The Eye of Apollo
By: Asagi Tsuki
Pairing: hint of Sherlock/fem!John
Summary: it's been a week since Jean moved in to 221B Baker St, and it would have been a quiet week too, if the consulting detective hadn't made his boredom clearly known in the noisiest way possible. She had, of course, expected that to happen when she made the decision to move in, along with the frozen body parts, experiments in the kitchen, and random one-sided conversation to Yorick; but going cult-busting? It was probably time to let go of any sense of normalcy left in her life, anyway
Warning: OOCness, AU
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the BBC version, of course, doesn't belong to me as well. Father Brown belongs to G.K. Chesterton and I hold no claim on anything
A/N: based on The Eye of Apollo in 'The Innocence of Father Brown' by G.K. Chesterton. Second instalment of the Father Brown universe I'm writing, the first being "The Invisible Man". Most of Father Brown's cases are light-hearted and some are downright silly (eg The Absence of Mr. Glass), so I had to pick the ones that could suit the Sherlock universe.
That being said, this is a very tricky story to write. The murder in the original story is made possible because it is set not in the modern time, so I have to be a bit creative with adapting it into the modern setting. However, that being said, this is a very interesting case and that is why I have chosen this as the next instalment, and incorporating the dynamic of Sherlock and Jean instead of Father Brown and Flambeau into the story has been entertaining too
Anyway, onto the story.
The Eye of Apollo
Jean hummed to herself as she turned the kettle on and opened the fridge, reaching behind a bag of what looked like pig intestines for the ham and closed the fridge again, getting on with preparing herself a ham and cheese sandwich.
A week after Sherlock had posed as the mailman and gave her the invitation to move in, she actually moved to 221B Baker St, grateful for the cut in rent because that meant she could save up for more important stuffs; like a new scalpel.
"I'm quite sure an extensive medical kit like this doesn't qualify to be called a first-aid kit."
"When you work in a brewery, sometimes it does."
She had met Mrs. Hudson too on the day she moved in, and the elder woman was excited to see her.
"Oh, it's really you! I thought he had meant another Jean. Well, if it's you, I think I can safely leave him in your hands, my dear."
"I solemnly swear that I will not, under any circumstances, accidentally kill him. By the way, how's your hip, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Oh, you and your sense of humour, darling. It doesn't hurt as much these days, but I might get it checked up on soon. The cold always does that to me."
She too was introduced to Yorick, after Mrs. Hudson had returned to her own home.
"Yorick? He has a name?"
"Oh. Didn't I tell you he's a friend of mine?"
"I thought you stole someone's Halloween decoration."
"Do not insult me, Jean. If I ever resort to crime, it will not be something as trivial as petty theft."
"Is that meant to assure me? Because it doesn't. Not at all."
She was given a couple of days to get used to Sherlock's eccentricities, and while she always said it wasn't enough time, Sherlock always argued with her saying it was. She learned about the habit of bringing back various body parts and putting them in the fridge to preserve them the day after she moved in.
"Sherlock, why is there a head in the fridge?"
"I need to preserve it. Why else."
"Oh. Okay."
"You don't sound too bothered by it. Good."
"Sherlock, I'm a final year med student. I'd like to think I'm used to this kind of thing already. Although we don't usually store cadavers in the fridge with our lunches."
She learned about his habit of playing the violin at ungodly hours the very same night.
"You know, if I'm a little more awake and a lot less grumpy, I might be able to enjoy your music. At the moment though, it sounds like a screeching cat to me."
"..."
"Does that mean I should invest in ear plugs?"
The experiments didn't come until three days after, and she found out after a particularly loud thud while she was up in her room studying for her test.
"What is that?"
"My experiment."
"..."
"It's for science, Jean."
"Yes... but could you tone it down just a little? I'm trying to study up there."
"..."
"Oh, just as an added incentive, I'll start performing experiments of my own if you don't."
