Disclaimer: I do not own either Sherlock (which belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC crew – Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss *cough Mycroft cough* over all) or Remington Steele (I have no idea who holds the right to that, but some people who could own it – I suspect – are Robert Butler, Micheal Gleason, MTM Enterprises and/or NBC). I do, however, play with their storylines and characters unrepentantly – and of course without profit.
A.N. This story will hopefully be updated every Sunday evening (Italian time, so UTC + 1). Weekly updating is going to be a true challenge for me. Also, this is dedicated to my friend Sendai who encouraged me to write this even when I lost all my confidence (I'm struggling with depression since twelve years, so that's a serious issue for me). But now, no more chatting. Here starts the show
Melting Point
Welcome to the Pilot episode!
Episode 1: "Will you be my Watson?"
"Where is Mr. Watson?" the man – a forty-something, lanky redhead with a little commerce (watches if she wasn't wrong – and she very rarely was) and a STD queried, annoyed. Not that she had revealed her deductions to him yet. She didn't want him to storm away in a huff, like everyone inevitably did.
She hated that question, though. And every single prospective client inevitably posed it first thing. It was expected, reasonable even. It still grated. She couldn't snap as she wanted to, though. Sherlock gave him the standard answer.
"Mr. Watson is on a stakeout relative to another case right now, but he has trained me in the science of deduction and the art of detection. If you tell me your case – and please, do not omit any details – I might be able to help you out until he's free to take a more personal look at your case."
Which would be never. Sherlock wondered if realising that she was going to be the one investigating this client would run away too, or if the promise of a later involvement of 'her boss' – a true detective; a man – would be sufficient to make him stay. It was about half the times that it happened.
Their partnership – so to say – had been born out of necessity, but to be honest she hated John Watson with all her soul. Sometimes, she spent whole hours planning how to kill him. But if she did, she'd be back at the start. A female detective, with everyone believing she couldn't possibly meet the job requirements. How many a prospective client had crudely said, "This is hard work, and you don't have the balls for it, my pretty,"? Too many to keep count.
Would it be better if she'd be born decidedly ugly, she asked herself sometimes. Not that she saw much prettiness in herself as she was – she was too angular, for God's sake, all bones – and that suited her just fine.
"I suppose I could," the client – Mr. Wilson – babbled, "I really do need advice, as my situation is unique and baffling indeed. Well, I suppose not that unique – other people in the league must be as puzzled as I feel. Perhaps did someone else even consult you? That would be most convenient for me."
Sherlock sighed and repressed the instinct to chase away the dimwit. She needed a case. Any case, by this point, or she'd relapse, and everyone would be disappointed (herself too). "I did ask you not to omit any details, please. If you don't inform me of which league you're talking about, how can I answer? I highly doubt it is a sports one, but I'm not a mind reader," she said, as calmly as she could.
"Right, of course, sorry," Wilson stammered, embarrassed. "The red-headed league. Have you heard of it?"
"It hasn't been brought to our agency's attention yet. Tell me, please," the sleuth said. She wanted to be polite, as she wanted –no, needed – not to scare away this client, but she might have snapped to him a bit, despite tacking that half-hearted please at the end of it. God, to get relevant information from this man's rantings was like extracting a tooth to a scared child! He was lucky that she was so desperate for a case, or she would have kicked him out ages ago.
"Sooo… about the league. Now, you see, I hadn't ever heard of it either. Then James ( his last name's Bond, isn't that curious?) – my new help, a very good lad, he's always offering to open, or close, asking if I want to take more time for myself, always ready for anything I need, and above all he's content with half the salary all the other asked – came in with a newspaper and showed me an advert.
The redheaded league searched for people – good position, nice salary, part time job and so on. I might have my shop in a high-end neighbourhood but it's only because it belonged to my family for generations, and we are not so well-off now – and the place is so tiny – all that to say, I'm not doing very well.
So when James prompted me to go, saying, «I'd try myself if I could, but I'm blond, you see. If red heads are a requirement, one with your mane should be their dream. I can take care of the shop while you'd be away,» - well, I was tempted.
To make it short, I went to the address specified, and there had to be…oh, I don't know…at least fifty people. Some of them had clearly dyed their heads, ridiculous. Um, could I have a glass of water? I'm parched."
The detective got one for him, despite being tempted to deny it. Wilson never seemed to get to the damn point – maybe he would if he was without saliva. But she had told him not to omit any details. She couldn't complain about it now.
