"Commissioner-" I looked up at the sergeant. Male, brown hair and eyes, moderately expensive suit. He'd been a sergeant for some time, comfortable with his role and not entirely inclined to seek out a promotion. That'd likely change once his wife got around to tell him that she was pregnant.
"What can I do for you, Detective Sergeant Kean?" I asked pleasantly, silently filing away the nervous clenching and unclenching of his fist. Bad news but not urgent.
"There's been another one." Ah... Another serial suicide. Brother will be absolutely delighted. "You wished to be informed if Inspector Lestrade intended to involve Mr. Holmes."
"I presume Lestrade is already on his way to Baker Street, then." The sergeant shifted his weight anxiously and I sighed. "Don't concern yourself, sergeant. Lestrade will do his best to keep Sherlock in check and, unless you receive further word from me, then you may return to that kidnapping case. Remember to be thorough on your investigation into the nanny. Search for any signs of an affair with the husband and work from there."
"Uh- Yes, ma'am!" Kean scurried off and left me to my thoughts. Sighing softly, I pulled out my phone and found myself texting a familiar number.
No requirement to keep me informed but I expect to see you 'round once you've solved the case. Don't make me come to Baker Street. AH
Barely a minute had passed before the phone chimed in response.
As if Lestrade won't go to you and whine about his own ineptitude. How he remains your favorite lapdog I shall never be able to surmise. SH
He is one of the few detective inspectors that can stand to work with you. You would do well to stop antagonizing him like you do. AH
After several minutes of silence, I turned the phone away and returned to my work. There were loads of cases to review before the final reports were sent off to the courts and, as ever, there was an incoming stream of cases that needed to be sorted, prioritized, and distributed amongst the CID. I had an assistant commissioner to handle the majority of the distribution but there was a level of satisfaction to be gained for doing at least some of the sorting myself.
I glanced at the first case on the pile. A quick glance and I filed it away into a folder for one of the newest inspectors. Assigning cases was a delicate task; too difficult for the inspector and the case, even if it wasn't particularly tricky, could risk falling into a stack of cold cases. If the task were too easy for the inspector, though, they may get sloppy in their work, something that the Yard couldn't afford with the crime rate as it was.
There was still a reason I still enjoyed working as the commissioner, paperwork aside. If I ever got bored in the office, I'd have my pick of the most interesting crimes to dissect at the ready and any number of willing colleagues to take credit since, as commissioner, I couldn't exactly be seen doing much legwork. Her majesty had me appointed to handle the administrative end of the policing that had to be done in London; I couldn't very well argue with that. Besides, I rather liked my position.
It was a wonder Sherlock never figured out that, if he actually went ahead and got a proper job in the force, he'd be able to carry on with his own detective work while being able to afford a flat by himself. Not to mention that he'd finally be able to get some people skills or, at the very least, find a way to keep his deductions to himself when it didn't benefit him. I could read people just as easily, if not a bit easier, than him but I kept my mouth shut until I needed leverage. That was how I'd gone from a friendless know-it-all into commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service. That was how Mycroft rose from the ringleader of ragtag grade school bullies to whatever new position the Queen had offered him in MI6. Sherlock, sad as it was, just didn't know how to play the game just yet.
Triple homicide... Humming to myself, I slipped the file into an almost empty folder. Three murders, each with a unique murder weapon, at one scene? There had to be something good in there.
I knew at once when Lestrade and his team came back from Brixton. I could hear Anderson's growled expletives from across the office though, if I were to be honest, he and Sally Donovan brought it onto themselves. From what I could make out, Sherlock had been his normal charming self at the crime scene.
I watched with hidden interest as Lestrade made his way to my office's glass door, swallowing a scowl as he knocked lightly on the door. I nodded twice, glancing down at my papers before looking back up at the detective inspector. Seeing him, I didn't bother to hide my disapproving smile.
"He ran off again, didn't he?"
"Not before shouting something about 'pink,'" Lestrade huffed, shaking his head. "I think he's on to something, though. He got that mad look in his eye. You know the one."