"Should I be worried?"
"Sherlock, most of my experiments are done on living humans. Also, did I mention that my new scalpel has just arrived yesterday?"
"..."
"Good boy."
She also found out (from both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade) that unlike normal human beings, Sherlock was capable of going without food and sleep for three full days. It scared her a little at first, so she made sure to always have something small with simple sugars on her just in case they had to go out on a case for long.
Sherlock had, of course, protested at first, saying he didn't need to eat or sleep, and he didn't want to eat because it slowed down his thought processes. However, a carefully placed threat of cutting his skull open and studying his brain to see what was it about his brain that was different and made that possible had him grudgingly eat the small snacks Jean gave him.
Mrs. Hudson was just happy to see Sherlock eat. Donovan had been too gleeful at the prospect of someone who was able to intimidate Sherlock.
"You don't seriously think she's going to do that, do you? It must be an empty threat."
"You wouldn't think that if you know she has the necessary equipment to perform a brain surgery in your bedroom. She seems to be a collector; of medical supplies."
"I think you two are meant to be."
Jean finished making her sandwich just as the water boiled and set about making two cups of tea; one for Sherlock and one for herself. He would probably forget it was there and leave it to Jean to throw away the cold tea, but it was the thought that counted.
That, and if Sherlock suddenly asked for a favour, she could refuse and he wouldn't be able to use the "but you have never done anything for me before" card.
"I see you are up early today."
"Want some toast with your tea?"
Sherlock ignored her in favour of grabbing the closer cup and walking back to the living room to settle down in his armchair.
"Hey, I'd like some thanks with my tea!" Jean called out as she shook her head. It was normal morning routine for them—she'd make tea for the two of them, try to get Sherlock to eat breakfast and fail, then chide him for being unappreciative and be promptly ignored.
She wondered if she should feel more hurt and offended, because she wasn't.
"Anything interesting in the paper?" Jean asked as she settled down in the kitchen table. She had insisted to eat like normal people do, at the dining table. "There wasn't anything worth mentioning for the past week."
Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement and pored over the paper. "Do you know anything about the Eye of Apollo?"
"I might have seen the symbol at some point, but I'm not sure," Jean replied. "Why?"
"Apparently there's a new cult of sorts," Sherlock said as he shrugged. "They worship the sun."
"How exactly?" Jean asked, her interest piqued. "I know some countries worship the sun."
"They hold some kind of mass, where the priest of Apollo, as he called himself, would stand upon a balcony and recite the liturgy while looking straight at the sun. The mass is usually held mid-morning, before the sun reaches its peak height."
"So it's still a fairly new belief?" Jean asked. "I wonder how these people get about establishing new cults like this. There has to be more than one person to start it, but how could they persuade others to join them too? Most intriguing."
"I think it's a death wish waiting to happen," Sherlock said as he folded the daily newspaper and placed it on the coffee table. "It won't be long before the man goes blind."
"But maybe long enough for him to make others blind before him," Jean commented as she walked over to fetch the paper. "I don't understand. What would he gain from making people blind? This is not the way to worship the sun."
"It is not a cult if it's the normal way, Jean. Don't be stupid."
"And don't make me wish I had bought some arsenic for your tea, Sherlock."
"You are abusing your medical training," Sherlock said, his expression carefully schooled but Jean had recognized it as his 'sulk'. "And that is a clichéd way of killing people."
"I happen to like classics," Jean said as she opened the paper and began reading the article. Someone named Kalon had apparently pioneered the new belief that if a man was of good health; physically, mentally and spiritually, they would be able to look at the sun with no discomfort. "I think this is a load of crap. You are free to do as you wish with your eyes, but don't make others harm their eyes just because you are touched in the head. And when you develop cataract, don't come to us wishing we would do something for you."
"Huh, I thought I remember someone saying that doctors said an oath to not let personal resentment affect their professionalism," Sherlock commented as he sipped his tea. "But just between you and me, I happen to know an excellent lawyer."
