going to demand to see her husband to make sure that he’s not injured.” Ames shook his head.
“And what does Wilkes say?”
“His PR guy wants us to have the Guide tell his wife that he is fine.” That would be one solution. Hope, however, clearly didn’t like it. “I think that would be a bad idea,” Hope confirmed. “Traumatic bonds like his need some time to cement. Reminding him of what he’s lost - giving him false hope that he might get it back - the consequences for the bond - for Sentinel Ames -“
Ah yes. “You think if Guide were put on camera he’d confirm his wife’s fears just to spite us,” summarised Mycroft. Hope did know the Guide better than he did. He sighed gustily and wiped his face. “I’ll talk to Wilkes. Maybe we can get some pictures of him - dear god, I hope he isn’t too bruised up.” No. Not worth risking even that. There was a better way, but Wilkes wasn’t going to like it.
“Alright,” said Mycroft coming to a decision. “This is my territory, leave it to me. You keep that Guide and his Sentinel happy and contained. Don’t let either get word of this. And hopefully there won’t be any news conference for them to read about later.” He opened his laptop and shooed Hope away. Hope hesitated just a moment before getting the message that his presence was no longer required or wanted. Mycroft didn’t bother to look up as the door closed on the disgruntled matchmaker.
The first thing Mycroft did was check to confirm Hopes story. Hacking wasn’t precisely part of Mycroft’s job, but he’d found it a useful hobby. It helped to keep track of who was who and what was going on where. Sherlock was right, solving the same problem over and over again wasn’t really enough to keep his interest. He was good at it, but he was good at other things as well. One day, the Tower’s elderly and increasingly absent Alpha would step down, and Mycroft rather fancied stepping into his shoes when that happened. And yes. There it is.
Hopes warning was true. All the local news media had been issued a press release outlining the complaint. The wife had procured herself a lawyer - or perhaps it was the other way around. She was planning on staging the conference in the park across the street from the Tower. It would make for a nice visual to have the looming dark spire in the background, while she held her babies and wept about her poor husband being taken prisoner by the nasty people who protect the country. Bah. He was getting cynical.
He next took a quick back-door trip through Sentinel Affairs’ finances. Yes, that would do.
Then finally, two minutes after Hope had left, he called up Wilkes on his private line.
“Not a good time, Holmes,” said the young deputy director, a bit petulantly. “I’m in a conference with donors.” What background came through the connection sounded rather like the clinking of glasses. Conference at a bar, apparently. “I’ve set Gerry up to oversee your matter. Talk with him.”
“I’m afraid this is a bit above Gerry’s pay grade,” said Mycroft. “I take it you haven’t heard about the press conference.”
“Gerry called a press conference?” Oh yes, that had Wilkes attention.
“Not Gerry - the wife.” Mycroft went on to explain the situation.
“Hold on -“ Wilkes interrupted him about midway through, the next words came muffled as if the phone were held to his shoulder. “Sorry gentlemen, but this is turning out to be rather important. Buy another round, I’ll be back in ten.” A few moments later Wilkes spoke again, with less ambient noise in the background. “So I know you, Holmes. You wouldn’t be calling me if you didn’t already have a solution in mind. Spit it out. I really am busy.”
“I’m thinking five hundred thousand pounds - on a payment schedule, doled out monthly over 20 years. That’s 25,000 a year - about as much as her husband made in salary. She’ll be able to stay at home while her children are small, it will be an extra bonus when she returns to work. If she remarries even better. But not a penny if she goes forward with this accusation. We cut her off. She must sign a gag order.”
Wilkes snorted. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Over twenty years it will barely put a ding in your budget. You have the funds. I checked.”
“What if it’s not enough. She might ask for a million. Or two.”
“She’s got no job and small children to take care of and her only source of income has vanished into our Tower. It’ll be winning the lottery for her. She won’t question it. If she does, her lawyer will quickly advise her otherwise.”
“I don’t like this precedent,” said Wilkes doubtfully. “We don’t have the budget to do this every time a Guide is pulled from his family. I want something in return, Holmes.”
“What?” Mycroft frowned. He stared out the window at the long late afternoon shadows, as if it were possible to detect Wilkes directly from this distance. He had a terrible suspicion he knew what what Wilkes wanted. It wasn’t going to happen. It simply wasn’t.
“I heard a rumour that the Bart’s case has come up again. That’s the Guide who can disguise himself from hunts, the Phantom I think you call him?”
And that was how Wilkes had gotten his position. Anger burned in Mycroft’s belly. Who had blabbed his business to Wilkes? There had to be a mole somewhere in the Tower. Mycroft pressed his lips together. “Yes, he’s come up,” he said, guardedly. “And I’m dealing with him.”
“Does that mean you finally have a lead?”
“Not so much a lead as a different approach.”
“Yes, you put your brother on the case.” Definitely a mole, thought Mycroft. “Do you think he’ll be able to find him,” asked Wilkes. There was an oily quality to his voice that made Mycroft suspect he was being felt out.
“I think it’s quite possible,” said Mycroft. “If anyone can, Sherlock can. He’s really quite clever that way.”
