Fic: City of Delusion 1/?, Dresden Files/Sherlock [PG]
Title: City of Delusion
Author: A Lanart
Fandoms: Dresden Files (tv verse) and Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/pairing: Harry Dresden, Connie Murphy, Bob, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating/Spoilers: PG. No Spoilers.
Warnings: Sherlock and magic in the same fic has to be a bit cracky, right?
Word Count: This part 3760
Summary: Greg Lestrade has an unexpected encounter in Chicago - he isn't the only one, either - and discovers there are worse things to deal with than know-it-all consulting detectives.
Disclaimer: The BBC, Mr S Moffat and Mr M Gatiss own this version of Sherlock Holmes though ACD invented him. Jim Butcher owns Harry Dresden and his universe (although Lionsgate/sci-fi own the tv series).
No copyright infringement intended, no profit made.
Title from the song by Muse
A/N: This is for my friend Mandy, who has been having a hard time of it recently and could do with something to make her smile. I hope this helps.
If you aren't familiar with the Dresden Files TV series, there is a picspam here that will show you what the characters look like. The only information you really need to know is that Harry Dresden is a PI in Chicago who also happens to be a real, live wizard with a mentor who is a cursed ghost called Bob (that lives in his own skull). He does some consulting work for the Chicago PD, more often than not working with one Lieutenant Connie Murphy who *doesn't* know about the wizarding thing.
IMO the Dresden Files tv series was great fun, even if it does deviate from the books.
You need to blame szm for this fic - if it wasn't for her it probably wouldn't exist. Thanks also go to idontlikegravy who beta'd hard copy of this at Discworld con!
This is still a wip atm.
~*~
~One~
*
Chicago might not have been Greg Lestrade's first choice of holiday spot, but when it was a busman's holiday that was being paid for by someone other than himself, he most certainly wasn't going to complain, even if he did have to sit through a boring conference. The boring conference side of things had been made more bearable by the addition of a pretty, local co-attendee by the name of Murphy who had ended up seated next to him during the first lecture and had surprisingly shown no inclination to move elsewhere when given the opportunity. They'd talked over lunch and again later over drinks when the pomposity of the day was over. Greg found himself enjoying her company and they had traded increasingly ridiculous stories about work until he noticed her frowning at the pale circle of skin on the ring finger of his left hand, where his wedding ring used to sit. Damn. She probably thought he was one of those people who only took their marriage vows seriously when their other half was there to keep a close eye, which hadn't been the case, not on his part at least. He sighed.
"Another casualty of the job," he said. "She didn't like being second fiddle." To his surprise Murphy - Connie - gave him a sympathetic look.
"Yeah, I had one too. Who'd marry a cop?" She sounded more annoyed and exasperated than anything else and Greg stifled a rather inappropriate smile, until he realised she was grinning widely at him and then he let it escape. He liked Lt. Connie Murphy of the Chicago PD, but he wasn't sure he would be able to live with her, any more than he thought he'd be able to live with DI Greg Lestrade of The Met if he were someone else.
"Their loss," he said. He raised his glass to her and she clinked her own against it before drinking.
They were halfway to being friends by the time Greg called it a night and he actually found himself looking forward to the second day of the conference, though not for entirely professional reasons.
The second day proved to be even more boring than the first, and as far as Greg was concerned the only bright point was the company of one Connie Murphy. Everyone else seemed to avoid them, not that Greg was particularly bothered, as the forced socialising of conferences was one reason he hated them. Connie appeared to share the same opinion, which only endeared her more to Greg.
By the third day, they'd decided they had no option but to be friends as the others were clearly idiots and they both had to cling to the remnants of their sanity somehow.
"Oh, what I wouldn't give for a good murder," she mumbled into her drink. Never mind that she was the wrong height, wrong nationality, wrong gender and a cop besides, she sounded so much like Sherlock at that moment that Greg couldn't help the smirk that crept across his face as she complained that she was going to die of boredom. He almost found himself missing Sherlock and his annoying habit of being right, but the thought of how much a bored Sherlock would disrupt the place nearly filled Greg with as much horror as it did amusement. He glanced at Connie's bent head, her dark curls somewhat reminiscent of a certain lanky, pain-in-the-arse consulting detective, and had to smile.
"Be careful what you wish for," Greg said as he raised his own glass.
*
When Sherlock peremptorily announced that he was going to Chicago and that John would accompany him, John knew that any protests on his own behalf would be dismissed, in spite of their validity. Still, it was better than having to deal with Sherlock flouncing around the flat proclaiming he was bored in between episodes of trying to destroy it by various means. Next time Lestrade went anywhere, John was going to make sure that he left Sherlock a nice pile of cold cases to keep him occupied. In comparison, charging after Sherlock through Heathrow airport was positively mundane and he was sure Mrs Hudson would appreciate the break too. Needless to say, none of John's enquiries about why they were going to Chicago was met with anything he would call a decent answer, though the closest had been,
"Because we're needed, why else?"