"Serial killers," I said, agreeing with a wry smile. "They're always the most interesting cases to solve, especially for Sherlock... Thanks for alerting me. I'll check up on him later tonight to see if he's found anything."
"Appreciate it, ma'am."
"Thank you for the update but, in all honestly, Greg. I've known you for ten years now. You could call me Ainsley every once in a while."
"Alright then, Ainsley. I've got to get back," Lestrade said, running a hand through his hair and glancing back out my door.
"Greg," I called as he began walking towards the door. He hesitated, turning back to face me. "I'm taking Donovan off of this case. I want her running point on another case I've got lined up.. Simple enough, looks like a botched mugging from a glance, but I think it'd be good to let her cut her teeth on. See if she's up for a promotion."
"Understood. I'll let her know," Lestrade said with a proud smile. Donovan was almost his pet project. Since the woman had been a constable, he'd been her guiding hand and her mentor in the ways of sleuthing. If she was up to par, I might consider shifting Lestrade to the Crime Academy part-time. I couldn't lose his ability to work with my sociopath of a brother but, if he could help turn out some more good detectives, he'd be a valuable instructor.
"Annie, dear, you're here!" Mrs. Hudson greeted happily, opening the door wide and trapping me in a tight hug. I was glad for the hug; it hid the knee-jerk reaction of a grimace at the nickname.
If there was one thing that my brothers and I could agree with in any circumstance, it was that our parents were very creative in naming the three of us. Mycroft, Sherlock, and Ainsley? We were doomed from the start to be different from the other children. Even so, I was not alone in hardly being able to tolerate the pet names our parents and various relatives had tried assigning me. Annie, believe it or not, was not the worst to be used.
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," I greeted, hugging the older woman back. She was a bit thinner but not drastically or unhealthily so. "Sorry it's been so long since I've last visited but you know how the Yard is."
"Of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson reassured me before smiling brightly. "I don't think you've heard! Sherlock's found himself a flatmate. Nice boy named John, John Watson. Well, John says they're just flatmates." I grinned at the conspiratorial wink the old woman delivered and chuckled at the idea of Sher showing romantic interest in anyone, let alone a man.
"I'm certain Mycroft will provide me with all sorts of details as soon as he's done checking John's history over." I was certain. Mycroft and I had an information exchange when it came to Sherlock. Through both of our efforts, from the government and the police force, we kept him out of any big trouble. "For now, though, is Sherlock back? He's helping one of my inspectors with a case but he ran off. You know how he is."
"Too well," Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "They did pop back for a while but I think the two of them went out to dinner."
"That's fine. I'll wait for them to come back."
"They might be a while, dear. I'll put on the kettle and bring up some tea and biscuits."
"Oh, you don't have to, Mrs. Hudson."
"Only because it's you, Ainsley. Can't let the boys get too used to it but I hardly get to spoil you," Mrs. Hudson said warmly, patting my shoulder gently. "Now go on up, dear."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I smiled brightly.
As the old woman retreated to her own apartment, I climbed the stairs to 221B, letting myself in without a care. The first thing I spotted, sitting on a chair next to the couch, was a pink suitcase. I frowned at it, recalling the details of Lestrade's latest case. Sighing in exasperation, I hung my coat up and wandered towards the sofa to wait.
Twenty minutes into waiting, a cup of tea warming my hands thanks to Mrs. Hudson, I pulled out my phone.
Sherlock found the pink case. You can come in if you knock nicely and leave the sniffer dogs at home. AH
Don't trust your own brother? At Lestrade's response, I actually laughed.
He has human eyes in a jar sitting in his microwave. I trust that he's clean but I'm less certain about his apartment. Keep the drugs bust excuse for the next time he doesn't bring you evidence, alright? AH
Deal.