“Yes, I know. Here’s the deal: You get the money to make your mess disappear, if I get that Guide.”
There it was. Mycroft let out a sigh and relaxed. Not too bad. For a bit there he’d been certain that Wilkes would demand Sherlock sign himself over to MI5. There was no way Sherlock would agree to that.
“Agreed,” said Mycroft quickly.
“I’ve looked over the case,” Wilkes went on. “If this Phantom can lay so low that a flood of Sentinels can’t find him, it seems that we could really use that talent for our covert operations. I have an elite class of unbonded Sentinels currently in training. They’ll be given leave from MI6 and temporarily reassigned to your Tower. When you bring the Guide in, I want one of them in that interview room, I don’t care how many needier Sentinels you might have. They are top of the list - in fact they are the only ones on the list. Do you understand? Make it clear to Hope as well. We want the Phantom hunting down terrorists in Afghanistan, as soon as possible.”
Mycroft nodded. “You’ve made your point, quite…” he paused for words, “repetitively.”
“One thing,” said Wilkes, ignoring the jibe. “I hear your brother is also unbonded. Let him know that under no circumstances is he to bond with the this Guide. He is spoken for.”
“My brother rarely listens to me. But I sincerely doubt he’ll bond. He’s shows nothing but contempt for the idea in the past. He feels it would fetter his independence.”
Wilkes laughed. “Well good. Independence is that important to him. But just in case he gets tempted - let him know that I’ll draw up papers letting him keep that ridiculous job of his indefinitely if he brings the Phantom in, unbonded. That should be enough to keep his sticky fingers off.”
“I’m sure,” said Mycroft, surprised again. They must really want that Guide, he thought. “I’ll give him a call right away.”
“Yes, yes, as if I would,” snapped Sherlock into the phone, his voice dripping with contempt. “Next time wait until you have something important to say before you interrupt me at work.” He hung up on Mycroft and jammed the phone back into it’s case on his belt. Then looked up at a very uncomfortable looking hospital administrator. “My wife,” he lied, quirking his lips into a false smile. For some reason that didn’t seem to make her happier.
Dr. Lambert (dyed brunette, 52 years old, avid tenpin bowler) cleared her voice and looked at his resume spread in front of her as well as the request sent down from the DH. She forced a prim smile back at him.
“Well?”
“Well, Mr. Boudin, of course you have our cooperation. And the last thing I want is to be difficult. But I want to assure you, this hospital is already cut to the quick as far as funding is concerned. There is no ‘fat’ left to trim. We are the only hospital in the greater London metropolitan area that is designed specifically to see to the needs of Sentinels. As such, we have some expenses other hospitals don’t. The air filters must be changed weekly to prevent strong hospitals smells. We can’t use florescent lighting - the hum, the flickering, the limited spectrum all irritate Sentinel senses. The drapes, the wallpaper, all are Sentinel certified - similar to what the Tower uses itself. And I know they are more expensive - it all builds up - but we can’t very well get rid of them either, or we wouldn’t be what we are!”
“I know all about the Sentinel specific improvements, Dr. Lambert,” said Sherlock smoothly. “What my office is more interested in is ways to cut down inefficiency at a more … personal level.”
“I don’t understand,” said Dr. Lambert.
“I’m talking about making your people more efficient and what they do best, by removing the things that make them inefficient. The goal isn’t to slash your budget,” Lambert visibly relaxed at that, “It’s to make the budget we have given you work better.” She tightened up again, befuddled as to what exactly Sherlock was getting at. Since Sherlock wasn’t really getting at much of anything (other than the freedom to do anything he wanted around the hospital unchallenged) he pressed on. “I’d like to take one of the conference rooms in the North wing, and talk with some of your long time employees - brainstorm with them about the things that reduce their efficiency.”
“Which long time employees?” asked Lambert, suspiciously.
“Anyone who has worked or studied in the building for more than 8 years,” he said, just to be careful, the Phantom had been their 10. “Not just doctors and nurses, I want office personnel, janitors, aides, technicians, medical students.” Sherlock had already eliminated the patients: anyone sick enough to be in and out of the hospital for 10 years would be too ill to fend off a chase. Nor could it be a visitor: ten of the 56 events had happened past visiting hours. That also excluded the vendors, who closed up shop promptly at 8pm, the kitchen staff, and most, but not all of the clerks.
“That’s a lot of people,” said Lambert. “More than can fit in a conference room.”
“We’ll divide them up into lots. Start with the nurses. Then the doctors and so on. If you could arrange that -“
Lambert just frowned deeper. “It’s going to be incredibly disruptive, Mr. Boudin, I do hope you realise that. You are talking about hundreds of people. Not all of them are on shift right now, and those who are are busy. How long will each of these brainstorming sessions take?”
Sherlock reached into his imagination and pulled out a random number. “Half an hour will do. I’ll go set up.”
Lambert’s eyes grew larger. “What, you mean to start right now?”
“Well, I am here!” said Sherlock, grinning. “It would hardly do to waste time. Efficiency!” he reminded her.
