Artemis Fowl and Sherlock Holmes. I was struck by similarities.
Travelling to ridiculous places for a case is nothing new. John's actually appreciating Ireland, even if they are in the middle of nowhere.
Sherlock is on someone's trail.
An art thief, he says. Very, very good. Extraordinarily good. Only Sherlock would praise a thief so highly in the same heavy breath that's giving him the oxygen to chase him.
He's gone, Sherlock tells John.
Wow. John rests his hands on his knees. He is panting. His short legs are no match for Sherlock's height and limitless energy while on a case.
There is a twelve year old—no, fourteen, wow, he looks sixteen, but twelve at the same time. It's the slicked hair and the sunglasses and the tailored suit, John decides, that is affecting his assessment of this boy.
Excuse me? the boy says.
Yes, hello, John replies.
Do I know you from somewhere?
I doubt it, John says. Unless you follow London crime.
I do not, the boy responds. It's very shallow. I prefer to immerse myself in intellectual endeavors.
The boy walks away. From the minute he appeared, he was affixed in John's mind—the image of the suit and the glasses and the way he walked like the head of a lonely household. He's like a tiny Mycroft. But he was only a boy.
John doesn't catch the conversation that happens next.
Laying it on thick, there, Artemis?
What do you mean?
I prefer to immerse myself in intellectual endeavors. That's pretentious, even for you.
Careful, Butler. I needed to see him, but then I had to give him an image of a spoiled rich child. His tall friend is on my trail.
What did you find out?
It really is John Watson.
Is it really?
…
Sherlock? Why are we here?
I have traced the art back to this location. I put a GPS tracker in the frame.
This is the slum part of the town.
The thief is taking a detour.
Of course.
A few more minutes pass as Sherlock strides through the streets and John jogs after.
Damn this!
Sherlock?
He found the tracker and gave it away!
John laughs.
John!
The man they are following instead of the art thief is a shady man. He stops and looks around. He roots in a backpack.
He was kind enough to lead me to a dealer, at least, Sherlock says, and goes in for an arrest.
…
Where to next? John asks. What's the next lead?
I don't understand how he finds my bugs. I don't understand how he gets into these places, anyway!
Have you tried finding out if he's selling the art?
Of course I have, Sherlock spits.
John does a google search. Then he goes deeper. Years with Sherlock taught him, if nothing else, how to google things that aren't meant to be found by authorities.
This takes him very, very deep.
Sherlock is moping.
Sherlock is moping and John is searching frantically. If he doesn't finish before Sherlock starts shooting things, their pleasant trip to Ireland is in danger of being broken up by Mycroft.
Huh. Mycroft.
I met your brother's mini-me today, John mentions.
Really?
Yeah. Rich and acts like he runs the world.
When?
I was recovering and you ran off. A kid came up to me and asked if he knew me.
And you said?
Yes, if he followed London crime.
And he said? Sherlock prompts, leaning forward, alert.
He said he prefers to immerse himself in intellectual endeavors, John recalls, adopting a snooty voice.
Sherlock is now intensely staring at nothing, gazing into the air with concentration akin to a child trying to use the Force. John takes it to mean he is in his mind palace, and now he should be left alone.
But he cannot leave Sherlock alone. He found a piece of art.
Sherlock!
What is it? Sherlock snaps.
Dance of the Sugarplum Fey.
You found it?
Yes. This man they call the Mole. He doesn't like the sunlight.
I've heard of him. Mycroft says he has connections with a rich family in Ireland. I don't know which one or what those connections are.
It's a step forward, though, r—
John.
Yes?
Shut up.
John shuts up.
…
So Sugarplum Fey aren't your style? the girl asks, fixing a sandwich with practiced efficiency.
Not really.
What was wrong with them?
Nothing was wrong with them; that's the issue, Juliet. I'm looking for a painting that has something wrong with it.
So you gave it away…
I disliked the owner.
Cool.
Artemis clicks open a webpage.
That London crime-solver again, Artemis? Someone might think you're obsessed.
I think he's on my trail, Juliet. I'm concerned.