Yeah, right. More like because Sherlock would be needed and John was useful to have around in order to translate for lesser mortals. John couldn't find it in himself to be more than mildly irritated, he was used to life with Sherlock by now and while he might feel like he was being blindsided at times, he was never, ever bored.
*
The fourth day of the conference, Lt Connie Murphy finally received the call she'd wanted. Greg was surprised when she invited him along. He accepted before his brain could overrule him and tell him what a stupid idea it was though he did ask her why.
"The only reason I've been called is because it's a weird one. Another set of eyes can't hurt and might mean I don't need to use my last resort." The way she said the latter two words made Greg prick up his ears, there'd been something very familiar about it.
"Last resort?"
"Yeah, a so-called consultant who just happens to pull answers out of thin air, even though how he gets them makes no sense more often than not."
Yes, very familiar indeed. God help Connie if her consultant was anything like Sherlock.
"I've got one of those," Greg sympathised. "Drives me absolutely nuts and I'd quite cheerfully throttle him myself if he didn't have such a beneficial effect on the number of my closed cases. Dreadful, isn't it?"
"Oh, absolutely," she agreed. He realised they were both trying - somewhat unsuccessfully - not to grin stupidly at each other.
Which was why, not so many minutes later, Greg found himself perched on the back of a motorbike clinging to Connie Murphy as she negotiated the busy Chicago roads the way only a copper or a maniac could, thanking his lucky stars that he'd decided to go for comfort instead of the suits he usually wore for work.
Unfortunately, Greg had no brilliant ideas to make Murphy's job easier. As he stepped back from the core of the crime scene, he dug out his phone and fired off a quick text.
- - Gatecrashed a crime scene. Bit of an odd one. You'd love it - - GL
He didn't expect a response; Sherlock would probably be in the process of driving John Watson and half of London up the wall. He glanced at Connie, who was in the middle of having a heated discussion with some of her colleagues about something or someone called Dresden, possibly the consultant for weird cases she'd mentioned before as this one certainly fit that profile.
*
John frowned as Sherlock's phone pinged gleefully with an incoming text alert. Sherlock glanced at it briefly, and smiled before dashing off into the press of humanity - or what passed for humanity in Chicago at least - in order to hail a cab, without a word of explanation. Situation Normal, then. John took off after him, it wouldn't do to lose Sherlock in unfamiliar surroundings, especially when he didn't have the comforting weight of his gun at his back. Luckily he caught up just as a cab pulled over, and scrambled into it on Sherlock's heels.
"So are you actually going to tell me where the hell we're going?" John demanded of the back of Sherlock's head.
"Crime scene."
"A crime scene, Sherlock. In Chicago?!"
"Lestrade texted." Sherlock waved his phone in John's direction, presumably for emphasis.
"Are you telling me that we dropped everything and came running over to Chicago on the off-chance that Lestrade would find something interesting for you? He's at a conference!"
"No."
"What?"
"It wasn't on the off chance."
John shook his head in near-disbelief. "Oh don't tell me… Mycroft?"
"Perhaps."
"But you hate doing anything for Mycroft!"
"I was bored. The alternative was unthinkable. Even Mycroft can understand that, occasionally."
"You were bored. Oh God, you think I'd be used to this by now…"
The rest of the cab journey passed in silence as John leant his forehead on the window and steadfastly ignored Sherlock - not that the annoying git noticed, of course.
*
To the majority of people passing by the jeep, Harry Dresden would appear to be having an argument with himself. Harry thought they were the lucky ones; he would much rather be arguing with himself than the recalcitrant silver-haired ghost of whom he was nominally the custodian.
"Bob, I can't take you into the crime scene!"
"You can't leave me in the jeep either. Lord only knows who would pick up my skull or for what nefarious purposes they'd use me. What would you do without me?"
"I'd enjoy the peace and quiet."
"Harry! You wound me! What of all the…"
"I'll think of something, so will you just shut up."
Murphy had called him in when he happened to be at the precinct, signing off on another case. Not being able to use a cell made life somewhat inconvenient at times but if he wasn't at home she left a message then tried the precinct first, followed by Mac's Pub. The only problem was Bob. Harry didn't usually take him to crime scenes that were active and crowded, there were enough people already who thought he was crazy without adding to the numbers by having a typical conversation with Bob. However, the ghost proved invaluable at cold scenes, which is why he'd been out and about with Harry in the first place when the call came in.
"I'm not going back in there!" Bob protested as Harry shoved the skull into his backpack. "It smells, and there isn't anything interesting to distract me!"
"Tough. It's either the backpack or run the risk of being stolen."
"I'll take the backpack."
"Thought you might. I suppose it would be pushing my luck to ask you to keep quiet?"
"Luck has nothing to do with it."
