Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, Arthur Conan Doyle and in their BBC version Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Stephen Thompson. The original characters and plot are mine. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: This was done for Sherlock Holmes Week 2012 on DA: it is the result of a challenge from JuweWright. I am not going to put the very long and very crazy list of things I had to include in this fic, but be prepared! There shall be rain and wind, Harrods and a fitness center... Behold! ;p ~¤Zoffoli
N.B.: This story was betaed in record time by Rianna Lauren, by Lugian before Swine, and by Salsify for the e-book version. All my thanks!
~o~
.
..
...
The Adventure of the Dashboard Box
...
..
.
...
Chapter 1: Mother. Our mother.
It was getting dark when the Chevrolet Volt took the path to the mansion's garage. Alexander Holder never liked leaving any of his cars out in the open during the night, even in the very broad park of his estate in Sussex. He came to a stop as the automatic garage door closed behind him. As he turned off his car engine, he saw a figure emerging from the darkness. He smiled when he stepped out of his car.
"Hello there! What are you doing here?"
"I saw the car coming down the alley and thought I'd come to meet you here – I was having a glass of wine, you see, and thought I'd share," the person said, handing Alexander the second glass he carried. Alexander's face brightened with a grin.
"Ooh. Which did you choose?"
"A Clos Saint Urbain, 1998. Found it in the cellar."
Alexander took the glass gratefully and took a sip.
"Uhm. Very good. But don't you think there's some aftertaste?"
"Really? I didn't notice."
They both drank again, tasting. Alexander started feeling a little dizzy.
"Weird, very weird. I think this wine is..."
He fell and crashed to the pavement before his car, forever leaving his sentence to hang in the air.
¤ oOo ¤
In his Diogenes Club personal office, Mycroft was pensively studying a series of documents spread on his desk, when he was interrupted by the phone flashing (no ringing was allowed within the building, even if the walls of this office were soundproofed). The British Government frowned. He had asked not to be disturbed, regardless of the identity of the caller. If this call had made it through the reception desk, it could only be one person.
"Hello, Mummy?"
"Mycroft, darling. How are you doing?"
"Very well, Mummy. Is there anything I can do for you? Or is this about Sherlock?"
"Both, I'm afraid."
The elder of the Holmes brothers repressed a sigh, and allowed his face to crack into a thin smile.
"I'm listening."
"Mr. Holder was murdered yesterday."
"Did the police determine it to be murder?"
"No. That is why I would like you to look into it. You know the Holders are old friends of the family."
"I understand, Mummy. I shall put Sherlock on the case."
"Thank you, Mycroft. I knew I could count on you."
"You are aware that he is much more likely to set himself against me than you, aren't you?"
"I know, darling. But you know his pressure points. I am no longer familiar with them."
Mycroft smirked slightly.
"Indeed. Well, I will do what I can to convince him and will keep you informed."
"Thank you."
As he hung up, Mycroft glanced at the date indicated on his phone, and his eyes sparked. December 20. Oh, Mummy was clever. He picked his phone and dialled a number.
"Bring John Watson to me."
¤ oOo ¤
"John. John!"
"I heard you the first time!" John protested from the kitchen. "What is it?"
"Bring me your gun."
"What?"
"Your gun, John! Bring it to me."
"No. You're bored."
"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed in irritation.
John rolled his eyes, but he couldn't prevent an amused smile from spreading across his face.
"I don't suppose you would come with me to get the groceries? You know, to occupy yourself."
Sherlock's disbelieving look and his miffed pout made it clear that he wouldn't. John sighed, and went out. He made it only as far as the street corner before a classy black car stopped beside him, and he came face to face with yet another beautiful stranger. Damn the Holmes brothers.
Mycroft was waiting for him in his usual office at the Diogenes. This time, John was wise enough not to utter a word before he arrived in the safety zone – if one could call it that.
"Dr. Watson! It's a pleasure to see you again. Do please take a seat."
"I'm fine. What do you want?"
"Were you in a hurry, perhaps?"
"To tell the truth, yes, Mycroft. I'm quite busy babysitting your brother – as I'm sure you well know."