Jean chuckled. "So, what do you plan to do today?"
"You have the day off, don't you?"
"Mmhm. I'm all yours today."
"..."
"That sounded wrong, should I try that again?"
"No, it is quite fine. Well, if you are free today, let's see what the mass is all about for ourselves."
"Huh. You're usually not interested in that kind of thing," Jean commented as she finished her toast and folded the newspaper.
"I'm bored."
"Well, if you're really bored, I'm doing this experiment on the rate of drug metabolism in the liver—"
"Get your coat, we're going."
"Alright, alright."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
The two made their way to a rundown section of London. Most of the buildings were old, and one of them was undergoing renovations. Jean noticed the strange balcony protruding from the fifth floor of the renovated building, where the symbol of the Eye of Apollo was carved.
It was nearing the end of spring, but the air was still crisp and chilly in the morning. Almost fifty people were standing on the small street below the building, chatting with their companions while waiting for the mass to start.
"Hello," Jean said to an older woman who stood by herself at the edge of the circle of people. Sherlock never initiated contact with other people, so it was always Jean who talked to people. "Is the mass always held at the same time every day?"
"Oh, is this your first time here?" the woman asked. "Yes, the priest of Apollo would stand on that balcony and recite the liturgy. We usually start at exactly ten, when he would step out onto the balcony and look at the sun for about five minutes. We are encouraged to follow suit and stare at it while he does, then he'd recite the liturgy, and we close the mass by staring at the sun again, as a way of paying respect to it."
"I see. Thank you," Jean said as she smiled at the woman who nodded and smiled back. She then walked back to Sherlock and told him what she had just been told.
"I'm going inside," Jean said before Sherlock could say anything and the detective rolled his eyes. She knew one of them had to stay outside to keep an eye on the self-proclaimed priest of Apollo to ensure that he stayed there during the five minutes before and after he recited the liturgy. It might be unlikely that he would commit a crime on that day, but it was always better safe than sorry.
"Better make it fast then, it's almost ten," Sherlock said.
Jean nodded and walked into the building. The paint was peeling and there were spider webs at almost every corner. There were two elevator shafts, one was working while the other was under maintenance. The door was left open and Jean inspected the shaft, noting that the elevator box was somewhere around the fifth floor.
There was a fire exit door to the side, a line of mail boxes, and a list of the offices in the building, which included the church of Apollo, which was located on the fifth floor. There was a notary office on the third floor, a travel agent on the fourth, but there was nothing else.
Seeing the state of disrepair the building was in, she really wasn't surprised that there weren't that many tenants in the building.
She could hear the reciting of the liturgy even from inside and thought that he must've used a sound system of some sort. Deciding that there was nothing else of interest that she could see—since Sherlock would kill her if she went up to investigate without him, she turned around and walked towards the front door.
A loud thud and crack stopped her in her tracks. She turned around and saw the body of a fairly young woman, possibly in her mid-thirties, lying at the bottom of the open elevator shaft, her neck broken and her skull cracked open, her body drowning in an ever-growing pool of her own blood.
Jean did the first thing she could—scream.
People, mostly men, poured into the building to see what happened. The women came next, all gasping in horror at the gory sight and Sherlock had to forcefully tell them to vacate the building as it was a crime scene, brandishing a police detective badge and ushering the people out, telling them that an investigation was underway and everything was in control.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Jean asked in disbelief. "I thought you said you're never stooping down to the level of petty theft!"
"Yes, but Lestrade is an exception," Sherlock said easily. "I pickpocket him when he's being particularly annoying."
"I should call Lestrade anyway," Jean said, and Sherlock did nothing to stop her. She narrated the happening to Lestrade who agreed to come over when he could and not tell the public his name lest they became confused.