I closed my phone, glancing around and looking for something to do. Spotting Sherlock's violin next to his desk, I smiled at the wealth of memories that came with it. Our mother had each of us take up an instrument from a young age, something that helped distract us from the disparaging of the other children, but only Sherlock stayed with his chosen instrument. Mycroft learned quickly how to manipulate those around him so that they worked for him as opposed to against him, nullifying almost every good the cello did for him. Once I learned how to contain my deductions, the piano drifted more into a hobby and, though I've never forgotten how to play, I have neglected the skill in favor of furthering my career. Sherlock, however, did not play the game as well as Mycroft and he didn't have my self control. He stayed with the violin, claiming it helped him think, but I knew it was more than that. The violin reminded him of a time when life was simpler.
I stood and moved slowly towards the instrument, pulling it up to my shoulder and experimentally plucking the strings.
"G... D... A... E..." I tuned the violin absently, picking up the bow where it lay and carefully running the bow across the open strings. I smiled at the sound it made. I didn't exactly play the violin, nor did I have any great desire to learn, but I could always appreciate the sound it made and there was much to be learned in watching someone play. I lost track of the hours I bullied Sherlock into playing for me.
"Didn't know you played," a familiar voice said at the door. I chuckled, lowering the bow as I turned to face the detective inspector.
"Had you stood there a moment longer, you'd know that my skill is extremely limited. My musical skills hardly extend past the piano." I quickly found and returned the instrument to its case, which had been lying on its side against the side of a bookshelf. "The case is on the chair."
"This is it, then?... It'd explain why he was shouting about pink," Lestrade muttered as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the case with a frown. "Doubt my guys'll be able to find anything to link to the killer but evidence is evidence. Did he tell you where he found it?"
"He was already gone by the time I got here," I said, shaking my head. "Speaking of which, you might want to make yourself scarce before he and John come back."
"It's for the best," he agreed. I watched as he briefly glanced through the case almost absently. His eyes seemed distant as he zipped the suitcase closed. "Thanks for telling me about this."
"No problem, Greg. You'd better get that down to Forensics and get some sleep. You've been running yourself ragged these past couple of days."
"I'm fine," he defended with a frown. I raised an eyebrow incredulously.
"No, you're not. I'll contact you if Sherlock finds anything new. Until then, go home and rest. That's an order, Detective Inspector," I said only half jokingly.
"Understood, Commissioner," he acknowledged similarly. I bid him goodnight and watched him leave. Before the front door closed behind him, however, I heard a new pair of voices in the hall and I grimaced.
So much for leaving before Sher gets home.
"You can't just break into my flat!" I heard Sherlock argue at the man. I abandoned the privacy of the flat for the top of the stairs and found myself looking down at my brother, flanked by a blond man, as he yelled at Lestrade in frustration.
"He didn't break in," I called once Sherlock had paused to breathe. His eyes darted up to me, furious, before he took a moment to calculate. His gaze cooled drastically and his mouth thinned into a hard line. "I invited him."
"Did you now? Who invited you, exactly?" Sherlock asked coldly. I laughed under my breath, never taking my eyes off of my brother.
"Since when do I need to be invited, brother dear?"
"I'm sorry, that's your sister?" the blond behind Sherlock, John, asked in confusion. Sherlock scowled.
"Of course she's my sister, don't be stupid," he said quickly. "Doesn't explain why you're here. Unless you only came to give your lapdog all the work I've done."
"Lapdog?" Lestrade and John both asked at once, the former angry and the latter even more hopelessly confused.
"Greg, it's fine. You know Sherlock's never had the best of manners. And, John, it's nice to meet you. My name is Ainsley Holmes. I work at Scotland Yard."
"She is the Yard," Sherlock hissed to his flatmate. I looked at him curiously.
"So you did get my letter. I thought it must have been lost in the post since you didn't deign to attend the ceremony or even respond. Don't think Mycroft or I failed to notice your absence. You're lucky the queen didn't." I looked to John with a smile. "I've recently been appointed as the new commissioner, youngest ever."
"Oh, good," John managed to say, working through a daze. "I'm sorry, did you say the queen?"
"I'm off. Nice working with you, Sherlock."