"Hmph. Forget I asked. Now be quiet."
As Harry unfolded himself from the jeep and made his way toward the building that contained the crime scene that Murphy had called him in to examine, he noticed two people headed in the same direction. The taller of them lacked several inches of his own height, but his air of elegant imperiousness and sharp-edged intelligence more than made up for it; those cold-seeming eyes probably saw everything, even the stuff most people thought they had hidden, and that was without wizard-sight. Not so different from himself then, if a hell of a lot less scruffy. Harry scratched at his chronically unshaven jaw with a half-formed grin on his face, the other guy would probably be mortified by the comparison. His companion appeared small in contrast - about the same height as Murphy - but he wasn't someone you could discount, not with the aura of deadly competence and tenacity that he wore like armour; this was a man that Harry would be pleased to have at his side when things turned to shit. He bet in some people's opinion they were a mismatched pair, but Harry thought they complemented each other better than he and Murphy did in some ways, probably because he couldn't help but notice the trust they had in each other; it was an almost tangible thing. Despite it being obvious to him that they were on the side of the good guys Harry knew there was no way he'd want to cross either of them, especially not the Murphy-sized warrior with the deceptively calm demeanour. He shouldered the backpack that concealed Bob, quashing the smile that threatened when he heard the almost subtle and half-articulated grumble emanating from it.
*
The old jeep caught John's eye as it pulled up just in front of them - it wasn't the sort of vehicle to be commonly seen on the streets of Chicago, though John had seen quite a few still in use in the middle east - and he watched as a tall, dark haired man extricated himself from its confines, then leaned inside and grabbed an innocuous looking backpack before striding away. He appeared to be heading in the same direction as they were and John wondered just who the hell he was. Jeep guy looked like he had a two or three inch height advantage over Sherlock, which John found kind of amusing as it would be good to have the tables turned for a change; Sherlock used his height to unfair advantage at times. Despite the height he was almost the antithesis of Sherlock - tousled, messy and unshaven - but he walked with confidence, as if he were certain of his right to be there, exactly where they were headed in fact and not just in the same general direction. The crime scene had just become a whole lot more interesting, in John's opinion.
"So, what do you make of him, then, Sherlock?"
"Private Investigator; though that's not why he's here. Some sort of specialist consultant with a skill-set the police here need."
"Not a million miles from yourself, then," John teased. It was worth the disgusted and almost shocked glare Sherlock turned on him.
"I wouldn't deign to be seen in such an execrable excuse of a coat, even as a disguise."
John smothered the giggle that threatened to bubble out of his chest.
"I rather like it," he said. That earned him an entirely Sherlockian frown. No-one, not even Mycroft, could manage the same sort of disdain in a glance and a twist of lips.
"You would."
*
The crime scene looked almost crowded and Harry realised that his first instinct had been correct, there was no way he could risk taking Bob in there. He was considering his non-existent options when the sound of measured footsteps revealed another unconsidered choice; the dangerous, Murphy-sized one of the two people that were coming up right behind him. He smiled to himself; Bob would probably want to crucify him, but a wizard never discounted his gut instincts and Harry's gut was screaming at him that this guy could be trusted with his life; Bob was the next best thing to that.
*
As he entered the room one of the uniformed police had indicated with a disinterested wave - and the assumption that he and Sherlock were with that English guy of Murphy's, presumably Greg Lestrade - John couldn't help but notice the rumpled figure leaning against the wall; to be honest, he couldn't really miss him. Then he was abruptly confronted by an impish smile and warm, brown eyes.
"Here, look after this." The scruffy, tall guy thrust his backpack at John, who wordlessly took it off him without thinking about it, something that he didn't usually do when confronted by total strangers, except where Sherlock had been concerned all that time ago. He decided there must be some sort of instinct to it. "Don't worry," the guy said, "it's not a bomb." He strode away toward the more interesting bit of the crime scene, paused at the door and turned. "I wouldn't open it though," he said before he turned and disappeared into the gaggle of people surrounding the body.
John stared at the innocuous looking backpack in his hands, then raised his eyes to Sherlock, who was staring thoughtfully at the door.
"He's telling the truth, John; it isn't a bomb. I would say it's something precious to him, but I have no idea exactly what; that man does not conform to societal norms. Interesting. You might as well wait here, keep an eye on that, whatever it is." Sherlock indicated the backpack in John's hands.
"And where are you going?"
"There's a body in the other room, an apparently puzzling crime scene. Where do you think I'm going?"
With that Sherlock followed the taller man through the door and John couldn't help but worry about him being surrounded by unfamiliar people, despite the presumed presence of one DI Lestrade.
"Well, well, well; aren't you quite the anomaly, John Watson? A guardian, a hunter, and a healer."
