Crystals in the Storm Glass - Chapter 2
Series: Firestorm over London - Book 1
Title: Crystals in the Storm Glass
Chapter: 2. Home and Hearth
"There are so many things I want John," the monster staring back at him whispered, "your body, your mind, and your soul but for now I shall settle with your complete and utter submission. You are mine,"
Summary: Post- Reichenbach. After a disastrous reunion, Sherlock and John inadvertently find themselves becoming flatmates once more. When Irene Adler asks them to solve an international espionage case, Sherlock sees a chance to possess the one thing he's always wanted: John. Dark!Sherlock.
Genre: Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13
Main Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler, Mycroft Holmes, “Anthea”, Harry Pearce (Spooks), Erin Watt (Spooks),
Chapter 2 - Home and Hearth
Baker Street, North West London
There was no one to greet Sherlock as he opened the front door of 221B Baker Street. The keys Mycroft had provided at least worked on the new locks but he was displeased to note that the front door had not been oiled in a long time and was now squeaking incessantly at a pitch corresponding to E sharp.
He hefted his suitcase through the open door and stood in the darkened hallway. Instantly he was enveloped by the unique aroma that defined 221B Baker Street. It was an intangible scent of acidic tea mixed with fresh laundry, dust and fresh baking. Smells were the best triggers of human memory and a single sniff could bring back memories long thought lost or deleted.
Sherlock found his mind being unwilling dragged backwards in time until he saw his former self panting against the opposite wall of the hallway as vividly as a waking dream. The former Sherlock was invigorated, smiling with triumph and so alive. Beside him stood John Watson: oatmeal coloured jumper, worn black shoes, grinning from ear to ear and just a breathless. He was so close, if Sherlock reached out with his hand he could brush against John’s jumper.
Shaking his head to dispel the vibrant memories that were almost becoming hallucinations, Sherlock started to climb the stairs. Such sentimentality was useless and a waste of his considerable mental capacity. It did not matter that Sherlock would never be allowed to step within five hundred yards of John ever again.
Sherlock reached the top of the stairs and stood for a moment staring at the door to his flat. The new lock looked considerably sturdier than the old one, a Kirsler model, made in Germany to a high standard. He slotted the key and opened the door to survey the flat he had left so abruptly two years ago.
It did not take a genius, and Sherlock was a genius, to realise the entire setup was completely wrong. His possessions had been moved in just as Mycroft had promised, neat boxes of experimental equipment, books, bedding and clothes were piled in the center of the cramped apartment. However as he looked around the room with increasing apprehension, he spotted things that should not be there: the union jack cushion, the Times newspaper three days old, a pair of worn brown shoes, an oatmeal coloured jumper, a used tea mug with English Breakfast Tea residue.
Darting around the boxes into the kitchen, Sherlock stood in astonishment at the sight.
A pile of clean dishes, recently washed and still drying on the sideboard, a tea cosy from Whittaker, a copy of the Lancet with three mug impressions on the cover.
It did not take a genius to work out just who was living here and Sherlock was a genius.
Kensington Uppers General Medical Practice
“Right, Sarah, I’m off,” said John trying to sound vaguely optimistic about the prospect of spending another evening alone in his flat listening to the radio and drinking endless cups of bland tea.
“You have fun,” she said with a bright smile and cheerful wave. “Oh and when you come in tomorrow, can you look over the new QALY guidelines? I think we can definitely do with a few more QALY points for this practice.”
“Yeah sure,” murmured John half-heartedly. He personally despised the government checkbox list they all had to fill but every box checked was additional money for the practice and after working here steadily for the last two years, John was finally a partner. His experience with minor surgery made him an instant money saver for the practice and cut their surgical referral rates by a half.
It was still early in the afternoon, the sun was making a valiant attempt to break through the cloud cover but the wind and misty drizzle were unrelenting. By the time John arrived back at 221B Baker Street, his hair was plastered to his skull and his thin summer suit was soaked through. The front door was locked and Mrs Hudson hadn’t come back from Florida yet, so there was no one to let him in out of the cold. Clenching his teeth in annoyance John fished around in vain at for his keys as the icy winds buffeted him with raging fury.