A young woman who bore a striking resemblance to the dead woman exited the fire door and approached them, looking at the dead woman with almost clinical indifference and for a moment Jean was scared. Although she and Harry had had fights, she could never imagine herself disliking Harry so much that she wouldn't be shaken if something bad happened to Harry, or vice versa.
"You are?" Sherlock asked the woman.
"Joan Stacey," the woman introduced herself. "I'm the sister of Pauline Stacey, the dead woman. We both work at the notary office on the third floor, but I was at the church on fifth floor earlier. I rushed down when I heard the noise."
"My deepest condolence, Miss Stacey," Jean said.
"There is no need. She has never given anyone reason to mourn for her," Joan said coldly and Jean inhaled sharply, wondering what had happened in this family to cause such a great rift between the two sisters.
"Where are your glasses, Miss Stacey?" Sherlock asked as he stood beside Jean, studying the intimidating young woman with almost quiet indifference. Jean subconsciously stepped closer to Sherlock, as if asking for moral support and he understood. For Jean, family was everything, and to see someone who didn't even spare her dead sister a second glance was slightly traumatizing for her.
"I do not wear glasses," Joan said in a clipped tone. "Who are you?"
"Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said. "And you do not wear glasses because you don't want to? Or perhaps... because of your sister?"
Joan scrutinised Sherlock then moved her gaze to Jean. "And who are you?"
"She is my assistant," Sherlock cut in. "Now, I would like you to stop avoiding questions. Your answers are crucial to solving this case."
"There is no case," Joan said sharply.
"Are you saying this is an accident?" Jean asked curiously.
"Do not assume; observe," Sherlock chided. "She knows who the murderer is. So it is true that you do not wear glasses because of your sister. Why?"
"She was a foolish woman," Joan said. "She believed that women should never be reliant on men, or anything man-made for that matter. She broke my glasses in anger, but look at her now. The proud woman had fallen trap to a man's sweet words. In fact, she didn't start taking the elevator until that priest moved in here."
"You still use pen and paper in your office?" Sherlock queried, inspecting Pauline. She was dressed neatly, almost like a... "So, Miss Stacey, your sister has just inherited a land and a great sum of money?"
"Indeed," Joan confirmed. "Our father was a governor. When he died, it was only logical that he should pass it on to the eldest child of the family."
"And am I right to assume that you will not disclose the name of the murderer?" Sherlock asked.
"There is no need for me to do that," Joan said easily. "I am a busy woman, Mr. Holmes. I have no time to sit idly in the witness seat. I would arrange for a quiet funeral in her name, but that is all I will do."
"Why do you hate your sister so much?" Jean asked against her better judgment. She knew it wasn't wise to aggravate the woman, but she really wanted to know, and if Sherlock was in her position, he would've asked anyway.
"The hypocrite has no right to call herself my sister," Joan said, her tone controlled, hiding a quiet fury beneath. "She gave me hell whenever I became close to a man, always telling me that a woman should never have to rely on a man, but she did it all out of jealousy. Jealousy because none of the man ever looked at her."
"When Kalon showed signs of being attracted to her, she took to it like a dung beetle took to animal excrements," Joan said coldly and Jean flinched at the analogy. "It sickened me to see the lovestruck fool. I knew then that she preached not because she wanted me to be a strong, independent woman, but because she didn't want me to be happy while she was old, cranky and loveless."
"In fact, just this morning she came to the office giggling like a teenage girl, stealing kisses from Kalon from the elevator to the front door. It sickened me so much that I went up to the church to work in the company of Kalon's administrator. She is at least a respectable woman," Joan almost spat the words out. "Now, if there is nothing else, I would like to return to my office. I'll call for an ambulance there."
"There is nothing else to see down here," Sherlock confirmed. "I hope you don't mind us following you to your office."
"Suit yourself," Joan said with a shrug as she moved to press the elevator button, waiting for the box to come to the ground level. "I would appreciate you not involving me in this case, however. As I have said, Mr. Holmes, I am a busy woman. I have no intention of stepping up to her defence as I have nothing to gain from it, not even satisfaction."