John nearly dropped the backpack in surprise. It wasn't every day a backpack containing something which was not a bomb, that had been shoved at him by a rather odd American bloke, started speaking in a cultured English accent. The rational explanation was that he was having an auditory hallucination, possibly brought on by exhaustion and too much chasing after Sherlock, but sometimes the rational explanation just didn't cut it in his opinion and John went with his gut, an instinct that had saved his life more than once. He'd seen and heard of some pretty strange things out in Afghanistan, more when he'd returned home and moved in with Sherlock, and not all of them had been easy to explain away by the application of scientific method.
John did the only thing he felt he could, daft though it might seem; he answered.
"What did you say?"
"Oh, how absolutely marvellous; you can hear me. Well I never, hasn't today been a turn up for the books?"
Despite being advised not to open the backpack by its owner there was no way John was going to pay that warning any heed when the damn thing was talking to him. His fingers fumbled with the straps and laces that held it closed but he finally succeeded and peered inside. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd find, but he didn't expect to be confronted by an obviously human skull, covered in some sort of arcane engravings. That the not a bomb happened to be a skull wasn't exactly worrying - he was used to Sherlock's 'friend' who sat on the mantelpiece back at 221b after all - but the fact that its eyes were glowing slightly in muted, fiery shades was, if not worrying, then a little disconcerting at least. John frowned into the backpack, then sidled away from the majority of people and tried to make himself appear as inconspicuous and unthreatening as possible to the casual observer. However, Sherlock, and probably Greg, would most likely recognise that despite his outward demeanour, he was in truth ready for all hell to break loose. He took a deep breath and dared to take a peek into the backpack again. He could have sworn the skull all but *blinked* at him.
"Usually when I talk to a skull, it doesn't answer back," John said.
"Less of the 'it' if you don't mind, the correct pronoun in my case is 'he' and I do actually have a name."
"Which is?" John asked politely. Part of his brain was shrieking at him in hysterical disbelief, but as it was the part that hadn't entirely got used to Sherlock, never mind anything else slightly out of the ordinary, he ignored it.
"Hrothbert of Bainbridge."
"Bit of a mouthful, that."
"Harry calls me Bob."
"Sensible. So, er, Bob, apart from being a talking skull, just what are you? Cursed? Haunted? Figment of my imagination?"
"I am most certainly NOT a figment of your imagination, dear doctor. I doubt your good self would be damaged, twisted and deranged enough to dream up an entity such as I."
John suppressed a snort; as backhanded compliments went, that one had to be amongst the strangest he'd received. Then again, the situation didn't exactly conform to his idea of normal either. He was somewhat surprised at just how calmly he seemed to be accepting it, as by all rights he should be at least steadfastly refusing to believe his ears never mind engaging the skull in polite conversation. Maybe he'd freak out later, when he had privacy.
"Cursed or haunted, then," John said.
"Somewhat of both, though I'm sure you aren't interested in details; it was a very long time ago. Suffice it to say, I've been tied to my own skull for quite a while."
"How long? Decades? Centuries? Millennia?" John was genuinely curious, it wasn't exactly every day he had the opportunity to ask a question like that, and certainly not of a talking skull. He decided he wasn't curious about why Bob had been cursed to 'live' in his skull, some things were much better left unsaid and unknown.
"Centuries, though I suppose I do just squeak through the one millennium mark. The world was different than it is today, but certain things were made to last."
"Like your curse, obviously." John paused for a moment, mulling over the idea that had popped into his head. He decided to go for it; nothing ventured, nothing gained and he didn't think the day could get much stranger at this point. "Bob, if you're a ghost, do you actually have a… oh I don't know how you'd put this… a physical presence? Or are you…"
"Just a talking skull? Oh I assure you, I'm very definitely not just a talking skull. I have quite the presence, I'm told."
"I'd be interested in deciding that for myself," John commented and shrugged as well as he could with his arms full of skull-laden backpack. "I'm not afraid of ghosts, even cursed ones."
"No, you aren't, are you? Why is that, I wonder?"
"Maybe I carry too many of my own around with me, or perhaps I've just stared death in the face too many times?"
"Stared death in the face and defied, maybe even laughed at it, I'd say. Such determination can be admirable." The tone of Bob's voice informed John that despite the words, Bob himself wasn't convinced about the admirableness of determination, John didn't entirely disagree with him.
"You know, I'm probably just stubborn and opinionated," he said. "My sister says I was born contrary; would never allow anyone to tell me who my friends should be, how I should think, what I should do with my life, how I should react..."
"And here we are, having a somewhat… unplanned conversation."
"I can think of worse ways to pass the time." John meant every word; chatting to Bob was infinitely preferable to dealing with Sherlock in one of his moods for a start, then there was a whole slew of equally unpalatable things that he wasn't going to even think about. He smiled at the soft, disembodied chuckle that emanated from the backpack; Bob obviously shared a similar opinion.
