Okey. I was tempted to start a sequel to The Great Game, but so many people are doing that I decided to do something different. Not many people seem to have done anything in this specific Sherlock Holmes canon on supernaturals, so I jumped on the chance to do something relatively new. So yes, there will be werewolves. There might be other supernatural creatures if I get approval from my audience.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any way shape or form. If I did, there would be a lot more episodes out a lot sooner.
If it weren't for the Americans, we wouldn't have gotten into this enormous mess in the first place. Had they stayed in their own country where they belonged, everything would have been normal. Well, as normal as living with Sherlock Holmes can get. Which, in fact, is not normal at all.
Everything started on a sunny Saturday morning. At first, I was completely convinced that the day would be routine. Sherlock was - predictably - bored and caseless, laying on the sofa with a mild look of disapproval on his face that he seemed to direct at the world in general. Unsurprising. London's criminals, in Sherlock's words, had been boring lately.
I glanced at the consulting (sounds strangely like 'sulking') detective occasionally as I made tea in the kitchen. Very few things ran through my mind when I tried to come up with something to do all day. Sarah was going to be gone for the next week or two; she was visiting family around England. I frowned. Having already checked the day's schedule, I knew that the telly wouldn't be any relief. Nothing going on in town… Maybe Lestrade would call with a case. I shook my head quickly. Sherlock was rubbing off on me.
A tap at the door nearly caused me to drop the hot cup of tea I was holding. Maybe the day would bring something interesting. I knew that neither Sherlock nor I were expecting anyone.
"Don't open the door, John," Sherlock said sharply as I stepped out of the kitchen. I paused.
"Why not?"
"Mycroft."
I sighed and continued to the door. If it was Mycroft, he'd get to us eventually, even if Sherlock didn't want him to. Might as well stay on the man's good side. I flinched at a violent crash behind me as I opened the door.
"Good morning," were the first words out of Mycroft's mouth when the door opened. His eyes obviously said 'what was that crash?', though. He looked over my shoulder before I could answer the obvious question. I turned to look also. Sherlock was picking himself up off of the floor. Considering the trail of destruction, he had been trying to reach the door before I did and tripped over the coffee table. Mycroft slowly raised an eyebrow. "Ah."
"Do you want to come in?" I asked, stepping slightly out of the way and further opening the door.
"Of course, thank you," Mycroft stepped inside and placed himself on a couch. He set the large manila envelope he was carrying on the seat beside him. His umbrella stayed in his hand, though. I momentarily wondered why he carried it around all the time, even when there was no sign of rain. A security blanket sort of thing, maybe? I almost snorted with laughter at the thought of Mycroft Holmes needing a security blanket.
"Before you ask, no," Sherlock said petulantly refusing to even look at his brother. Instead he stared at the skull he kept on top the fireplace.
"I know that you have nothing to do right now," Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock's previous comment. "And I have a problem that I can't exactly take care of myself. You know, leg work. The people I've put on to it can't seem to… remedy the problem."
Sherlock wandered out of the room as if his brother never existed in the first place. I sighed and closed my eyes. What sort of grudge was there between them? Just jealousy? Even then, why would Sherlock be jealous of Mycroft? Possibly a case of sibling rivalry separated them earlier on in life. I sat across from Mycroft.
"I'll take a message if you'd like," I said awkwardly. "Maybe I could get Lestrade to present it to Sherlock as a case?"
"That won't be necessary," Mycroft replied, glancing after his brother. "He'll realize that it's the only thing for him to do at the moment."
"I have plenty of things to do!" Sherlock snapped from one of the back rooms. "And I won't help you. I'm not listening and I'm not involved in this conversation." Living with Sherlock, living with a child. Same difference. Except that Sherlock got into a lot more dangerous trouble than any kid could. Or any ten kids.
"Well, we know that he can hear me, at least. You won't have to repeat anything for him," Mycroft said with a light chuckle.
"So, what's gone wrong?"
"A group of Americans closely affiliated with a terrorist organization have illegally arrived in England. They're too closely watched in their own country, so they moved their operation here. I have a list of names and faces," he indicated the envelope, "and also last known locations. My men are having an extremely hard time tracking them down, though. They know that we are watching them, and they also know how to avoid us."
"Send out more people," Sherlock's voice filtered in from the back. "You'll stumble across someone sooner or later."
Mycroft ignored him.
"In both America and England, the current goal of the organization seems to be gaining access to people in high places for unknown reasons. Several officials in the American government reported assaults by known members of the organization. The strange thing is that assassination was not the goal. Each attempt involved either a loaded syringe or a team of trained dogs accompanying the handlers. We have no information on their intents."