"More like working off you," Sherlock scowled. As soon as Lestrade was gone, though, his scowl disappeared into a grin. I was pleasantly surprised to find myself caught up in a rather enthusiastic hug.
"Have you been keeping up with the reports?" Sherlock asked urgently, excitedly. He reminded me so much of the child he used to be, before the drugs, before university, and before everything else that led up to that.
"Four identical murder-by-suicides? Of course I've kept up."
"So you gave Lestrade the case? He's not capable of solving it," Sherlock said, an amused timber leaking into his voice. I rolled my eyes. Sherlock's always been more than a bit proud, especially since it became evident that we weren't actually stupid.
"He's the only detective inspector I have who's decent at his job and willing to work with you. I knew he'd go to you for help otherwise I would have gone to the scene myself. I'm not going to be the one to deprive you of a good serial killer." Knowing that Sherlock wouldn't have much more to talk about outside of the case, I turned to John. The man was staring at me a bit incredulously.
"Hello, Dr. Watson. It's nice to meet you. I trust my brother's told you absolutely nothing about me?"
"Well, no. He hasn't."
"Excellent. That means he's not yet had the chance to describe me as a manipulative know-it-all."
"I would mean it in the best possible way, Annie."
"Don't start with me on nicknames, Sher," I shot back casually. "Anyway, I thought that, since Sherlock hasn't told you a thing about me, I should probably warn you about our older brother."
"Brother?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock didn't respond, instead choosing to bound up the stairs. Watching as he went, I chuckled.
"Not very good conversationalist, is he? But, yes, we have an older brother... You've got to understand, John, that we're rather protective of Sherlock. We look out for him as best we can and, between us, we do a fairly decent job but there are some variables neither of us can control. For example, you."
"Me?"
"Of course, you. If you start living here, you'll see more of Sherlock than myself and our brother combined. You'll influence him, for better or for worse, and I doubt I could pay you enough to avoid him judging from what I've seen so far. I probably couldn't even persuade you to keep me updated on what you two get up to. But I want you to know that if something hurts Sher and you didn't do anything to stop it, you will face some very unpleasant repercussions that can in no way, shape, or form be traced back to me." Smiling pleasantly, I nodded at John and then briskly followed my brother up the stairs.
"Done threatening him, then?" Sherlock asked once I'd joined him in the living room. I chuckled at the man's assumption.
"Never. There's a nine step plan already in process to ensure that I scare him enough to either avoid you or to take a bullet for you if need be."
"Always the dramatic one," Sherlock teased.
"I'm the dramatic one? Oh please, brother dear. I think I'm the least dramatic of the three of us. I've never once kidnapped anyone- that you can prove, in any case- and I've also never celebrated a quadruple homicide like it was Christmas."
"Only because the commissioner of the Scotland Yard can't be seen promoting serious crime."
"Is that why you didn't take the job?" I asked just as John came into the room.
"I didn't take the job because jobs are boring."
"I was prepared to take you on as the CID's official consulting detective. That is literally the job you've already invented for yourself except you'd be getting paid for everything you already do! You wouldn't even need to take the credit if you didn't want it. Then my detectives wouldn't have an excuse not to go to you for help."
"You say that as if I want your detectives to bother me."
"Only once I've distributed the more interesting cases. I can promise that nothing below a seven would reach you."
"Hmm... still boring," he decided after a moment. John, still watching us from the doorway, shook his head before venturing forward, taking a seat across Sherlock in a comfortable looking armchair.
"You two are definitely related," he sighed. I raised an eyebrow.
"What gave it away? The cheekbones and curly dark hair? It's a shame we don't have the same eyes, though. He's got the entire spectrum of gorgeous and I'm stuck with brown," I grimaced.
"The entire spectrum of gorgeous?" John echoed incredulously. I shook my head.
"Just make sure you look at his eyes every day. They can't decide what color they are. I've seen green, blue, and grey. It's just not fair."
Just as we were getting comfortable, Mrs. Hudson came up and, to Sherlock's disappointment, she didn't have a tea tray with her. Instead, she only informed Sherlock that his taxi had arrived.