She clucked her tongue. “Well I do wish you’d set up an appointment earlier. I need three hours - minimum!” she said. “And I can’t just denude a department so you can talk to everyone. This place isn’t like other businesses, we have to keep working. I’ll call the department heads and they’ll send down people as they can afford them.”
“Only people who have been here for 8 years or more - including time spent as students.”
Dr. Lambert clearly thought he was potty, but she didn’t say so. “If that’s what you want, Mr. Boudin. Now if you please, I suddenly have a lot more work this afternoon than I was expecting.”
“Very well, I’ll use the time to give the hospital a visual inspection.” This didn’t please her at all.
“Hold on, I’ll get you an escort.” She reached for her intercom.
Sherlock raised his hand. “No need. In fact, better that I do it on my own.” He wrinkled his nose in a way some people thought fetching. “Don’t worry. I’ll be discrete.”
Dr. Lambert glared at him. Then made a sudden whooshing gesture with her hand. The meaning was unmistakable: Go! Go! Sherlock got.
“You aren’t serious,” said Sarah Sawyer leaning forward so that her elbows rested on her desk calendar. “Oh for craps sake. Tell me your kidding, Janice.” John looked up from the glazed donut he was idly eating and raised a brow at her. Sarah bugged her eyes back at him as if she couldn’t possibly express the depth of the absurdity she was being asked to perform. “I can’t do that Janice,” she said. “I can - no. Listen, I’ll ask.”
She turned to John. “Are you too busy to spend half an hour brainstorming hospital efficiency, John?”
John swallowed his bite of pastry and nodded gamely. “Absolutely. Completely slammed. Not a minute to spare.”
“Dr. Watson has a floor full of sick people he needs to attend to,” Sarah said into the phone, grinning. “And the nurses - no they are even busier - I.” Sarah’s smile went away and she took a more serious tone. “Okay. Okay. I can spare him at 7 pm.” She hung up.
John frowned. “I thought I was too busy.”
“Apparently there’s a bug up someone’s butt,” said Sarah. “Sorry. I really tried to spare you. I got to send you, Nate, Micheal, and Fiona down to that big conference room in the West Wing. She threatened to look at my time sheets.”
“Sorry,” said John tightly. What on Earth was this about? It made him nervous that there was a change in routine so close to that near miss with the Sentinel. Apparently, after he’d left, they’d swept the place for him, he’d been that obvious. What if they found something? John thought. What if they are luring me down away so they can get a better sniff of me. No, no this is paranoid, John reassured himself. It probably was just a brainstorming conference as ridiculous as that sounded.
“Couldn’t be helped. It was your sister,” Sarah was saying as she fussily retied her blonde hair back in a ponytail. She caught John’s worried look. “Don’t worry, just put in your half hour and it’ll be done. Janice says it’s the entire hospital not just us.”
John felt a bit reassured.
“Just,” blurted Sarah suddenly. “I know you are full of ideas, but don’t get too creative, John. If anyone asks, we need everything. We need more of everything, in fact. Efficiency, I bet, they are just trying to trim the budget on our department instead of looking to where the real money drains are.”
John shrugged. That could be it, too. His mouth was suddenly too dry to be eating. He leaned over and tossed the rest of the pastry in the rubbish bin. “It’s possible he just really does want to make us more efficient.”
Sarah’s cheeks puffed out, then she burst into laugher. “See this is why I’m department head and you aren’t, John. Go do your rounds.” She laughed again. “Oh, and throw me one of those puffs, will you. Then take the rest away or I’m going to get huge. Give it to the nurses.”
“You want to keep the Thank You note?” he asked. John reached in and tossed her a round fluffy pastry. She caught it easily and stuck it in her mouth, then nodded and pointed at her desk. John pulled the note off the lid of the box and gave it to her, then closed up the box and tucked it on his arm.
“Efficiency, my fat arse,” he heard her mutter as he walked out.
John’s smile stayed on all the way out her door. Then it faded. He suspected Sarah was right, this had nothing to do with efficiency and everything to do with someone’s agenda. Hopefully it was just another cost cutting crusade. But just in case…
He dropped the donuts off at the nurses station, then headed on to the supply cupboard and found a small bottle of smelling salts. He put it in his jacket pocket. A sprinkle of this and any Sentinel trying to sniff him out was going to get a big surprise.
You could never be too safe, after all.
The first stop on Sherlock’s tour of the Hospital was the A & E. He walked over to the doorway of the isolation room, where Vin had been kept the night before. The place stank of cleaners, but there was a spot on a wall where a bit of the man’s blood had been missed. Sherlock looked pointedly around, but saw no cameras anywhere in the room. He stepped out and looked up and down the hall. There was a camera, descretely tucked away in a plastic housing. It was pointing down the hall at the main door, away from the curtained patient bays.
“May I help you, sir?” Sherlock turned and saw a nurse (Alicia Mckenzie, had a string of casual boyfriends, went clubbing the night before).
He gave her a disarming smile and pointed. “Is that the only security camera in the entire A & E?”