“Oh for the love of God!” he snapped as he desperately emptied his trouser pockets onto the doorstep. Junk which had accumulated inside the surprisingly accommodating pockets scattered across the stone steps: safety pins, an Argos pen, paper clips and several folded prescriptions that he really should have shredded tumbled everywhere but his keys remain elusive.
He was just about to pick everything up and run to Speedy’s Sandwich Bar for shelter when he heard the front door creaking open of its own accord. A rush of adrenaline honed by years of fighting in Afghanistan tensed all his muscles. He did not look up instantly but tried to gage the intruder’s position from where he was hunched over the doorstep. He saw a pair of highly polished black shoes step into his peripheral vision. The design was intimately familiar but the person he associated them with could not possibly be in his house.
“Hello John,” said Sherlock.
Impossible apparently didn’t apply to Sherlock.
Whitehall, Headquarters of the Civil Service, Central London
That fact that Mycroft had specifically told Harry Pearce to meet him tomorrow at 12pm, did nothing to dissuade the man from turning up 23 hours and 45 minutes early. Harry was a tenacious fellow and stubborn to the bone. Five years of Harrow had not beaten those particular character traits out of him and now Harry was using all his most irritating personality flaws to bulldoze his way through MI5.
His PA had given him fair warning but Mycroft was still feeling slightly annoyed at the disruption to his well planned day of events. Anthea had entered the meeting in his electronic diary in an effort to cater for his obsession with records and order. He appreciated the gesture and wondered for a moment if she had finally settled into her unique role after ten years of intermittent strife.
A pleasant chiming sound accompanied Harry Pearce’s entrance into his outer office, and Mycroft looked up from the desk with his most congenial smile firmly plastered in place. Harry merely glared at him from across three feet of polished mahogany desk.
“Do take a seat, old friend. I’m just finishing off some defense dossiers.”
“I’m going to make this quick, Mycroft,” barked Harry, looking and sounding incredibly like a frustrated bulldog, but of course Mycroft did not comment on the parallel; it would only go to the man’s head. “I don’t want to be here for a second longer than absolutely necessary.”
“I’m sure you must be very busy having lost your tails on that Iranian terrorist cell in Tehran,” commented Mycroft.
“That is what I came about,” replied Harry tersely, “we have finally made contact with our asset in the organization and the terrorists are about to do something big.”
“Attempt to blow up the Olympic Stadium, I know,” said Mycroft with disinterest, “fairly obvious, but getting the Chinese involved is rather ingenious I must say.”
For a split second a look of astonished annoyance passed over Harry’s unguarded face but it was quickly suppressed in favour of a deepening glare.
“How long have you known?”
“As of three days ago,”
“The Security Services are not your toys to be used, abused and broken whenever you feel like it! That was classified information!” cried Harry, his face coming out in unattractive red blotches. His skin had the unfortunate tendency to do that whenever the poor men became flustered and he was never more flustered when his territory was being encroached.
“I assure you I view MI5 with the upmost respect, Harry,” replied Mycroft with studious politeness “however I do have the clearance to know about these things and considering how unforthcoming you regarding information, I am forced to employ other methods. Now let’s not get into an unsavory contest over who knows what - you obvious came here today for my help and I’m perfectly happy to offer whatever you want.”
Harry eyed him with obvious open suspicion at that remark but the man had never been politician material. The reason he had reached the lofty heights of power lay in his incomparable skills in espionage. Harry had cut his teeth in the Cold War, spending a nearly a decade of his youth trailing around East Germany suffering the harsh iniquities of Soviet Rule whilst cultivating moles, spies and agents through the area. Since then he had developed an almost pathological hatred of bureaucrats, whom he viewed as soft, incompetent idiots that spent their lives hindering honest hard working spies. Whilst Harry’s actions were to be commended but his narrow-mindedness was to be condemned.