"Did you order a taxi?" John asked my brother. I wondered if he ever wore an expression that wasn't confusion or disbelief. Perhaps when Sherlock was out of sight.
"No, I didn't," Sherlock frowned. His phone buzzed.
I watched as he read the text, cataloging ever tiny shift as he went from surprise to appreciation.
"Of course," he murmured under his breath. I stilled. He only got that look in his eyes when-
"Don't you dare go," I hissed. Sherlock grinned at me cheekily. "Sherlock Holmes, I forbid it."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"You've got your handcuffs, then?" Sherlock inquired a little too cheerfully before looking to John. "My taxi's here."
"But you didn't order a taxi," John replied slowly. He seemed to pale as he understood. "You can't be serious."
Sherlock was already on his feet, grin in place. Groaning, I leapt up, barring John's path as he tried to intercept. I braced myself against the incoming wrath.
"He's knows what he's doing. It's not our place to intervene now. We've just got to make sure he doesn't get in too deep."
"And how're you going to prevent that?" John fumed. I smiled wryly, pulling out my phone just as the taxi pulled away from the curb. "Your mobile? What good's that going to do? Your brother just drove off with a bloody madman!"
"He does that," I acknowledged, unlocking my phone and flicking through the menu until I found the app I was looking for. Tapping it, I couldn't help but feel a surge of relief as it began to connect. "Thank goodness he didn't take it out."
"Take what out?" John demanded, still very angry. I grabbed my coat off its hook, throwing it on quickly and waiting less than patiently for the signal to lock and settle. When it did, I motioned for John to follow me and began to explain.
"Sherlock might be older than me but he's still my responsibility. I've known him all my life, I know his habits. For example, he never leaves home without taking that coat with him."
"So?" John asked as we came out onto the street. I held up my mobile, showing the map of London as my phone narrowed down the signal. "You... You have a tracking device on him?"
"Not just some mediocre tracking device, my dear Watson," I smirked. "Taxi! Real time micro tracker, more precise than what the Met's using and located somewhere he won't dare remove it."
"And why hasn't he just taken it out? Has he not noticed it?" John asked, following me easily into the taxi. I glanced down at my phone.
"Oh, he's definitely noticed it. It's been sewn into his favorite coat, though, something that he identifies himself with. He's not going to risk ruining his coat for something so minor. Sherlock has many skills; sewing is not one of them."
"Where to?" the cabbie asked around a yawn.
"St. Marks Road, Kensington and Chelsea College," I responded. (A/N: yes, I changed the location. I would have put it at the filming location of the college used in the show but, as it turns out, that was made from the facade of a college in Cardiff which is a bit out of the way.)
"A college?" John asked, brow furrowing slightly. I shrugged impatiently at the question.
"I didn't pick the location," I shot back. "I'm only telling you what the device is saying."
As the cabbie drove, I decided to invest my time in a more valuable outlet than listening to John fret about my brother's safety. It was nice to see that he was so worried after only knowing him for a couple of days but there had to be some sort of line drawn.
Kensington and Chelsea College. Bring back-up. Sherlock's gone and followed our serial killer. AH
Less than a minute passed before I was graced with a response.
Soonest I can have men out there in twenty minutes. Are you armed?
With a charming intellect. AH
You're following Sherlock to a madman who's killed four people and you don't even have a gun?! Ten minutes. Don't move.
Not likely, Inspector. AH
"What's wrong?" John asked intently as my phone vibrated and I didn't even bother to glance down. I shook my head tiredly.
"Lestrade seems to have forgotten that I am his superior officer. He... disapproves of our current mission."
"Oh, like stopping a serial killer from making your brother the next victim?" John mutters under his breath. I chuckle.
"No. He doesn't like that I'm doing this without a gun." At John's face, I scowled. "Don't look like that. You've got your gun on you, that's all we need..."
"Kensington and Chelsea," the cabbie announced, pulling over and stopping the taxi. Within a matter of moments, the man was paid and gone, leaving John and I alone as we stared at two identical buildings. I glanced at my phone once more to confirm what I already knew.