She looked up at the camera, then back at him. “Why do you want to know?”
Thankfully, it only took about a minute to fast talk her into cooperation. She showed him the camera trained on the controlled drugs cabinet and the several on the waiting area and A & E enterance. But the Sentinels had not sniffed the Phantom anywhere near either of those areas. Apparently there were no cameras on any of the rooms because of “patient privacy” reasons - though Sherlock rather suspected “hospital accountability" came closer.
He walked out of the A & E the way he suspected the Phantom had - through the back doors into the hall that lead towards the main lobby of the hospital. This was where the six Sentinels had spotted the Phantom. A ghost of a scent concentrated mainly on one of the lifts. Sherlock glanced around. There was a security camera pointed obliquely at the bank of lifts. And two more taking different angles of the sweeping lobby, one focused at the main entrance, the other at the information desk. There were no cameras in the lifts themselves.
Not very helpful. Sherlock’s hope of getting a good look of the Phantom on camera grew dimmer after he’d tracked down the main security office deep in the hospital basement. He followed directions down a narrow, pipe bedecked hallway to a room with a metal cage for a door. That door was propped open now, and someone was seated watching banks of monitors. There was a mike in front of him, and banks and banks of cases and outdated computers stacked one on another and collecting dust. He looked up as Sherlock approached, then stood up. “Can I help you, sir?”
Sherlock flashed a smile, then his badge. “This is the security centre for the hospital?”
“Yessir,” said the guard (Dan, heart disease, fond of curry, not so fond of doing the laundry).
“Claude Boudin,” Sherlock introduced. “Efficiency analyst. Would you mind if I took a look at your equipment?”
Dan did mind, but after a call to management, he folded nicely. Sherlock was able to get him to demonstrate the extent of the surveillance equipment. Unfortunately, it was just as awful as Sherlock suspected. The cameras were black and white and took a frame every five seconds. He was able to convince the officer to play back the cameras on the lifts and the A & E door. The equipment on this end wasn’t much better. It relied on bank of videotape recorders connected to a 1995 Dell desktop.
“Is there something you are looking for?” asked Dan. On screen the Sentinels rushed into frame, then looked about.
“Yes. Hush.” He ran back the segment.
There. There he was - first point of data standing by the lift. The Phantom was definitely a man - difficult to tell height from the angle, but Sherlock guessed, based on where the man’s elbow came up to the buttons, that he was on the small side 5’6”- 5’8” Which fit the Guide profile. They tended to be shorter and slimmer - something in the constellation of genes. The black and white made it difficult to guess hair colour, but it seemed light: brownish or blond, perhaps grey. Wearing a white doctor’s jacket over scrubs. The man had his head resolutely turned away from the camera. Only once did he partially turn his head, but the grainy quality of the film didn’t make that much better. Nonetheless, Sherlock took a screen shot and printed it out.
And again, the A & E camera. This time the Guide was in a hurry, so only a single shot of him in frame. He appeared to be staring at the floor, giving the camera a rather good look at the top of his head. Sherlock took a screen-shot anyway.
Yes! In the space of three hours he’d brought the list of possibilities from over a thousand down to couple dozen at best. Now to wait until the the man in this print out showed up to his “brainstorming” conference. Sherlock could have this wrapped up by dinner time.
“Easy, Peasy,” said Sherlock. Ignoring the baffled Security guard, he ran his finger gently over the obscured face. “‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the spider to the fly.”
Chapter 6
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John, iffily platonic Harry/John
Rating: R
Features/Warnings: Crossover with the Sentinel, AU, Plotfic. Forced Bonding, Non-con, coersion, imprisonment, incesty vibes, mild violence.
Summary: Written for This Prompt: In a world filled with Sentinels with heightened senses, strength and endurance, and Guides, with seductive empathy, who knew that seeming "ordinary" could be John's greatest strength.
Word count: 4300
A/N: Pretending to be British is freaking tough. I tried my best but if you see an obvious Americanism, let me know.
I'm taking tons of liberties with the layout and size of Barts. Surprisingly enough, they don't have their floorplans on line. Anyway, if you've been to Barts and noticed that they don't actually have a working A & E anymore, then... remember this is an AU and laugh.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Hope caught Mycroft in the hall, jogging up to him on his small legs. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you.”
“I trust it wasn’t too difficult a search,” said Mycroft dryly. They were ten feet outside of his office, where, outside of fetching Sherlock, he’d been all day.
“If we could - in your office.” Hope didn’t wait. Moving with nervous energy he opened the door to Mycroft’s office and stepped in. Reluctantly Mycroft followed. Hope closed the door behind him and stood stolidly on his heels in front of it, as if to use his slight body to block Mycroft from escaping. “So. You remember the bit of a cock up we had last night with the flighty Guide?”
Mycroft sighed. “I’m painfully aware of it.” His legs were still feeling last night’s run. Not waiting (or expecting) for Hope to settle down, he sat down behind his desk and crossed his arms.