Mycroft smiled with satisfaction.
"You will be glad to hear that I have a case for you, then."
John sighed resignedly.
¤ oOo ¤
"Here. Got you a case. Happy?" John told his friend, handing him a purple file folder. Sherlock took it but after a glance, dropped it to the floor with disgust.
"It's from Mycroft."
"Yes, but– "
"I'm not taking it."
"But your mother–"
"Definitely not taking it."
John shook his head and decided to ignore his flatmate's comments. He opened the file and scanned it, briefing Sherlock on the case.
"Mr. Holder was apparently drugged and left to die in his car that was still running. The cause of death is carbon monoxide poisoning. A wine bottle and a glass were found in the car with him, along with a small empty package with traces of oxycodone. The police concluded suicide, but his wife was convinced that the analgesic couldn't have been self-administered."
"Boring."
"No, it's not! You're just saying this because we got the case from Mycroft!"
"I got the case. You were just used as a flunkey."
John's face darkened and he gritted his teeth.
"Right, nothing different than usual, then," he noted bitterly, slamming the file onto the table and leaving the room. Sherlock blinked, then stared at the staircase door. He frowned in annoyance, and rolled on his other side, facing the cushions of the couch sullenly.
He sulked for half an hour and then grew tired of even that when John failed to come back down. No, he wasn't feeling bad about it at all. Absolutely not. He'd done nothing wrong. But the room without John was even more boring, if that were possible.
So Sherlock sighed dramatically as he got up and scuffed his feet to the stairs. He climbed them and stopped in front John's door, knocking tentatively.
"John?"
No answer. Sherlock frowned. He knew his friend had gone up, and he hadn't heard him come down. An almost imperceptible noise confirmed his impression and told him John was indeed in the room. Really upset, then, the detective deduced.
"John? Are you hungry? We could get some dinner."
But his offer was greeted only by silence. Sherlock made an impatient moue. He couldn't think of anything else that could bring John out of his room – what better offer could he make than actually eating with him? As he racked his brain, a conversation they had had on John's blog suddenly popped up in his mind. He weighed up the pros and cons for a moment before he came to the conclusion that, all things considered, the sacrifice was worth it. Bond or boredom? Bond won.
"John? Remember that Bond night we talked about...?"
He trailed off, determined not to lower himself further. This was already sounding enough like begging, even if Sherlock didn't admit it to himself. Fortunately, his friend and flatmate was not only devoted, faithful and long-suffering, he also had a noted weak spot when it came to refusing Sherlock – unless it was for his own good (like the cigarettes). But this... This was almost sweet; the good doctor didn't want to push his luck. As soon as he opened the door, he saw Sherlock avert his gaze and turn to the stairs, hiding his expression. John just shook his head, and followed.
Sherlock's tolerance for pop culture didn't last very long, but John had come to enjoy his snappy remarks to the telly.
"You know they can't hear you, right?" he'd asked him once. Sherlock's eyes had hurled daggers and he had sulked in silence... for five minutes, perhaps. Then he'd resumed complaining about every detail.
"Come on! It's obvious she's not just any secretary! Is he an idiot? Or maybe she's just a bad actress."
His ranting was interrupted by his phone ringing. Sherlock picked up absent-mindedly, without looking at the number.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Sherlock."
His eyes widened.
"Mummy? How did you–"
"Please. I can still get a number, Sherly."
The detective frowned and John glanced at him, gesturing to ask if he should pause the movie. Sherlock shook his head curtly.
"Am I interrupting?"
"Actually, yes. I'm busy."
"Busy? Doing what?"
"Watching a DVD."
Confounded silence followed.
"I beg your pardon?"
"A movie, Mummy. From Russia, With Love," he added, taking a quick look at the DVD box. John shifted nervously in his seat.
"You are with your new attendant, I presume?"
At this, Sherlock's brow clouded visibly.
"My colleague."
"Yes, well. Perhaps he can help you with the case of Mr. Holder? His wife has taken the news quite terribly."
"To be fair," Sherlock commented off-handedly, "her husband has just died."