TBC
Part 2
This entry was originally posted at http://a-lanart.dreamwidth.org/244159.html.
Author: A Lanart
Fandoms: Dresden Files (tv verse) and Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/pairing: Harry Dresden, Connie Murphy, Bob, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating/Spoilers: PG. No Spoilers.
Warnings: Sherlock and magic in the same fic has to be a bit cracky, right?
Word Count: This part 3760
Summary: Greg Lestrade has an unexpected encounter in Chicago - he isn't the only one, either - and discovers there are worse things to deal with than know-it-all consulting detectives.
Disclaimer: The BBC, Mr S Moffat and Mr M Gatiss own this version of Sherlock Holmes though ACD invented him. Jim Butcher owns Harry Dresden and his universe (although Lionsgate/sci-fi own the tv series).
No copyright infringement intended, no profit made.
Title from the song by Muse
A/N: This is for my friend Mandy, who has been having a hard time of it recently and could do with something to make her smile. I hope this helps.
If you aren't familiar with the Dresden Files TV series, there is a picspam here that will show you what the characters look like. The only information you really need to know is that Harry Dresden is a PI in Chicago who also happens to be a real, live wizard with a mentor who is a cursed ghost called Bob (that lives in his own skull). He does some consulting work for the Chicago PD, more often than not working with one Lieutenant Connie Murphy who *doesn't* know about the wizarding thing.
IMO the Dresden Files tv series was great fun, even if it does deviate from the books.
You need to blame szm for this fic - if it wasn't for her it probably wouldn't exist. Thanks also go to idontlikegravy who beta'd hard copy of this at Discworld con!
This is still a wip atm.
~*~
~One~
*
Chicago might not have been Greg Lestrade's first choice of holiday spot, but when it was a busman's holiday that was being paid for by someone other than himself, he most certainly wasn't going to complain, even if he did have to sit through a boring conference. The boring conference side of things had been made more bearable by the addition of a pretty, local co-attendee by the name of Murphy who had ended up seated next to him during the first lecture and had surprisingly shown no inclination to move elsewhere when given the opportunity. They'd talked over lunch and again later over drinks when the pomposity of the day was over. Greg found himself enjoying her company and they had traded increasingly ridiculous stories about work until he noticed her frowning at the pale circle of skin on the ring finger of his left hand, where his wedding ring used to sit. Damn. She probably thought he was one of those people who only took their marriage vows seriously when their other half was there to keep a close eye, which hadn't been the case, not on his part at least. He sighed.
"Another casualty of the job," he said. "She didn't like being second fiddle." To his surprise Murphy - Connie - gave him a sympathetic look.
"Yeah, I had one too. Who'd marry a cop?" She sounded more annoyed and exasperated than anything else and Greg stifled a rather inappropriate smile, until he realised she was grinning widely at him and then he let it escape. He liked Lt. Connie Murphy of the Chicago PD, but he wasn't sure he would be able to live with her, any more than he thought he'd be able to live with DI Greg Lestrade of The Met if he were someone else.
"Their loss," he said. He raised his glass to her and she clinked her own against it before drinking.
They were halfway to being friends by the time Greg called it a night and he actually found himself looking forward to the second day of the conference, though not for entirely professional reasons.
The second day proved to be even more boring than the first, and as far as Greg was concerned the only bright point was the company of one Connie Murphy. Everyone else seemed to avoid them, not that Greg was particularly bothered, as the forced socialising of conferences was one reason he hated them. Connie appeared to share the same opinion, which only endeared her more to Greg.
By the third day, they'd decided they had no option but to be friends as the others were clearly idiots and they both had to cling to the remnants of their sanity somehow.
"Oh, what I wouldn't give for a good murder," she mumbled into her drink. Never mind that she was the wrong height, wrong nationality, wrong gender and a cop besides, she sounded so much like Sherlock at that moment that Greg couldn't help the smirk that crept across his face as she complained that she was going to die of boredom. He almost found himself missing Sherlock and his annoying habit of being right, but the thought of how much a bored Sherlock would disrupt the place nearly filled Greg with as much horror as it did amusement. He glanced at Connie's bent head, her dark curls somewhat reminiscent of a certain lanky, pain-in-the-arse consulting detective, and had to smile.
"Be careful what you wish for," Greg said as he raised his own glass.
*
When Sherlock peremptorily announced that he was going to Chicago and that John would accompany him, John knew that any protests on his own behalf would be dismissed, in spite of their validity. Still, it was better than having to deal with Sherlock flouncing around the flat proclaiming he was bored in between episodes of trying to destroy it by various means. Next time Lestrade went anywhere, John was going to make sure that he left Sherlock a nice pile of cold cases to keep him occupied. In comparison, charging after Sherlock through Heathrow airport was positively mundane and he was sure Mrs Hudson would appreciate the break too. Needless to say, none of John's enquiries about why they were going to Chicago was met with anything he would call a decent answer, though the closest had been,
"Because we're needed, why else?"