“Well, it turned into a bit more of a cock up this morning, I’m afraid. Home Office is not happy with us.” Hope pressed his lips together and made a comically deep frown. “Bonding-On-Site is bad enough, but the breaking and entering and property damage is right over the top.”
“I talked to Sentinel Wilkes this morning and explained the situation,” said Mycroft, tiredly. Wilkes was the deputy director for Sentinel Affairs in charge of London and South-East England. Bright, ambitious, and as to be expected given the plum position, greedy. And young as well - a good six years younger than Mycroft. Mycroft couldn’t help but admire the ruthless way he used his natural handsomeness and energy to achieve his goals. He certainly knew how to sweep a matter under a rug. “Home Office is appraised of all the details.”
“Yeah, I know you did,” said Hope doing a fair job of disguising his anger behind a false smile, “Got my ear just about torn off over it. Not our best career move I have to admit.” You are in this with me, he didn’t say, If I go down, I’m taking you with me.
As if.
Mycroft sighed. “Wilkes told me that the situation was being turned over to the PR department. The damages will be paid for. He agreed that, under the circumstances, Ames could hardly be faulted for being over zealous.” Mycroft suddenly frowned. Hope already knew all this. “What’s the problem?”
“Ye-ah,” said Hope slowly, “So, see, there’s been a development.”
Mycroft put a hand to his chin. Not good.
“The PR man says that they found bloody fingerprints at the scene. On the broken door to be exact.”
“Ames.“ Mycroft nodded. “He injured his hand in the fight.”
“Yeah, we know that, Home Office knows that, but the Guide’s wife thinks it was her husband’s blood. She’s calling a news conference in an hour claiming that London Tower is abusing it’s Guides. That we are too rough in our hunts. She is going to demand to see her husband to make sure that he’s not injured.” Ames shook his head.
“And what does Wilkes say?”
“His PR guy wants us to have the Guide tell his wife that he is fine.” That would be one solution. Hope, however, clearly didn’t like it. “I think that would be a bad idea,” Hope confirmed. “Traumatic bonds like his need some time to cement. Reminding him of what he’s lost - giving him false hope that he might get it back - the consequences for the bond - for Sentinel Ames -“
Ah yes. “You think if Guide were put on camera he’d confirm his wife’s fears just to spite us,” summarised Mycroft. Hope did know the Guide better than he did. He sighed gustily and wiped his face. “I’ll talk to Wilkes. Maybe we can get some pictures of him - dear god, I hope he isn’t too bruised up.” No. Not worth risking even that. There was a better way, but Wilkes wasn’t going to like it.
“Alright,” said Mycroft coming to a decision. “This is my territory, leave it to me. You keep that Guide and his Sentinel happy and contained. Don’t let either get word of this. And hopefully there won’t be any news conference for them to read about later.” He opened his laptop and shooed Hope away. Hope hesitated just a moment before getting the message that his presence was no longer required or wanted. Mycroft didn’t bother to look up as the door closed on the disgruntled matchmaker.
The first thing Mycroft did was check to confirm Hopes story. Hacking wasn’t precisely part of Mycroft’s job, but he’d found it a useful hobby. It helped to keep track of who was who and what was going on where. Sherlock was right, solving the same problem over and over again wasn’t really enough to keep his interest. He was good at it, but he was good at other things as well. One day, the Tower’s elderly and increasingly absent Alpha would step down, and Mycroft rather fancied stepping into his shoes when that happened. And yes. There it is.
Hopes warning was true. All the local news media had been issued a press release outlining the complaint. The wife had procured herself a lawyer - or perhaps it was the other way around. She was planning on staging the conference in the park across the street from the Tower. It would make for a nice visual to have the looming dark spire in the background, while she held her babies and wept about her poor husband being taken prisoner by the nasty people who protect the country. Bah. He was getting cynical.
He next took a quick back-door trip through Sentinel Affairs’ finances. Yes, that would do.
Then finally, two minutes after Hope had left, he called up Wilkes on his private line.
“Not a good time, Holmes,” said the young deputy director, a bit petulantly. “I’m in a conference with donors.” What background came through the connection sounded rather like the clinking of glasses. Conference at a bar, apparently. “I’ve set Gerry up to oversee your matter. Talk with him.”
“I’m afraid this is a bit above Gerry’s pay grade,” said Mycroft. “I take it you haven’t heard about the press conference.”
“Gerry called a press conference?” Oh yes, that had Wilkes attention.
“Not Gerry - the wife.” Mycroft went on to explain the situation.
“Hold on -“ Wilkes interrupted him about midway through, the next words came muffled as if the phone were held to his shoulder. “Sorry gentlemen, but this is turning out to be rather important. Buy another round, I’ll be back in ten.” A few moments later Wilkes spoke again, with less ambient noise in the background. “So I know you, Holmes. You wouldn’t be calling me if you didn’t already have a solution in mind. Spit it out. I really am busy.”
“I’m thinking five hundred thousand pounds - on a payment schedule, doled out monthly over 20 years. That’s 25,000 a year - about as much as her husband made in salary. She’ll be able to stay at home while her children are small, it will be an extra bonus when she returns to work. If she remarries even better. But not a penny if she goes forward with this accusation. We cut her off. She must sign a gag order.”