"We've got to split up. The best I can say is that they're somewhere in these buildings but there are over a hundred classrooms in each. I'll take the left, you take the right." I started towards the door but was forced to a standstill as John cut into my path.
"No way. You're unarmed," he reminded me seriously, as if that should daunt me.
"So is Sherlock. Search the first floor first. If the police get here, have them split up and-"
"I'm not just going to let you go serial killer chasing without any sort of protection," John insisted. I glared at him. We were wasting time.
"Then move," I growled. I grabbed John's hand and resumed a fast pace towards the stairs, dragging him along until he nearly fell over. I released his hand and bounded up the front steps and was through the door before he could fully recover but he didn't say a word as he followed after me as quickly as he could.
I'd lost count of how many rooms we'd searched. Actually, that was a lie. We had gone through precisely seventeen chemistry labs, twenty eight basic classrooms, and two large lecture halls with still no sign of Sherlock. Just as I was about to order John to search the other building- we were running out of time!- something terrible happened.
Just a flicker of motion caught my eye, drawing my attention to the window.
"Damn it," I swore. John followed my eyes and immediately grew still.
There, just opposite us in the other building, was the one person we were so urgently searching for. Sherlock Holmes was less than fifty yards away but he was too far to reach in time. There was no way the police could get there expediently either, which would have been rather convenient.
All I could do was watch as Sherlock examined something tiny between his fingertips, holding it up to the light so he could better see it.
Poison, my mind whispered to me. I shoved the thought down and looked to John desperately.
"Your gun."
"What?" John's eyes were focused as they darted from me to the scene unfolding in the lab across the courtyard from us. That was good. His hands weren't shaking.
"Your gun," I repeated, my voice much calmer and collected than I felt. My mind was moving at a mile a minute, calculating trajectory within moments. Sherlock was all but standing in front of the killer, blocking anything but a solid kill shot. Even that one clean shot would have to be incredibly precise, shot through two layers of glass and just over Sherlock's shoulder to hit the man just above his heart.
"That kind of shot-"
"Is entirely possible for someone of your experience. Give it to me if you're unsure." I watched as John drew his gun, his eyes still uncertain. That indecision vanished the moment Sherlock lowered his arm, slowly bringing the small pill closer and closer.
John pulled the trigger. The old man fell to the ground and I looked to John. Police sirens began registering in the far-off distance and I scowled.
"I've got to work on the reaction times for the squads. This is ridiculous. Let's go. You need to get those powder burns off and I need to get some on."
"What?" John asked, not following. Sherlock moved towards the window and I cursed, tackling John to the ground.
"Plausible deniability! Now give me your gun and get out of here," I dictated. "The police will set up a perimeter. Use the back entrance, get a few blocks out, and then come back in through the front. Say I texted you to get your ass over here and you've just arrived."
"And how would you have gotten my gun?"
"You're Sherlock's flatmate, aren't you? I could've taken it at any point during the evening, if only to keep it away from Sher. Now go."
"Oh! Um... Thanks," he said, surprisingly uncomfortable. I rolled my eyes and pushed him towards the door, both of us careful to avoid being in Sherlock's line of sight.
"Charming intellect, eh?" I recognized that voice easily. Grimacing, I turned to Lestrade. It wouldn't do well to look cheery at a crime scene where 'I' had killed someone, even if he had been a serial killer. "That's all you were armed with, wasn't it?"
"Come off it, Lestrade. A girl's got to have a few tricks up her sleeve, doesn't she?" I asked innocently. "Besides, I never said I didn't have a gun. You assumed I didn't."
"Yeah. Probably because you left it in the office," he commented. I shrugged, holding up the gun. I hadn't let Forensics take it.
"Not my gun."
"And who's is it, then?"
"Sherlock's new flatmate. He's ex-military. I thought it wouldn't be a good idea to leave Sherlock home alone with a gun- you could imagine what sort of trouble he'd get into- so I decided to take temptation out of the picture." The lie rolled off my tongue smoothly, with years of practice echoing behind it.