"Come along, Jean," Sherlock said as he stepped towards the functioning elevator.
Joan stared at him strangely. "Excuse me?"
"I was not talking to you, Miss Stacey," Sherlock said simply. "Now, Jean, do try to stop staring at the body long enough to tell Lestrade that we're going up to the notary office on the third floor."
"Oh, right, of course," Jean said, as if startled from a daze. She fished her phone out and began texting Lestrade, pressing the send button just before she joined Joan and Sherlock in the elevator.
"So your name is Joan?" Joan asked to Jean who was trying her hardest not to fidget while Joan and Sherlock were standing as cool as cucumbers.
"No, it's Jean, spelled J-e-a-n. My name is Jean Watson," Jean said.
The elevator reached the third floor and Joan nodded at them, gesturing at them to follow her down the hallway to the notary office. The broken elevator was right in front of notary office's door, and the functioning one was only three steps away.
"Here is our office," Joan said as she opened the door for the two. "I'd rather you not touch anything, but if you must, return them to where they belong."
"Certainly," Sherlock said curtly. He wasted no time in inspecting the office, taking in all the little details. True to what Joan said, Pauline seemed to have an aversion to anything technologically advanced. In the modern era, it was hard to find someone who still did everything the primitive way.
There was a typewriter and an antique phone on Joan's desk. A filing cabinet was located between the two desks. Pauline's desk was messier than Joan's, papers everywhere. A lone fountain pen sat beside a bottle of ink, and Jean commented on it, wondering why Pauline chose to use a fountain pen and not a ballpoint pen instead.
"She has a taste for antiques," Joan said, then motioned at the telephone. "I've never understood her. She likes to make things difficult for herself and the people around her. I say good riddance. Excuse me if that offends your sensibilities, Miss Watson, but I am unlike you. Ever since the death of our father, she became more and more unbearable."
Jean smiled wryly at Joan. She wondered if she was so easily read like an open book.
"There's nothing wrong with being so easily read," Sherlock said as he inspected the fountain pen and Jean glared at him. "Drop it, it's unbecoming of you."
So Jean settled for a sulk as she looked around. She opened the filing cabinet and paused. "Sherlock?"
"Yes, I've noticed," Sherlock said as he walked over. "It's as you've said this morning. It seems that he has found his victim."
"That is so sad," Jean said softly, closing the cabinet. She turned to face Sherlock and said, "You will never do this to a woman, right?"
"Define this and I will answer your question," Sherlock said. He turned his attention to the front door of the office, which had just been opened by Kalon and Lestrade. "But while it stays a vague question, I will only say this: I will try not to make my favourite doctor cry."
The corner of Jean's lips twitched upwards and she quietly followed Sherlock as he went to greet Lestrade and question Kalon, the fraud. They had, after all, confirmed that his intention was only to get the money and land from Pauline.
"So, what is the situation?" Lestrade asked.
"Victim is Pauline Stacey, a governess and older sister of Miss Joan Stacey here," Jean said as she motioned at Joan who was still taking care of some paperwork on her desk. "I was the first to see the body actually. She seemed to have fallen from the third floor to the ground floor. It happened sometime during the mass, because I could hear the liturgy being recited."
"Right. Any clue as to who pushed her down the shaft then?" Lestrade asked.
"There was no one to push her down the shaft," Sherlock said simply.
"What, are you saying this is a suicide?" Lestrade asked again, clearly confused.
"It is all a simple trick, really," Sherlock said easily. "A trick done by a heartless person blinded by greed."
"Let's make this easy for all of us, shall we?" Jean asked, turning to look at Kalon. "We know you're the one behind all this."
"What, me?" Kalon asked in disbelief and slight anger. "Who are you to accuse me of such thing, you little brat? I'll have you know that I was up at the balcony until just now."