Wilkes snorted. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Over twenty years it will barely put a ding in your budget. You have the funds. I checked.”
“What if it’s not enough. She might ask for a million. Or two.”
“She’s got no job and small children to take care of and her only source of income has vanished into our Tower. It’ll be winning the lottery for her. She won’t question it. If she does, her lawyer will quickly advise her otherwise.”
“I don’t like this precedent,” said Wilkes doubtfully. “We don’t have the budget to do this every time a Guide is pulled from his family. I want something in return, Holmes.”
“What?” Mycroft frowned. He stared out the window at the long late afternoon shadows, as if it were possible to detect Wilkes directly from this distance. He had a terrible suspicion he knew what what Wilkes wanted. It wasn’t going to happen. It simply wasn’t.
“I heard a rumour that the Bart’s case has come up again. That’s the Guide who can disguise himself from hunts, the Phantom I think you call him?”
And that was how Wilkes had gotten his position. Anger burned in Mycroft’s belly. Who had blabbed his business to Wilkes? There had to be a mole somewhere in the Tower. Mycroft pressed his lips together. “Yes, he’s come up,” he said, guardedly. “And I’m dealing with him.”
“Does that mean you finally have a lead?”
“Not so much a lead as a different approach.”
“Yes, you put your brother on the case.” Definitely a mole, thought Mycroft. “Do you think he’ll be able to find him,” asked Wilkes. There was an oily quality to his voice that made Mycroft suspect he was being felt out.
“I think it’s quite possible,” said Mycroft. “If anyone can, Sherlock can. He’s really quite clever that way.”
“Yes, I know. Here’s the deal: You get the money to make your mess disappear, if I get that Guide.”
There it was. Mycroft let out a sigh and relaxed. Not too bad. For a bit there he’d been certain that Wilkes would demand Sherlock sign himself over to MI5. There was no way Sherlock would agree to that.
“Agreed,” said Mycroft quickly.
“I’ve looked over the case,” Wilkes went on. “If this Phantom can lay so low that a flood of Sentinels can’t find him, it seems that we could really use that talent for our covert operations. I have an elite class of unbonded Sentinels currently in training. They’ll be given leave from MI6 and temporarily reassigned to your Tower. When you bring the Guide in, I want one of them in that interview room, I don’t care how many needier Sentinels you might have. They are top of the list - in fact they are the only ones on the list. Do you understand? Make it clear to Hope as well. We want the Phantom hunting down terrorists in Afghanistan, as soon as possible.”
Mycroft nodded. “You’ve made your point, quite…” he paused for words, “repetitively.”
“One thing,” said Wilkes, ignoring the jibe. “I hear your brother is also unbonded. Let him know that under no circumstances is he to bond with the this Guide. He is spoken for.”
“My brother rarely listens to me. But I sincerely doubt he’ll bond. He’s shows nothing but contempt for the idea in the past. He feels it would fetter his independence.”
Wilkes laughed. “Well good. Independence is that important to him. But just in case he gets tempted - let him know that I’ll draw up papers letting him keep that ridiculous job of his indefinitely if he brings the Phantom in, unbonded. That should be enough to keep his sticky fingers off.”
“I’m sure,” said Mycroft, surprised again. They must really want that Guide, he thought. “I’ll give him a call right away.”
“Yes, yes, as if I would,” snapped Sherlock into the phone, his voice dripping with contempt. “Next time wait until you have something important to say before you interrupt me at work.” He hung up on Mycroft and jammed the phone back into it’s case on his belt. Then looked up at a very uncomfortable looking hospital administrator. “My wife,” he lied, quirking his lips into a false smile. For some reason that didn’t seem to make her happier.
Dr. Lambert (dyed brunette, 52 years old, avid tenpin bowler) cleared her voice and looked at his resume spread in front of her as well as the request sent down from the DH. She forced a prim smile back at him.
“Well?”
“Well, Mr. Boudin, of course you have our cooperation. And the last thing I want is to be difficult. But I want to assure you, this hospital is already cut to the quick as far as funding is concerned. There is no ‘fat’ left to trim. We are the only hospital in the greater London metropolitan area that is designed specifically to see to the needs of Sentinels. As such, we have some expenses other hospitals don’t. The air filters must be changed weekly to prevent strong hospitals smells. We can’t use florescent lighting - the hum, the flickering, the limited spectrum all irritate Sentinel senses. The drapes, the wallpaper, all are Sentinel certified - similar to what the Tower uses itself. And I know they are more expensive - it all builds up - but we can’t very well get rid of them either, or we wouldn’t be what we are!”
“I know all about the Sentinel specific improvements, Dr. Lambert,” said Sherlock smoothly. “What my office is more interested in is ways to cut down inefficiency at a more … personal level.”
“I don’t understand,” said Dr. Lambert.