He drank greedily, and then recounted, "Anyway, I was finally admitted. The league's exponent had a formidable head of red curls, plus moustaches and a short beard. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place of whom he reminded me. He tugged on my hair, could you believe me? Said he had to make sure it was not a wig. Some people apparently had no shame.
Anyway, he said I would do and to get there the following day, nine sharp. The work in itself surprised me a bit. Apparently the league wanted to compile a who's who dedicated to redheads – very updated, too – so I had to shift through a mountain of newspapers, mostly gossip ones, and make a note of every redhead character mentioned and what he or she was up to and so on. It was a highly interesting job, too. You wouldn't know what some people do in their free time. For example…"
Here Sherlock cut in sharply, before Wilson could lose himself in gossip, of all things. She could already feel her brain cells threatening to die out. "You have not requested our help to gossip like old ladies. Please, Mr. Wilson, if you could get to the actual crux of your problem." There. She'd said please again. She really was desperate for any sort of case right now.
"Oh, yes, of course. As I was saying, I worked with the materials provided to me in the office they let me use – a little place in a neighbourhood not nearly as nice as my own, but they paid me weekly, and they paid me well, so I didn't complain about commuting or anything. If they'd rather spend their money on people rather than rent I was lucky.
This went on for two weeks, but today I went to my job and a note tacked on the door informed me the league had ceased all activities. And on a Friday, too! I was due to be paid tomorrow. The more I think about it, the more odd I find all this. An association so respectable shouldn't disappear without previous warning. There's something fishy about this, Miss Holmes. A scam of some sort, maybe – they could have been victims and been forced to stop their endeavours. If Mr. Watson could look into it, maybe they'd get back to their projects once they had their money back," Mr. Wilson explained, a bit of a whine in his voice.
The detective barely kept herself from rolling her eyes. A scam, certainly. But certainly not one that saw the mysterious league as the victims. Someone wanted Wilson out of the shop for a long period of time. Why? What were they organizing? It might be worth looking into it. Of course Wilson wanted the league to be blameless. He just wanted his next pay check.
"We'll take the case," Sherlock assured, with a fake smile.
"Ummm…Shouldn't Mr. Watson be the one to decide that?" the client wondered, doubtful even in the midst of his relief.
"The case he's busy with should be closed soon, so I can assure you he'll like undertaking a new investigation afterwards. In the meantime, I'd like to see your shop – and speak to your employee," she said, doing her best not to grit her teeth. It was all something he was used to. It still irked her.
"My shop? Don't you mean my office?" Wilson queried, surprised.
"That too, certainly," the sleuth lied, waving away his concerns, "but I would really like a quick visit to your shop. It would help me sort out some details in advance and give Mr. Watson a complete report, which he'll undoubtedly demand." Or would have if he existed, at least.
"As for James, he's out of city right now. Apparently his mum got suddenly ill. I closed shop momentarily to come here – it seems I don't get clients anyway. But sure, if you insist," the redhead caved in.
Oh. So the bird had flown the nest already. She wouldn't find him – not there. She was confident that she could still catch him, though. "I do," she said.
Soon they were in East 69th Street. Surely some careless and ultimately bad investments had caused Wilson to lose all his old money. Now his shop wasn't on par with the others of the neighbourhood. Lower quality caused him to lose even more clients.
"Did you consider selling this and setting shop somewhere else?" she couldn't help but ask. The money from selling this place, no matter how small, would allow him a comfortable new start somewhere else. It was logic. Why did Wilson even stay? Was he stupid?
"It belonged to my family for generations," the man replied, looking horrified at her proposal.
She barely kept from rolling her eyes. Sentiment. The ruin of illogic people since the start of the world. She should have known better than to offer good advice, really.
A quick investigation of the shop and the laboratory in the back revealed a place where the floor sounded empty. A hidden tunnel. So 'James' needed Wilson out to hide the excavations. Now, where did this lead? Interesting.
The sleuth didn't mention it to Wilson. The man would fret uselessly. Instead, she found a way to follow the tunnel without entering it. It was a mile long and ended at Tiffany. Clever. The famous jewellery was protected against people trying to get in, but not through the walls – or the floor.
Sherlock contacted the owners, saying that she'd gotten a tip-off about a robbery tonight and that she wanted the pleasure to ambush them herself, so she'd love if they allowed her to lay inside the shop in wait once it closed. It was easier claiming having been tipped by an anonymous source than explaining her own deductions – she didn't want to have to show them the tunnel, their clever thief would run away if he thought himself discovered.