Why would he care about you stealing Irish art from Irish people?
Perhaps he knows about what I'm looking for.
I thought it was a fairy thing.
Perhaps all he knows is that it's important, not what it is.
…
Mycroft knows of the fairies. How could he not? He does not concern himself with them; he does not interact with them; he does not acknowledge their presence. But he passes information to his little brother about a painting of importance and lets the difficulty of the case be the draw for him, rather than the contents of what he is protecting.
…
Without another word, Sherlock jumps up and gathers his things. John does as well.
Where are we going?
The Fowl manor.
As in gross?
Eff Oh Double-you Ell.
As in birds?
As in a rich and crime-soaked family in Ireland. I can't believe I didn't make the connection sooner.
Oh.
As far as I know, the acting head of household isn't an adult. It's a young boy.
That boy I met? John asks, stricken.
The very same, I believe.
They make it to the manor… and there is security everywhere.
Sherlock? What are we going to do?
Knock on the front door, Sherlock says. He has a plan.
So they knock.
A man answers the door. This is not accurate. A behemoth of a human answers the door.
Hello, John says.
Hello, Sherlock says. Can I speak with Mr. Fowl?
And who are you?
Sherlock Holmes. Cons—
I know who Sherlock Holmes is. Come inside. If you try anything funny, you should know that not only does this manor have security technology beyond anything you know of; I and my coworker have mastered every named fighting style that exists and quite a few unnamed ones.
Oh, John says. It's not like he was feeling tiny and weak already.
They are sat on a couch that fits the two of them comfortably. There is a chair across from the couch.
The boy John met takes the chair.
Hello, Sherlock, John, he says. I am Artemis Fowl. I've read your blog. I'm a fan.
John is angry, just a little, but the mountain man's threat keeps him silent.
What are you looking for? Sherlock says. In that art.
You think I would tell that to someone who's trying to stop me?
I'm not trying to stop you. I appreciate your work with the Sugarplum Fey. The owner was about to use that piece to close a lucrative business deal that would put one of my best informants out of business.
You never told me that! John says.
It wasn't important. You might not have looked so hard for the piece then. And right now, I am sure Mycroft is not listening.
Your brother, the British government.
Yes.
What are you trying to do, then?
Find out what's in the painting you want.
I can't tell you that.
I would be careful; Mycroft has assigned me to this case, and with the information he has right now, he can find, expose, and destroy your fortune, if I come back and mention that you had a hand in the stealing of the other painting, the Rose Garden of Nymphs—or if I don't come back at all. But if I go back with news that you were not involved, on the other hand, he will leave you alone. I suggest you tell me.
There is much you don't know. I will not tell you.
Sherlock… John warns.
Then tell me how you got in.
I look up to you, Artemis says. Truly, I do. But I cannot tell you. And I never touched the painting Rose Garden of Nymphs.
Please.
No. Butler, if you will?
Butler gently guides Sherlock and John outside and sets them down.
Now what? John asks.
Sherlock is thinking.
Sherlock.
He had someone steal the painting for him! Sherlock shouts. He stomps away. Time to return to London.
Just like that?
He looks up to me; he helps my informants; he can be left alone.
Your ego, honestly…
Eventually, I will find his big secret.
…
No, you will not, Artemis says, watching the screen as Holmes and Watson leave.
You had a hand in Rose Garden, Butler says.
Yes, but Mulch stole it for me.
Butler laughs. Holmes was right.
Of course.
You really do look up to him.
Of course.
John is walking away, but Sherlock takes out a piece of paper and writes quickly.
Turkeys and hens and eagles are all right; geese and albatross and magpie and egrets I like. Ibis and sparrows get along fine and owls and nighthawks are friends, it says in shorthand. He drops it. Butler retrieves it.
I don't understand, Butler says.
It's a silly code, Artemis says. He says xxxxx*
Odd.
Fun. Artemis steeples his fingers.
*please tell me what Sherlock said! Hint: it's a simple code and a very Sherlock phrase.
The end
Shorthand is very pretty
From your Author: Sometimes you just have to take a chance with writing style.