"Pretty convenient, isn't that?" Lestrade asked suspiciously. I only smiled demurely.
"Convenient indeed." I began walking towards Sherlock, Lestrade alongside me, just as a paramedic draped a blanket about his shoulders once more.
"Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me," Sherlock grumbled.
"It's for shock," Lestrade responded easily enough.
"I'm not in shock," Sherlock shot back.
"Yeah, well some of the boys want to take pictures."
"Easy, boys," I said, stepping in between them. Taking the opportunity, I glared at Sherlock. "Honestly, Sherlock, I thought you would have at least said something this time. How was I supposed to tell John that you'd been driven off by a serial killer?"
"Judging by how quickly you got here, you did an alright job."
"No, I didn't. I think Donovan's explaining what happened now," I said, gesturing to the edge of the roped off area where John, true to his word, was patiently waiting.
"No sign of the shooter, then?" Sherlock asked, looking to Lestrade for a change of subject. Lestrade scoffed and looked pointedly at me. I scowled as darkly as I could for Lestrade's sake and raised John's gun for Sherlock to see.
"Next time I see you about to kill yourself for the sake of being clever, I'm shooting you next."
"Look, Sherlock, we've got to talk about what happened there. Ainsley's managed to put together a few of the pieces but-" Sherlock, to my disbelief, started walking away from the two of us without a word. "Sherlock!"
"Sorry, can't talk. In shock. See look, I've got a blanket," Sherlock said with a too-cheery smile as he flicked the corner of the blanket out towards Lestrade. "Besides, I just caught you a serial killer... More or less."
"I'll bring him to the Yard tomorrow," I promised Lestrade. Greg looked at me with resignation before nodding tiredly, turning back towards the uniformed officers. I followed after Sherlock, joining him as he met John at the police tape.
"-isn't it?" he was saying. "Dreadful."
"John, it's fine. Sherlock knows it wasn't me anyway," I shrugged. John looked alarmed and glanced around to see if there was anyone close enough to eavesdrop.
"Of course it wasn't you." Sherlock wasn't generally one to miss an opportunity to show off. "If it had been just Ainsley, she would've shown herself after making the shot. Then that shot you fired off when you came back to the courtyard. No one was being that chaotic so it wasn't just to get everyone's attention. You needed to be able to test positive for gunshot residue, meaning you had to fire the gun, but you hadn't had an opportunity before hand that wouldn't have been immediately suspicious."
"Good shot," Sherlock complimented, nodding at John. John's eyes widened slightly before he frowned slightly in defeat.
"Do I want to know how you knew it was me?"
"Obviously it-"
"No," I interrupted, throwing a sharp look at Sherlock to quiet him. "Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers? I'd rather avoid an inquiry, which will be hard enough since it wasn't actually my gun that was used."
"Yeah," John replied, a bit unsettled looking. It occurred to me that he might be feeling guilty or ashamed, seeing as he'd just killed a man. To my surprise, that also occurred to Sherlock.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"Of course I'm alright."
"Well, you have just killed a man," Sherlock pointed out.
"Yes... That's true..." John glanced around for a bit before looking back at Sherlock. "But he wasn't a very nice man."
"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?" Sherlock chuckled.
"And, frankly, a bloody awful cabbie," John added.
"That's true. He was a bad cabbie... Should've seen the route he took us on to get here," Sherlock countered playfully. I laughed despite myself, happily surprised that Sherlock was able to joke around with someone.
"Boys, it's a crime scene. You really shouldn't giggle," I said as sternly as I could manage with the smile on my face. Sherlock continued to laugh under his breath.
"Hey, I'm not the one who shot him," Sherlock reminded me, looking to John. John was more than a bit flustered at that and hastily told Sergeant Donovan, who was a bit too close for his comfort, that Sherlock was in shock.
"Dinner?" Sherlock asked, apparently deciding that a change in subject was needed.
"Starving."
"There's a good Chinese on..."