Of course, Tiffany had his own guards, but she didn't doubt that 'James' would have thought of that, too. He seemed a resourceful, clever lad. Casually mentioning her good friend (sort of), police captain Lestrade, persuaded Tiffany that an additional level of security might not be amiss.
So that night saw her laying in wait in a darkened jewellery, blood singing with anticipation. Finally someone emerged from the masked tunnel. 'James' was short, blond, and – was that a Christmas-themed jumper? What sort of thief wore garish reindeer jumpers on the job? (Fine, it was December – still.)
"Hello, James," she said, her voice low and roughened by a decade's smoking, cuffing him swiftly in one smooth movement.
"Fuck!" he swore, fighting the handcuffs. Then he got a good look at his captor. "Wait…you're a girl?! Is this the prelude to something kinky?" he said with a laugh and a leer, relaxing.
She hit him hard on the chest, leaving him wheezy. "Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. The one who figured out your little scheme and will get you in jail. And I hoped that being mildly clever you'd be a decent human being, too, but that's obviously too much to ask of a discharged, damaged British army doctor turned criminal to satisfy at the same time his need for money and his adrenaline addiction," she bit back bitterly.
"Hey. Sherlock, was it? Sorry. I've been a twat, I know. But in my defence, you're too gorgeous for me not to try flirting with you. Not my best line, I'll admit. I'm usually more suave, I swear. How long have you been investigating me, by the way? I'm flattered that you know me so well," the thief apologized, looking oddly sincere too.
Not something the detective expected. She awaited an explosion of vain rage at this point – but instead, this. It was surprising, and the detective loved being surprised. So she replied simply, shrugging, "Mr. Wilson came to me this afternoon. I didn't need to investigate you to know all of this. It was rather obvious. I just saw."
"How?" the thief said, sounding honestly interested.
"Your haircut, your whole bearing says military, but your hands are those of a surgeon – very characteristic. So, army doctor. With your love of danger, you wouldn't have left the military unless they made you – most probably due to traumatic injury, though I'm not sure where. The fact that you have chosen this career instead of a highly respected job as a surgeon tells all about your need for adrenaline," the sleuth replied, talking quickly as always when her deductions poured out of her.
"That's amazing," James breathed reverently.
"Is it?" Sherlock asked, shocked. Why wasn't this man angry?
"Of course. Extraordinary, quite extraordinary," the criminal reiterated, always apparently in awe of her. "If I had to get caught, I'm proud it was by a genius at least. Though I couldn't have continued being a surgeon. After the war, I found that my hands shook unless there was the thrill of imminent danger to keep them steady. Bloody inconvenient. I wasn't about to start diagnosing colds," the man said amiably.
"Of course you weren't," the detective acknowledged, and found herself smiling at him. "Well, there's always something one misses but it didn't invalidate my conclusions at all. But I must admit you surprise me. That's not what other people say when I deduce them."
"What do they say?" James queried, smiling back.
"Criminals mostly swear revenge – usually with a tremendous lack of imagination, too. There isn't such a sporting attitude, at least not in USA. As for other people, they use some variation of 'Piss off,' " she admitted, hiding a grimace at the thought of the universal hate she encountered on a daily basis.
"Well then other people are idiots," the criminal quipped.
"That's my motto," Sherlock agreed, and they shared another smile. What was she doing? Did she like him? "Though you are moderately clever. The plan to drive Wilson out of the shop was novel at least, Mr Bond. And I notice that none of Tiffany's security guards have joined us yet."
"Thank you. As for the guards, they're asleep – I courted the woman who regularly delivers them coffee and persuaded her to let me play a little prank on my 'friends'. I am a doctor. I know how to drug people," the man declared, smiling, "but that's not my name. I just wanted an excuse to say, 'My name is Bond. James Bond.' " He laughed then (such a carefree sound – not something she heard from people in handcuffs).
"Why?" the sleuth queried, uncomprehending.
"Agent 007? Wait, have you seriously never watched a 007 movie? That's practically a sin, you know. If only we'd met under different circumstances, Sherlock. You, me, movie night?" not-Bond replied, sighing longingly.
And the detective found that she suddenly wanted this, too. It was unheard of. She didn't feel – much less for criminals. But this man hadn't mocked her for her ignorance. He hadn't called her a freak for deducing him. He hadn't threatened or yelled at her for capturing him, even. He had only teased her kindly, and even apologised to her. He was one of a kind, certainly.