“I’m talking about making your people more efficient and what they do best, by removing the things that make them inefficient. The goal isn’t to slash your budget,” Lambert visibly relaxed at that, “It’s to make the budget we have given you work better.” She tightened up again, befuddled as to what exactly Sherlock was getting at. Since Sherlock wasn’t really getting at much of anything (other than the freedom to do anything he wanted around the hospital unchallenged) he pressed on. “I’d like to take one of the conference rooms in the North wing, and talk with some of your long time employees - brainstorm with them about the things that reduce their efficiency.”
“Which long time employees?” asked Lambert, suspiciously.
“Anyone who has worked or studied in the building for more than 8 years,” he said, just to be careful, the Phantom had been their 10. “Not just doctors and nurses, I want office personnel, janitors, aides, technicians, medical students.” Sherlock had already eliminated the patients: anyone sick enough to be in and out of the hospital for 10 years would be too ill to fend off a chase. Nor could it be a visitor: ten of the 56 events had happened past visiting hours. That also excluded the vendors, who closed up shop promptly at 8pm, the kitchen staff, and most, but not all of the clerks.
“That’s a lot of people,” said Lambert. “More than can fit in a conference room.”
“We’ll divide them up into lots. Start with the nurses. Then the doctors and so on. If you could arrange that -“
Lambert just frowned deeper. “It’s going to be incredibly disruptive, Mr. Boudin, I do hope you realise that. You are talking about hundreds of people. Not all of them are on shift right now, and those who are are busy. How long will each of these brainstorming sessions take?”
Sherlock reached into his imagination and pulled out a random number. “Half an hour will do. I’ll go set up.”
Lambert’s eyes grew larger. “What, you mean to start right now?”
“Well, I am here!” said Sherlock, grinning. “It would hardly do to waste time. Efficiency!” he reminded her.
She clucked her tongue. “Well I do wish you’d set up an appointment earlier. I need three hours - minimum!” she said. “And I can’t just denude a department so you can talk to everyone. This place isn’t like other businesses, we have to keep working. I’ll call the department heads and they’ll send down people as they can afford them.”
“Only people who have been here for 8 years or more - including time spent as students.”
Dr. Lambert clearly thought he was potty, but she didn’t say so. “If that’s what you want, Mr. Boudin. Now if you please, I suddenly have a lot more work this afternoon than I was expecting.”
“Very well, I’ll use the time to give the hospital a visual inspection.” This didn’t please her at all.
“Hold on, I’ll get you an escort.” She reached for her intercom.
Sherlock raised his hand. “No need. In fact, better that I do it on my own.” He wrinkled his nose in a way some people thought fetching. “Don’t worry. I’ll be discrete.”
Dr. Lambert glared at him. Then made a sudden whooshing gesture with her hand. The meaning was unmistakable: Go! Go! Sherlock got.
“You aren’t serious,” said Sarah Sawyer leaning forward so that her elbows rested on her desk calendar. “Oh for craps sake. Tell me your kidding, Janice.” John looked up from the glazed donut he was idly eating and raised a brow at her. Sarah bugged her eyes back at him as if she couldn’t possibly express the depth of the absurdity she was being asked to perform. “I can’t do that Janice,” she said. “I can - no. Listen, I’ll ask.”
She turned to John. “Are you too busy to spend half an hour brainstorming hospital efficiency, John?”
John swallowed his bite of pastry and nodded gamely. “Absolutely. Completely slammed. Not a minute to spare.”
“Dr. Watson has a floor full of sick people he needs to attend to,” Sarah said into the phone, grinning. “And the nurses - no they are even busier - I.” Sarah’s smile went away and she took a more serious tone. “Okay. Okay. I can spare him at 7 pm.” She hung up.
John frowned. “I thought I was too busy.”
“Apparently there’s a bug up someone’s butt,” said Sarah. “Sorry. I really tried to spare you. I got to send you, Nate, Micheal, and Fiona down to that big conference room in the West Wing. She threatened to look at my time sheets.”
“Sorry,” said John tightly. What on Earth was this about? It made him nervous that there was a change in routine so close to that near miss with the Sentinel. Apparently, after he’d left, they’d swept the place for him, he’d been that obvious. What if they found something? John thought. What if they are luring me down away so they can get a better sniff of me. No, no this is paranoid, John reassured himself. It probably was just a brainstorming conference as ridiculous as that sounded.
“Couldn’t be helped. It was your sister,” Sarah was saying as she fussily retied her blonde hair back in a ponytail. She caught John’s worried look. “Don’t worry, just put in your half hour and it’ll be done. Janice says it’s the entire hospital not just us.”
John felt a bit reassured.
“Just,” blurted Sarah suddenly. “I know you are full of ideas, but don’t get too creative, John. If anyone asks, we need everything. We need more of everything, in fact. Efficiency, I bet, they are just trying to trim the budget on our department instead of looking to where the real money drains are.”
John shrugged. That could be it, too. His mouth was suddenly too dry to be eating. He leaned over and tossed the rest of the pastry in the rubbish bin. “It’s possible he just really does want to make us more efficient.”