Yeah, right. More like because Sherlock would be needed and John was useful to have around in order to translate for lesser mortals. John couldn't find it in himself to be more than mildly irritated, he was used to life with Sherlock by now and while he might feel like he was being blindsided at times, he was never, ever bored.
*
The fourth day of the conference, Lt Connie Murphy finally received the call she'd wanted. Greg was surprised when she invited him along. He accepted before his brain could overrule him and tell him what a stupid idea it was though he did ask her why.
"The only reason I've been called is because it's a weird one. Another set of eyes can't hurt and might mean I don't need to use my last resort." The way she said the latter two words made Greg prick up his ears, there'd been something very familiar about it.
"Last resort?"
"Yeah, a so-called consultant who just happens to pull answers out of thin air, even though how he gets them makes no sense more often than not."
Yes, very familiar indeed. God help Connie if her consultant was anything like Sherlock.
"I've got one of those," Greg sympathised. "Drives me absolutely nuts and I'd quite cheerfully throttle him myself if he didn't have such a beneficial effect on the number of my closed cases. Dreadful, isn't it?"
"Oh, absolutely," she agreed. He realised they were both trying - somewhat unsuccessfully - not to grin stupidly at each other.
Which was why, not so many minutes later, Greg found himself perched on the back of a motorbike clinging to Connie Murphy as she negotiated the busy Chicago roads the way only a copper or a maniac could, thanking his lucky stars that he'd decided to go for comfort instead of the suits he usually wore for work.
Unfortunately, Greg had no brilliant ideas to make Murphy's job easier. As he stepped back from the core of the crime scene, he dug out his phone and fired off a quick text.
- - Gatecrashed a crime scene. Bit of an odd one. You'd love it - - GL
He didn't expect a response; Sherlock would probably be in the process of driving John Watson and half of London up the wall. He glanced at Connie, who was in the middle of having a heated discussion with some of her colleagues about something or someone called Dresden, possibly the consultant for weird cases she'd mentioned before as this one certainly fit that profile.
*
John frowned as Sherlock's phone pinged gleefully with an incoming text alert. Sherlock glanced at it briefly, and smiled before dashing off into the press of humanity - or what passed for humanity in Chicago at least - in order to hail a cab, without a word of explanation. Situation Normal, then. John took off after him, it wouldn't do to lose Sherlock in unfamiliar surroundings, especially when he didn't have the comforting weight of his gun at his back. Luckily he caught up just as a cab pulled over, and scrambled into it on Sherlock's heels.
"So are you actually going to tell me where the hell we're going?" John demanded of the back of Sherlock's head.
"Crime scene."
"A crime scene, Sherlock. In Chicago?!"
"Lestrade texted." Sherlock waved his phone in John's direction, presumably for emphasis.
"Are you telling me that we dropped everything and came running over to Chicago on the off-chance that Lestrade would find something interesting for you? He's at a conference!"
"No."
"What?"
"It wasn't on the off chance."
John shook his head in near-disbelief. "Oh don't tell me… Mycroft?"
"Perhaps."
"But you hate doing anything for Mycroft!"
"I was bored. The alternative was unthinkable. Even Mycroft can understand that, occasionally."
"You were bored. Oh God, you think I'd be used to this by now…"
The rest of the cab journey passed in silence as John leant his forehead on the window and steadfastly ignored Sherlock - not that the annoying git noticed, of course.
*
To the majority of people passing by the jeep, Harry Dresden would appear to be having an argument with himself. Harry thought they were the lucky ones; he would much rather be arguing with himself than the recalcitrant silver-haired ghost of whom he was nominally the custodian.
"Bob, I can't take you into the crime scene!"
"You can't leave me in the jeep either. Lord only knows who would pick up my skull or for what nefarious purposes they'd use me. What would you do without me?"
"I'd enjoy the peace and quiet."
"Harry! You wound me! What of all the…"
"I'll think of something, so will you just shut up."
Murphy had called him in when he happened to be at the precinct, signing off on another case. Not being able to use a cell made life somewhat inconvenient at times but if he wasn't at home she left a message then tried the precinct first, followed by Mac's Pub. The only problem was Bob. Harry didn't usually take him to crime scenes that were active and crowded, there were enough people already who thought he was crazy without adding to the numbers by having a typical conversation with Bob. However, the ghost proved invaluable at cold scenes, which is why he'd been out and about with Harry in the first place when the call came in.
"I'm not going back in there!" Bob protested as Harry shoved the skull into his backpack. "It smells, and there isn't anything interesting to distract me!"
"Tough. It's either the backpack or run the risk of being stolen."
"I'll take the backpack."
"Thought you might. I suppose it would be pushing my luck to ask you to keep quiet?"
"Luck has nothing to do with it."
"Hmph. Forget I asked. Now be quiet."