"Do you listen to others when they speak?" Sherlock cut in. "Or are you too used to being listened to?"
Kalon moved his gaze to Sherlock. "And who are you?"
"Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said easily. "I have said earlier than the murderer does not have to be there to physically murder the elder Miss Stacey. It's really quite simple. All you have to do is to wait for the right time."
"Did Joan tell you that?" Kalon asked angrily. "I'll have you know that that woman is just spouting nonsense because she's jealous of me. She's angry that her sister didn't leave anything to her, instead choosing to give all of her land and money to me. She's the evil woman who ruthlessly killed her own sister."
"Actually, Kalon—can I call you that?" Jean asked, but didn't wait for Kalon to actually answer. "Actually, Kalon, the land and money will go to Miss Joan Stacey."
"What did you say?" Kalon asked sharply, glaring at Jean who stood by Pauline's desk, holding onto a letter.
"See, this is the will written by Miss Pauline Stacey, signed by Miss Joan Stacey and Miss Selene Potter as witnesses. The will is unfinished as there is no name of the recipient of her possessions. As she has no other will, and this is a legitimate will, all of her possessions will go to her next of kin, and that is Miss Joan Stacey."
"What the hell!? That's not all Pauline wrote!" Kalon shouted, enraged.
"Yet it is all there is," Jean said calmly, still holding onto the will in her hand.
"You lie!" Kalon roared. He lunged at Jean, trying to snatch the will out of her hand.
Lestrade looked alarmed, but wasn't fast enough to try and hold Kalon back. Joan's eyes widened in surprise and alarm as well, clearly not expecting Kalon to resort to violence.
Jean calmly sidestepped the lunge and delivered a clean blow to Kalon's stomach. The priest gurgled before he slumped down onto the floor, unconscious.
"What—"
"A direct hit to the solar plexus, Lestrade. Do stop asking stupid questions," Sherlock said, appearing unfazed. "Jean is hardly a damsel in distress. She could probably take you out if she so wishes."
Lestrade winced slightly at the thought, remembering how Jean had tackled Welkin, a man nearly twice her size, and held him in place.
"Well, there you have him," Joan said as she tidied her desk up and stood up. "I have called for an ambulance to bring the body to a morgue to wait for the funeral. I believe you need no help in bringing this pathetic excuse of a man in, so excuse me."
"I should have you brought in for trickery, Miss Stacey," Sherlock commented in an off-hand manner.
Joan stopped by the front door and turned around to look at him. "Are you going to?"
"No," Sherlock said. "There was no harm done."
Joan stared at Sherlock intently, as if trying to see if he was telling the truth. Finally, her lips curled upwards in a small smile and she nodded in greeting. "Very well. Good day, Mr. Holmes. You too, Miss Watson."
"Why are we letting her go?" Lestrade asked in confusion. "What sort of trickery are you talking about?"
"We'll go through this from the beginning," Jean said. "Miss Pauline Stacey didn't like to rely on anything. We assumed that poor eyesight is something that runs in their family, as Miss Joan Stacey has poor eyesight as well. However, they never wore glasses because Miss Pauline thought it was a show of weakness—of surrendering to their condition."
"She was jealous of Miss Joan because the men all like her, so when Kalon showed signs of being attracted to her, she reciprocated the notion readily. What she didn't realise, or what she tried to lie to herself about, is the fact that Kalon is only after her for her money. Their father had just recently died and passed on a great amount of wealth to Miss Pauline."
"Okay, but that doesn't explain anything about the murder. How did Kalon kill her?"
"He killed her softly," Sherlock said. "You know of the cult that this man pioneered."
"Yes," Lestrade said. "Oh. You mean he has been persuading her to follow the custom of staring into the sun?"
"Indeed," Jean said. "Miss Pauline was blind. However, since most of her work only involves signing documents off, she didn't make it expressly known. She relied on routine and familiarity to get around. Miss Joan said that earlier Miss Pauline came to the office with Kalon; they were laughing together and stealing kisses from one another. I could only assume that it was his attempt at distracting her from noticing that they weren't riding the elevator they usually did."