Sarah’s cheeks puffed out, then she burst into laugher. “See this is why I’m department head and you aren’t, John. Go do your rounds.” She laughed again. “Oh, and throw me one of those puffs, will you. Then take the rest away or I’m going to get huge. Give it to the nurses.”
“You want to keep the Thank You note?” he asked. John reached in and tossed her a round fluffy pastry. She caught it easily and stuck it in her mouth, then nodded and pointed at her desk. John pulled the note off the lid of the box and gave it to her, then closed up the box and tucked it on his arm.
“Efficiency, my fat arse,” he heard her mutter as he walked out.
John’s smile stayed on all the way out her door. Then it faded. He suspected Sarah was right, this had nothing to do with efficiency and everything to do with someone’s agenda. Hopefully it was just another cost cutting crusade. But just in case…
He dropped the donuts off at the nurses station, then headed on to the supply cupboard and found a small bottle of smelling salts. He put it in his jacket pocket. A sprinkle of this and any Sentinel trying to sniff him out was going to get a big surprise.
You could never be too safe, after all.
The first stop on Sherlock’s tour of the Hospital was the A & E. He walked over to the doorway of the isolation room, where Vin had been kept the night before. The place stank of cleaners, but there was a spot on a wall where a bit of the man’s blood had been missed. Sherlock looked pointedly around, but saw no cameras anywhere in the room. He stepped out and looked up and down the hall. There was a camera, descretely tucked away in a plastic housing. It was pointing down the hall at the main door, away from the curtained patient bays.
“May I help you, sir?” Sherlock turned and saw a nurse (Alicia Mckenzie, had a string of casual boyfriends, went clubbing the night before).
He gave her a disarming smile and pointed. “Is that the only security camera in the entire A & E?”
She looked up at the camera, then back at him. “Why do you want to know?”
Thankfully, it only took about a minute to fast talk her into cooperation. She showed him the camera trained on the controlled drugs cabinet and the several on the waiting area and A & E enterance. But the Sentinels had not sniffed the Phantom anywhere near either of those areas. Apparently there were no cameras on any of the rooms because of “patient privacy” reasons - though Sherlock rather suspected “hospital accountability" came closer.
He walked out of the A & E the way he suspected the Phantom had - through the back doors into the hall that lead towards the main lobby of the hospital. This was where the six Sentinels had spotted the Phantom. A ghost of a scent concentrated mainly on one of the lifts. Sherlock glanced around. There was a security camera pointed obliquely at the bank of lifts. And two more taking different angles of the sweeping lobby, one focused at the main entrance, the other at the information desk. There were no cameras in the lifts themselves.
Not very helpful. Sherlock’s hope of getting a good look of the Phantom on camera grew dimmer after he’d tracked down the main security office deep in the hospital basement. He followed directions down a narrow, pipe bedecked hallway to a room with a metal cage for a door. That door was propped open now, and someone was seated watching banks of monitors. There was a mike in front of him, and banks and banks of cases and outdated computers stacked one on another and collecting dust. He looked up as Sherlock approached, then stood up. “Can I help you, sir?”
Sherlock flashed a smile, then his badge. “This is the security centre for the hospital?”
“Yessir,” said the guard (Dan, heart disease, fond of curry, not so fond of doing the laundry).
“Claude Boudin,” Sherlock introduced. “Efficiency analyst. Would you mind if I took a look at your equipment?”
Dan did mind, but after a call to management, he folded nicely. Sherlock was able to get him to demonstrate the extent of the surveillance equipment. Unfortunately, it was just as awful as Sherlock suspected. The cameras were black and white and took a frame every five seconds. He was able to convince the officer to play back the cameras on the lifts and the A & E door. The equipment on this end wasn’t much better. It relied on bank of videotape recorders connected to a 1995 Dell desktop.
“Is there something you are looking for?” asked Dan. On screen the Sentinels rushed into frame, then looked about.
“Yes. Hush.” He ran back the segment.
There. There he was - first point of data standing by the lift. The Phantom was definitely a man - difficult to tell height from the angle, but Sherlock guessed, based on where the man’s elbow came up to the buttons, that he was on the small side 5’6”- 5’8” Which fit the Guide profile. They tended to be shorter and slimmer - something in the constellation of genes. The black and white made it difficult to guess hair colour, but it seemed light: brownish or blond, perhaps grey. Wearing a white doctor’s jacket over scrubs. The man had his head resolutely turned away from the camera. Only once did he partially turn his head, but the grainy quality of the film didn’t make that much better. Nonetheless, Sherlock took a screen shot and printed it out.
And again, the A & E camera. This time the Guide was in a hurry, so only a single shot of him in frame. He appeared to be staring at the floor, giving the camera a rather good look at the top of his head. Sherlock took a screen-shot anyway.
Yes! In the space of three hours he’d brought the list of possibilities from over a thousand down to couple dozen at best. Now to wait until the the man in this print out showed up to his “brainstorming” conference. Sherlock could have this wrapped up by dinner time.
“Easy, Peasy,” said Sherlock. Ignoring the baffled Security guard, he ran his finger gently over the obscured face. “‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the spider to the fly.”
Chapter 6