As Harry unfolded himself from the jeep and made his way toward the building that contained the crime scene that Murphy had called him in to examine, he noticed two people headed in the same direction. The taller of them lacked several inches of his own height, but his air of elegant imperiousness and sharp-edged intelligence more than made up for it; those cold-seeming eyes probably saw everything, even the stuff most people thought they had hidden, and that was without wizard-sight. Not so different from himself then, if a hell of a lot less scruffy. Harry scratched at his chronically unshaven jaw with a half-formed grin on his face, the other guy would probably be mortified by the comparison. His companion appeared small in contrast - about the same height as Murphy - but he wasn't someone you could discount, not with the aura of deadly competence and tenacity that he wore like armour; this was a man that Harry would be pleased to have at his side when things turned to shit. He bet in some people's opinion they were a mismatched pair, but Harry thought they complemented each other better than he and Murphy did in some ways, probably because he couldn't help but notice the trust they had in each other; it was an almost tangible thing. Despite it being obvious to him that they were on the side of the good guys Harry knew there was no way he'd want to cross either of them, especially not the Murphy-sized warrior with the deceptively calm demeanour. He shouldered the backpack that concealed Bob, quashing the smile that threatened when he heard the almost subtle and half-articulated grumble emanating from it.
*
The old jeep caught John's eye as it pulled up just in front of them - it wasn't the sort of vehicle to be commonly seen on the streets of Chicago, though John had seen quite a few still in use in the middle east - and he watched as a tall, dark haired man extricated himself from its confines, then leaned inside and grabbed an innocuous looking backpack before striding away. He appeared to be heading in the same direction as they were and John wondered just who the hell he was. Jeep guy looked like he had a two or three inch height advantage over Sherlock, which John found kind of amusing as it would be good to have the tables turned for a change; Sherlock used his height to unfair advantage at times. Despite the height he was almost the antithesis of Sherlock - tousled, messy and unshaven - but he walked with confidence, as if he were certain of his right to be there, exactly where they were headed in fact and not just in the same general direction. The crime scene had just become a whole lot more interesting, in John's opinion.
"So, what do you make of him, then, Sherlock?"
"Private Investigator; though that's not why he's here. Some sort of specialist consultant with a skill-set the police here need."
"Not a million miles from yourself, then," John teased. It was worth the disgusted and almost shocked glare Sherlock turned on him.
"I wouldn't deign to be seen in such an execrable excuse of a coat, even as a disguise."
John smothered the giggle that threatened to bubble out of his chest.
"I rather like it," he said. That earned him an entirely Sherlockian frown. No-one, not even Mycroft, could manage the same sort of disdain in a glance and a twist of lips.
"You would."
*
The crime scene looked almost crowded and Harry realised that his first instinct had been correct, there was no way he could risk taking Bob in there. He was considering his non-existent options when the sound of measured footsteps revealed another unconsidered choice; the dangerous, Murphy-sized one of the two people that were coming up right behind him. He smiled to himself; Bob would probably want to crucify him, but a wizard never discounted his gut instincts and Harry's gut was screaming at him that this guy could be trusted with his life; Bob was the next best thing to that.
*
As he entered the room one of the uniformed police had indicated with a disinterested wave - and the assumption that he and Sherlock were with that English guy of Murphy's, presumably Greg Lestrade - John couldn't help but notice the rumpled figure leaning against the wall; to be honest, he couldn't really miss him. Then he was abruptly confronted by an impish smile and warm, brown eyes.
"Here, look after this." The scruffy, tall guy thrust his backpack at John, who wordlessly took it off him without thinking about it, something that he didn't usually do when confronted by total strangers, except where Sherlock had been concerned all that time ago. He decided there must be some sort of instinct to it. "Don't worry," the guy said, "it's not a bomb." He strode away toward the more interesting bit of the crime scene, paused at the door and turned. "I wouldn't open it though," he said before he turned and disappeared into the gaggle of people surrounding the body.
John stared at the innocuous looking backpack in his hands, then raised his eyes to Sherlock, who was staring thoughtfully at the door.
"He's telling the truth, John; it isn't a bomb. I would say it's something precious to him, but I have no idea exactly what; that man does not conform to societal norms. Interesting. You might as well wait here, keep an eye on that, whatever it is." Sherlock indicated the backpack in John's hands.
"And where are you going?"
"There's a body in the other room, an apparently puzzling crime scene. Where do you think I'm going?"
With that Sherlock followed the taller man through the door and John couldn't help but worry about him being surrounded by unfamiliar people, despite the presumed presence of one DI Lestrade.
"Well, well, well; aren't you quite the anomaly, John Watson? A guardian, a hunter, and a healer."