"So she usually rode the elevator directly in front, right?" Lestrade asked.
"Correct," Sherlock confirmed. "Miss Pauline must have had a habit of pressing the elevator button, waiting for the noise that signalled the arrival of the box, and extended her hand forward to see if the doors have opened before stepping in. She didn't know the elevator was undergoing maintenance, and when her hand came into contact with nothing, she stepped forward, plunging to her death."
"That's horrible," Lestrade said. "Then what of the trickery you mentioned earlier?"
Sherlock picked up the fountain pen on Pauline's desk. "This is the pen the deceased used daily," he said. "Since she was blind, it must have been filled by someone else—Joan. She knew that Kalon would try to murder Pauline using the trick, and when she knew that Pauline would be writing her will, she deliberately left the fountain pen half-empty so the ink would run out before Pauline finished her will. The letter itself was signed earlier, probably with the excuse that it would be easier for Pauline too if she didn't have to go find two witnesses to sign the will as she wrote it. As she was only reclaiming what was rightfully hers from a fraud, I didn't see the need to charge her with trickery."
"That's amazing," Lestrade said. "Brilliant deductions as always, Sherlock. Although I would appreciate it if you stop claiming to be me."
Sherlock grunted concomitantly, although he said nothing.
"Well, I'll bring him in to the headquarters," Lestrade said as he picked Kalon up, half-dragging him. "Good work again, Sherlock, and you too, Miss Watson. I'm amazed that you could tell he did it from the small hints left in this office."
"Hm?" Sherlock mumbled. "Oh. I only came up here to see what the younger Miss Stacey had done. She seemed too calm for someone who could have lost everything her family owned, and found out about the fountain pen trick then."
"You already knew this man did it? How?" both Lestrade and Jean were surprised.
"I was outside when Jean screamed," Sherlock said. "No matter what routine you have, if something happens to disturb it, you react. The people were all startled by Jean's scream and rushed to see what was happening, yet he didn't react. I knew then that whatever happened, he was expecting it."
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Jean exited the cab and walked up to their flat while Sherlock paid the cabbie. He liked taking the cab because it took shorter time to get to their destination and he insisted that he pay, possibly because he always thought of Jean as a poor student.
Not that she wasn't, but she really wasn't that poor.
Jean reached the top of the steps and paused. "Sherlock, are we expecting a guest?"
The man sitting in Jean's armchair stood up and walked over to her, swinging his umbrella idly. "You are?"
"Err, Sherlock?" Jean asked, looking back at Sherlock who had just entered the flat.
"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted curtly. "This is Doctor Jean Watson."
"Oh, so she's the roommate. I thought your roommate is Doctor John Watson," Mycroft said, looking at Jean from head to toe. "I have to admit that you have good taste, brother. How did you two meet?"
"I was dealing with a stalker of some sorts," Jean answered. "I came to Sherlock for help. He then offered for me to move in to save money on rent."
"Of course," Mycroft said, walking back to the living room, then sitting on the couch. "Come join me then, Doctor Watson."
"I'm really not a doctor yet," Jean said as she stared unsurely at both Mycroft and Sherlock. When Sherlock walked over to sit in his armchair, Jean followed suit and sat in hers. "I'm still a final year med student."
"Of course. And your name is Joan?"
"No. It's J-e-a-n."
"Ah. Following the French pronunciation. Is that not a male name, though?"
"It is," Jean confirmed. "My parents wanted a son. They wanted to name me John, after John the Baptist. When they got a daughter instead, they named me Jean, following the French pronunciation, because I think they still want me to be called John."
Mycroft nodded. "How long have you lived here, then, Jean?"
"This is only my second week," Jean said, "but this place is really nice. I try to drop by Mrs. Hudson's place every afternoon. She's a lovely woman."