“Whatever I want?” repeated Harry savouring the sentence like a man might relish the aroma of a particularly delicate poison.
“Why yes, Harry,”
“And in return?”
Mycroft smiled calmly and leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed under Harry’s constant glare.
“I expect to be included in the planning for the counter strike against the Chinese-Iranian attack.”
Harry had been expecting something along those lines and he looked back at Mycroft blandly; refusing to betray any of the anger that was no doubt bubbling away beneath the surface like a chamber of molten magma.
“Really? And why, may I ask, does the high and mighty Mycroft Holmes want to be involved with something so common as MI5?” demanded Harry.
“Nonsense, Harry, I am merely a minor government official,” said Mycroft with false modesty, “I would be most honoured to contribute to the planning of a counter terrorist strike.”
“What agenda do you have, Mycroft? I know what you did to Erin but I’m still working out why and I have to ask myself do I really want to be anywhere near you when everything you’re cooking blows up in your face?”
Mycroft smiled thinly at his compatriot’s blunt words. On the one hand it was refreshing to have someone challenge him directly without a thought for diplomacy but on the other, it got very wearing, very fast.
“You will just have to trust me, Harry, because there isn’t a safe habour on this Earth that will shelter you from the storms I may unleash.”
In front of the desk, despite his infamous self control, Sir Harry Pearce the Head of MI5 shuddered.
MI5 Headquarters, Thames House, Central London
“Do you think,” asked Tariq leaning back in his chair with the carefree grace of a teenager, “that Erin is going to be the next section chief?”
He was a small and lithe in stature, most likely due to the years of malnutrition he had suffered in the East End at the hands of his alcoholic father and mentally unstable mother but Tariq always had the brightest smile and the most amusing jokes, so the team liked him enough to forgive the times when his past inevitably caught up with him. Getting a post at MI5 was the fulfillment of all his dreams, but it also estranged him from what remained of his family. Bright young Pakistani men became doctors, lawyers or businessmen not spies.
“Yeah,” drawled Callum, his eyes still fixated on the computer screen, “I reckon she has friends in high places.”
Callum was the exact physical opposite of his counterpart. A tall and muscular man, Callum spent his free time being a well rounded sportsman, even playing for the local amateur football team in Hammersmith and weightlifting for the county. His social background, if that counted for anything was as dissimilar to Tariq as his appearance: born into the upper-middle class, Callum spent his life being loved and lauded for his superior intelligence. It was only natural that he would one day use it to defend his country as a spy.
“If you guys spend another second discussing Erin, I am going to come over there and smack you into the Thames,” threatened Dmitri causally from the other end of the open plan office.
Dmitri had the gift of leadership but that wasn’t the only thing that the fates had bestowed on him. Handsome and Greek, he was an instant hit with even the most discerning women and even if you blind folded his date, Dmitri’s natural charisma would woe her just as effectively as his looks. Perfect in all the ways that mattered, he could have been the real life inspiration for James Bond.
“I’d like to see you try,” countered Callum, who fancied himself on-par with the more experienced Dmitri.
“Come over here and we’ll have it on,” replied Dmitri in good humour, “you asked for it,”
Tariq looked up with mild excitement at the thought of a real live fight breaking out in the Grid, but his hopes were exquisitely dashed by Erin Watts’ return.
She was a stunningly beautiful woman, with both intelligence and modesty in abundance, so it was always a surprise for anyone to learn she was still single. There had been a betting pool in Section C on which member of the Grid she would sleep with first but Tariq had kindly taught them a very memorable lesson when he plastered photos of Section C’s Christmas Party all over the MI5 intranet. Although calm, competent and open, Erin always maintained an aurora of mystique around her that even hacking into her personal record could not dispel.
Callum thought it was because she looked like an obscure porn star from the nineties, Tariq was convinced he’d once seen someone like her in the Sun with a riding crop and Dmitri, when asked his opinion, said only one word: Dominatrix.
AN: The actress who plays Irene Adler and Erin Watts is Lara Pulver.
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Prologue Part 1 - Prologue Part 2
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5