A mad plan entered her mind. Could she – well, she already did with Mrs Hudson, hadn't she? "About these circumstances…you haven't stolen anything yet," the sleuth pointed out, with a sly smile.
"No. No, I haven't," the criminal agreed good-naturedly, clearly interested in where the conversation was going.
"And you like acting. With your military background and your employer's lack of immediate family, you could have easily kidnapped him while you were busy with your excavations. But no, you played league delegate and drove him out. I can see why you'd invest – this heist would have more than repaid you," Sherlock remarked conversationally.
"I like danger, not needless violence. And it's way more fun this way," not-Bond explained with an almost boyish grin.
"Oh, I agree," the detective said, smiling back. "Also, you must be a great con man. Mr Wilson didn't recognise you – you had him under your spell. He didn't even notice the wig."
"Once I tugged on his hair, the idea that mine could be fake disappeared from his mind. He naturally thought I'd been subjected to the same procedure. Simple psychology," the man revealed with a smug smirk. "But yes, I'm quite good at fooling people. And I love it, I admit. Always been in the theatre club at school."
"Then I have a proposition for you. Become my boss," she declared casually.
"What?" he couldn't help but ask.
"I had to forge a male boss because people don't want to admit that I can solve cases better than any of them and take on anything the job might require, which is patently ridiculous. I know seven martial arts and fencing, I can subdue any criminal. You wouldn't have to do any actual detection – only pretend to. But you would come with me, hounding down criminals. I bet you'd have fun. And I would have a John Watson to show to clients and policemen and someone to patch me up when criminals manage to get at me despite everything. You are a doctor, after all," she proposed enthusiastically.
"Well, if it is that or jail..." the thief shrugged.
"No, don't be ridiculous. That'd be blackmail, and I despise blackmailers," the sleuth replied, making a face. "I won't let you steal, but if you refuse I'd let you go. Of course, I would have to inform everyone of the tunnel tomorrow morning, and have police hunt you down. Which you'll probably escape because theft is Athelney Jones' division and he's an idiot. If you'd just murder someone, I might get Lestrade on it – he's a decent policeman."
Once again, the thief laughed. A beautiful sound, really. "Sorry but I have no urges to murder anyone at the moment. And you? Wouldn't you hunt me?" he replied, acting disappointed.
"Would you want me to?" she queried, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, absolutely," the man replied eagerly. "But I think I'll just accept your offer instead, if that gets me to see you deducing again. You're a sight when you do."
Sherlock blushed at that. She couldn't help it. It was probably a fake compliment, she reminded herself brusquely – but it sounded so sincere, even to her trained to detect lies self.
"Just a thing. Can't I really take anything? Because here there are all these pretty keys," he said, indicating one on a nearby display in platinum and pink gold, covered in diamonds, "and getting you a key to your lock seemed fitting."
"I don't need trinkets," she replied, scoffing. "And if you still mean to steal, you might think to accept but you're certainly not sure about your career. I hate repetition, but I'll ask you officially and I want a committed answer: will you be my Watson?" The detective didn't realize it, but she was imperious and absolutely breath-taking then.
"Oh God, yes," he answered, breathless and vibrant at the same time. "By the way, why John Watson?"
"I needed an ordinary, solid, good name…and my third case was a forger who lived in John Road, Watsontown, Pennsylvania. I decided I liked it," the sleuth revealed, shrugging.
"Oh, I like it too. So what do we say about tonight? I've joined you on this case and we've protected Tiffany together, have we? Do you think there will be a recompense?" now-John queried.
"Obviously," Sherlock nodded. "Do not worry, you will have your expenses covered. Also, a detail. I receive clients in my flat. It would be convenient if you came to live with me. There's an extra room, and it would allow me to keep you under surveillance at the start – should you find yourself tempted to get some other trinket."
"You want us to live together?!" he queried, flabbergasted.
"For cases. And to ensure you don't stray. That's what I said, isn't it? and I really hate repeating myself, John," she pointed out sternly.
"Well…thanks for the offer. Of course. Gladly, Sherlock," John agreed. It would certainly be an improvement from the bedsit he'd stayed at during the staging of this heist. Not to mention the delightful company. (Keep your mind out of the gutter, John, he told himself, repeating his new name to get used to it. She hit you once already when you mentioned sex…Not that it was going to stop him from flirting – with much more taste, for sure.)
"Almost forgot," the detective said, freeing his new associate's still handcuffed hands. "You're welcome, John. In both senses of the word."