"So you just want Sherlock to track these people down?" I asked. The whole thing seemed a little routine for Mycroft to be coming to his disagreeable younger brother for help.
"Track down, discover intents, get more information on the entire organization, and figure out how these people disappear."
"Disappear?"
"We tried tracking them with CCTV several times, but they disappeared between cameras and never came back. They were just gone, and there were no exits of any sort in the areas. Similar things happened when I sent people after them."
"Strange," I frowned and took a sip of my tea. My mouth gave me the same message that my hands, which were wrapped around the cup, gave me. The drink was still scalding hot.
"The organization seems to be worldwide, but mostly focused in America and Russia. From the little intelligence my people have, the organization seems to be growing rapidly." Mycroft continued. I gave a short mental laugh at the wording of Mycroft's statement. The perceptive man noticed my mirth and paused for a moment before going on. "There seems to be no intent or purpose for that organization other than the strange assaults on important people."
"Maybe they're bored and want to bother you," Sherlock offered in an unhelpful and sarcastic tone. He seemed to have a lot of opinions and input for someone not listening to and not involved in the conversation.
"America has sent over a team to deal with them, but openly denied it when I attempted to contact them about working together. Apparently they don't want to be agreeable right now. Or the team is working on their own. Which I doubt, considering their orderliness and methods."
I saw Sherlock suddenly standing by the entrance to the kitchen, pretending to be involved in looking at a point somewhere above my head. He was bored and realized that Mycroft had something interesting for him. But I knew that he would deny it with all his might if confronted.
The moment Mycroft left, Sherlock pounced on the manila envelope, scrambling to open it and immediately spreading the papers around him so that he could see them all at once. I held back a smile at the contradiction that was my flat mate.
"There's only ten known operatives in England," Sherlock announced almost immediately. "Almost always sighted in groups of at least two. Why can't my dear brother's goons find them if that's the case?"
"Apparently they know how to become invisible."
"We don't have that kind of technology. That can't be it." Sherlock said shortly, loath to give me any of his attention. His eyes glittered with the elated light that always appeared in them during a challenge.
"Still, why is this so important?" I asked, despite the fact that I expected Sherlock not to reply. I understood that the situation was strange, but there seemed to be little real immediate threat.
"Neighbor," Sherlock's reply was so quick and clipped that I nearly missed it. Neighbor?
"What neighbor?" I asked. The 221a flat below us had been empty ever since I knew of its existence. Maybe someone across the street? In the building beside us? I waited for a while, but Sherlock did not answer. "Is there any way I can help?"
"Neighbor," Sherlock repeated, louder this time. I expected that was all he would give me. After a moment's consideration, I stood and exited the flat, nearly running into Mrs. Hudson.
"Sorry. Good morning," I apologized and greeted, backing up a step.
"Oh, hello dear. I've been in such a rush this morning, you know, with that pleasant young gentleman suddenly deciding to move into that one flat," She said, slightly flustered. "He wanted everything done right then, of course he was very polite about it, but still. Always in such a rush."
"So we have a neighbor in 221a?" I asked, my eyebrows shooting up. Sherlock knew on such short notice? He hadn't even looked out the window this morning, much less snooped around on the neighbors.
"Oh yes. Such a polite young man, reminds me of that detective friend who is always visiting Sherlock. The dear," She smiled softly, putting her hands together. "Now if you don't mind at all, I must be going. Paperwork, you know."
"Ah, where could I find him? I'd love to get acquainted," That's what Sherlock must have meant by "neighbor." Information. But why? Did it really matter that some normal 'boring' person had moved into the dingy basement flat? Honestly, after knowing that Moriarty could get into that flat, and actually had, I would not want to live there. Even if he could probably get into 221b just as easily, the fact that he hadn't was comforting.
"Oh, he's downstairs, already moving in. Like I said, always in a rush," Mrs. Hudson smiled and took a step towards the stairs. "I'll be seeing you."
I watched her go, and then slowly meandered down the stairs, noting that the door to our building was propped open. Usually, Mrs. Hudson made sure that it was closed and locked. Most likely she left it open so that our neighbor could move in. I peered out the door. There was a small silver compact car parked at the curb, but no truck to carry furniture. I continued down the stairs.
The door of 221a was open just a crack, as if the owner had stepped inside to grab something quickly before he left. I knocked lightly on the door. "Hello, is anyone in there?"
Instantly, the door was jerked open. A young man, probably late twenties-early thirties stood in the doorway, glaring at me with piercing dark eyes. He was dressed in tight ripped jeans and a casual t-shirt, and looked like he belonged in some rock band. Before I could say anything, he spoke, interrupting my thoughts. "Can I help you?"
He was an American.
Comments and critiques will be highly appreciated!