"It was murder. Alexander was found–"
"Yes, yes, I know, John told me all about it."
"Oh. So you have the insolence to interrupt me, but not him?"
Something in his mother's tone alerted Sherlock, some lingering threat that made him rather uncomfortable.
"Why do you want me on the case?" he finally asked, somewhat cautiously.
"There was a box."
"A box?" The detective frowned, now fully focused.
"Yes, one of those little black boxes sitting on the dashboard to the left of the steering wheel. It has three lights. The box has three lights and when the car's driver makes a 'fuel-wasting' or dangerous move, the LEDs go from green to yellow to red. The car is a Chevrolet Volt."
The superfluous detail fed Sherlock's annoyance, and he replied with a dry voice:
"And that is relevant because...?"
"It's gone. It wasn't found in the car, or anywhere in the garage."
Now, Sherlock's interest was piqued. John could see it on his face, feel it in the air; the sudden sense of thrill and adventure was back.
¤ oOo ¤
Mycroft arranged a car for them and off they went to Surrey on what John had already decided to title The Adventure of the Dashboard Box. During the drive there, he went through the file again, reading out loud for Sherlock to hear (the spoiled git wouldn't bother scanning the file himself, on the excuse that it came from Big Brother).
"Alexander Holder, married to Gilda Holder for thirty-three years. Two children: Robert, 17, and Simon, 10. They live in the Holder family estate in Surrey, together with Arthur Holder, Alexander's older brother – a widower."
John looked up from his papers and at Sherlock, who was gazing out of the window, his face blank. John decided he would rather not actually know whether his friend had been listening or not.
"So, friends of the family? Guess it came as shock, hearing he'd just died."
"John. I wish I were never forced to see my brother. I hardly ever see my mother. What she calls "family friends" means people who attend her parties –a good hundred and fifty neighbours and various acquaintances. Do you really think I would care for such people?"
"Right. Sorry for asking," John mumbled back.
He wondered if Sherlock realized how cold he was to family members. John himself hadn't had the best of relationships with his parents before they died, not to mention his ongoing frustrations with Harry. Still, no matter how obtrusive and patronizing he was, Mycroft clearly cared a lot about Sherlock, and John was sure 'Mummy' truly did worry, too. He wondered what could have possibly happened for his friend to avoid seeing his family so determinedly. Then he reflected on Mycroft's personality and what he saw of it in Sherlock himself. If the entire Holmes family was like this, no wonder the detective fled them like the plague.
"So, your mother... She lives in Surrey, too?"
"Mm."
"Alone?"
Sherlock turned to John and stared pointedly.
"She's sixty-five, John."
It took the ex-soldier a moment before the meaning of Sherlock's remark dawned on him.
"I wasn't... no! Come on, Sherlock, I'm not that desperate!"
This earned him a glare, and he decided to shut up for the rest of the ride. So much for inquiring discreetly about Sherlock's father, he thought grumpily.
"He's dead."
John jumped.
"What?"
"My father. He died when I was seven. Cancer."
"Oh." John kept his eyes on the scenery, feeling a little uneasy about Sherlock reading his thoughts so easily. "I'm sorry."
"It was almost thirty years ago, John. And stop making that face."
"What face?" John protested.
"Your 'Am-I-really-that-readable?' face. If you really must know: you are."
"Now I know why you like me: I'm the best way to boost your gigantic ego," the doctor muttered in irritation.
"Don't be daft, John. If that were the reason, I could've chosen anyone at all."
Pretentious twat, John thought. Then he blinked.
"What's the reason, then?"
"Here we are!" Sherlock exclaimed, getting out of the car swiftly. John sighed. Running away again, he mused, following. As he took in his surroundings, he couldn't help but be filled with admiration.
"God, how rich was this guy?"
"Very rich. But this isn't his house."
John arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Then whose is it?"
"Mine," a deep, elegant voice chided in. "Welcome back, Sherly."
John froze. Sherlock's eyes turned to slits at the nickname, but he replied composedly:
"Hello, Mummy."
TBC
...
..
.
~o~