John nearly dropped the backpack in surprise. It wasn't every day a backpack containing something which was not a bomb, that had been shoved at him by a rather odd American bloke, started speaking in a cultured English accent. The rational explanation was that he was having an auditory hallucination, possibly brought on by exhaustion and too much chasing after Sherlock, but sometimes the rational explanation just didn't cut it in his opinion and John went with his gut, an instinct that had saved his life more than once. He'd seen and heard of some pretty strange things out in Afghanistan, more when he'd returned home and moved in with Sherlock, and not all of them had been easy to explain away by the application of scientific method.
John did the only thing he felt he could, daft though it might seem; he answered.
"What did you say?"
"Oh, how absolutely marvellous; you can hear me. Well I never, hasn't today been a turn up for the books?"
Despite being advised not to open the backpack by its owner there was no way John was going to pay that warning any heed when the damn thing was talking to him. His fingers fumbled with the straps and laces that held it closed but he finally succeeded and peered inside. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd find, but he didn't expect to be confronted by an obviously human skull, covered in some sort of arcane engravings. That the not a bomb happened to be a skull wasn't exactly worrying - he was used to Sherlock's 'friend' who sat on the mantelpiece back at 221b after all - but the fact that its eyes were glowing slightly in muted, fiery shades was, if not worrying, then a little disconcerting at least. John frowned into the backpack, then sidled away from the majority of people and tried to make himself appear as inconspicuous and unthreatening as possible to the casual observer. However, Sherlock, and probably Greg, would most likely recognise that despite his outward demeanour, he was in truth ready for all hell to break loose. He took a deep breath and dared to take a peek into the backpack again. He could have sworn the skull all but *blinked* at him.
"Usually when I talk to a skull, it doesn't answer back," John said.
"Less of the 'it' if you don't mind, the correct pronoun in my case is 'he' and I do actually have a name."
"Which is?" John asked politely. Part of his brain was shrieking at him in hysterical disbelief, but as it was the part that hadn't entirely got used to Sherlock, never mind anything else slightly out of the ordinary, he ignored it.
"Hrothbert of Bainbridge."
"Bit of a mouthful, that."
"Harry calls me Bob."
"Sensible. So, er, Bob, apart from being a talking skull, just what are you? Cursed? Haunted? Figment of my imagination?"
"I am most certainly NOT a figment of your imagination, dear doctor. I doubt your good self would be damaged, twisted and deranged enough to dream up an entity such as I."
John suppressed a snort; as backhanded compliments went, that one had to be amongst the strangest he'd received. Then again, the situation didn't exactly conform to his idea of normal either. He was somewhat surprised at just how calmly he seemed to be accepting it, as by all rights he should be at least steadfastly refusing to believe his ears never mind engaging the skull in polite conversation. Maybe he'd freak out later, when he had privacy.
"Cursed or haunted, then," John said.
"Somewhat of both, though I'm sure you aren't interested in details; it was a very long time ago. Suffice it to say, I've been tied to my own skull for quite a while."
"How long? Decades? Centuries? Millennia?" John was genuinely curious, it wasn't exactly every day he had the opportunity to ask a question like that, and certainly not of a talking skull. He decided he wasn't curious about why Bob had been cursed to 'live' in his skull, some things were much better left unsaid and unknown.
"Centuries, though I suppose I do just squeak through the one millennium mark. The world was different than it is today, but certain things were made to last."
"Like your curse, obviously." John paused for a moment, mulling over the idea that had popped into his head. He decided to go for it; nothing ventured, nothing gained and he didn't think the day could get much stranger at this point. "Bob, if you're a ghost, do you actually have a… oh I don't know how you'd put this… a physical presence? Or are you…"
"Just a talking skull? Oh I assure you, I'm very definitely not just a talking skull. I have quite the presence, I'm told."
"I'd be interested in deciding that for myself," John commented and shrugged as well as he could with his arms full of skull-laden backpack. "I'm not afraid of ghosts, even cursed ones."
"No, you aren't, are you? Why is that, I wonder?"
"Maybe I carry too many of my own around with me, or perhaps I've just stared death in the face too many times?"
"Stared death in the face and defied, maybe even laughed at it, I'd say. Such determination can be admirable." The tone of Bob's voice informed John that despite the words, Bob himself wasn't convinced about the admirableness of determination, John didn't entirely disagree with him.
"You know, I'm probably just stubborn and opinionated," he said. "My sister says I was born contrary; would never allow anyone to tell me who my friends should be, how I should think, what I should do with my life, how I should react..."
"And here we are, having a somewhat… unplanned conversation."
"I can think of worse ways to pass the time." John meant every word; chatting to Bob was infinitely preferable to dealing with Sherlock in one of his moods for a start, then there was a whole slew of equally unpalatable things that he wasn't going to even think about. He smiled at the soft, disembodied chuckle that emanated from the backpack; Bob obviously shared a similar opinion.
TBC
Part 2
This entry was originally posted at http://a-lanart.dreamwidth.org/244159.html.