Mycroft chuckled and Jean swore she could see his eyes twinkling in amusement, before he turned to look at Sherlock. "I have done what you asked. She should be here anytime soon. However, you have run out of favours, and I expect you not to make a fuss the next time I ask you to do something."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course."
The front door opened as if on cue.
"Jean?"
Jean turned around so fast she was sure she could have gotten a whiplash. Her jaw fell open and her eyes widened when she saw the person standing on top of the steps leading to the flat.
"Harry?" she asked in disbelief. "What—how—what are you doing here?"
"A woman came to our house earlier to pick me up. She said you're upset because something happened," Harry said, walking closer to Jean. "Are you alright?"
Jean turned to look at Sherlock accusingly. "You did this."
"Guilty as charged," Sherlock said. "Go on, then. Go spend some time with your sister."
Jean nodded and brought Harry up to her room, telling her of how she met Sherlock and what had just happened earlier that caused her to be upset.
Meanwhile Mycroft glanced at Sherlock. "You have a soft spot for her."
"I am not familiar with the term," Sherlock said coldly.
"It is understandable, though. Someone like her is hard to come by, isn't it? If you grow tired of her, I'll be more than glad to have her work for me."
Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "Do you have nothing better to do than annoy me?"
Mycroft chuckled. "I will take my leave, then," he said. "You have chosen well, brother."
"Of course I have," Sherlock scoffed. He watched as Mycroft walked himself out of the flat, then went up to go to the kitchen. His experiments weren't going to do themselves.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Sherlock stood up straight and took a step back from the dining table. He had finished experiment one and would need to wait for the washout period before he could experiment on the piece of pig intestine again.
A pair of arms wrapped around his torso from behind, followed by a head resting on his back, between his shoulder blades.
"Where's your sister?"
"She's in the bathroom. She'll stay the night. Um, your brother called and told me he'd have someone drive her home tomorrow," Jean replied. She took a deep breath, and continued, "Thank you, Sherlock."
"I did what I could," Sherlock said with a slight shrug. "No matter what I said you would still be upset. I told you that I will do my best to not make my favourite doctor cry."
Jean smiled to herself. "I must have been a really good kid for Father Santa to give me such a gift."
Sherlock chortled, his chest rumbling with laughter. "You are the first person to have stayed with me longer than three days."
"Is that so? Maybe they were traumatized by the head in the fridge. At least it's never boring here."
Sherlock turned around in Jean's embrace and looked down at her. "You are loyal to a fault. It would be extremely foolish of me to let someone such as you go, because you make a most reliable friend."
Jean reached up and ran her fingers through Sherlock's messy curls, trying to tame them in vain. "You are a sweet talker," she said. "Is it wrong of me to wish that I am the only person you talk so sweetly to?"
"It is not a wish. It is a fact."
Jean's smile widened by a fraction. "Well, I'm going back upstairs. Do try not to destroy the kitchen too much. I still need it to make breakfast tomorrow."
Jean made her way back upstairs to her room. Sherlock watched until she disappeared around the corner before he returned to his experiment.
Outside, the street camera swivelled back to its proper position.
End Story
Hope you enjoyed that :D if you do, do leave a comment coz I'm a comment whore :P
I reread the story and was surprised to find out that the little sister's name is Joan Stacey. If I had chosen Joan instead of Jean for John's name, it would have been hell to differentiate the two xD I usually forget names of side characters in the stories, so sue me .
I have to admit, this series has been really fun to write. I don't want to rush the relationship between Sherlock and Jean, so it might take another case before something forms. I will get to work on writing the next one soon, because these are really fun and I have enjoyed writing it immensely =D
I also have the habit of adding intro and outro to the actual case, just for fun =P I'll be writing an interlude soon, in which Jean left to go back to her family home, leaving Sherlock alone. Might feature major OOCness, but we shall see~