I didn't pay much attention to what Sherlock was saying. My attention was captured, instead, by the nondescript but familiar black car that was parked just outside the periphery of the crime scene. I smiled as a familiar figure got out of the car.
"So," Mycroft began as we approached. "Another case cracked, how very public spirited... But that's never really your motivation, is it?"
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked lowly.
"As ever, I'm concerned about you," Mycroft answered honestly.
"Yes, I've been hearing about your concern."
"Always so aggressive... Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"
"Oddly enough, no."
"We have more in common than you'd like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy."
"I upset her?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."
"Enough, boys," I ordered, stepping between them before this could escalate any further. "You both upset her. She's lucky she had me, otherwise I have no idea what she'd do with the two of you."
"Hold on. Mummy? You mean-"
"Mother, our mother," Sherlock said testily.
"So he's not, I don't know, a criminal mastermind?"
"Oh, what a trio we'd be," I chuckled at the idea. "The police commissioner, a freelance detective, and a criminal mastermind? I wonder what the punchline is."
"I hold a minor position in the British government," Mycroft enlightened John. Sherlock scowled.
"He is the British government when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does to the traffic." Sherlock was done for the night. He turned away and started to leave, John trailing after him. After just a moment, though, John paused and looked back.
"So, when you say you're concerned, you genuinely are concerned? It is actually a childish feud?"
"Yes, of course. He's always been so resentful."
"It's not entirely his fault, Mycroft," I frowned.
"Don't pretend, Ainsley. You know as well as I do that most of his... situation was self-induced," Mycroft said delicately. I sighed.
"Yes, but it isn't like you were very involved at the time." I wasn't so delicate. I still remembered the coolness Mycroft regarded Sherlock with when our brother was struggling through university and then with his drug abuse. Mycroft had helped from a distance but hadn't been very gentle with the situation. He'd arranged for Sherlock to be placed in a rehabilitation center, yes, but he'd never visited or called. As far as I was aware, the short exchange that had just taken place was the most either said to the other in almost four years.
"Oh, so it's my fault?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow, a challenge. I wasn't a little girl anymore, though. I could stand on my own feet now.
"It's not your fault, but there's a reason Sherlock's still willing to talk to me."
"You were always his favorite." The words were accusatory but Mycroft's tone did not change. It was undeniably true.
"I was there for him," I said back quietly. I glanced at John. "You'd better go, John. Sherlock's waiting, which is too rare an occurrence to be wasted."
"Right... Well. Nice seeing you again." With an awkward goodbye to Anthea, the doctor rejoined Sherlock and the two were off, leaving me alone with Mycroft and his assistant. I sighed wearily.
"I don't mean to point fingers, Mycroft. You know that..." A wry smile played at my lips. "You are the smart one, after all..."
A satisfied curl at the corners of Mycroft's lips told me that I wasn't forgiven, not by a long shot, but I was still provided a little leeway. It was so much easier for us not to fight. It made life, and keeping our wayward brother out of trouble, so much simpler.
"I should go," I murmured. "I've still got so much to do... Did I tell you that Katrina made me her maid of honor?" I asked even though I knew it wouldn't interest Mycroft. Katrina had been my roommate for three years at university and, somehow, both of us survived the encounter and remained best friends.
"Twice now," Mycroft said. His shoulders shifted ever so slightly, away from me now, and I knew he would take the first opportunity to escape the conversation. I hid a smile; Mycroft and Sherlock could both be so predictable.
"Ah, well... I'm nervous," I said as sheepishly as I could. "I still have a lot of work to get done and I'm supposed to be meeting her this Thursday."
"Then I guess I'll let you go to your work."
Ah, yes. Predictable as ever.
"I guess that'd be best..." I glanced back at the crime scene. Donovan was directing the constables nicely, leaving me confident that she could handle the clean up. I looked back to Mycroft. "I'll leave you then. It was nice to see you again, Mycroft, Anthea."
"Goodbye, Ainsley." With a quick smile from Anthea and an acknowledging nod from Mycroft, both returned to the car and were off, leaving me to catch a taxi back to my flat.