A/N: Bugger, I got soooo close to getting this finished by Halloween. But with me and Old Ping Hai having conflicting schedules on Mondays, it's just not meant to be.
HOWEVER! I have the whole story written up and I just need to get part five typed up and send to her. So there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
There are five parts. I don't think of them as chapters, mainly because this first one is so short compared to the others, but as this site doesn't do anything other than that, they'll be listed as chapters. And I will be posting a new part over the next five days. Starting with today and ending on the 3rd.
Of course I have to thank two of my biggest cheerleaders, my beta Old Ping Hai and my husband, Sidheman. The first kept encouraging me to get it done, and the later let me pick his brain constantly when I got writers' block. Thank you both!
"That's all from 'Unmasking the Supernatural: The Science of Demystifying the Ethereal.' I'm your host, Sherlock Holmes. Next week for BBC's Halloween Spooktacular, we'll be debunking mediums, or those that claim they can speak to the dead. Until then, suspect everything!"
Sherlock waited two seconds for "Cut!" before he broke his fake smile.
"That's a wrap, everyone!" Sally called out.
Sherlock strolled past her and tossed the microphone in her general direction. Sally dove for it and barely managed to catch it before the expensive piece of equipment hit the ground.
"Sherlock!" Sally hissed. "I've told you not to do that. And another thing we've talked about, you can't just–"
Sherlock whipped around, his trademark coat whirling about his long legs like a perfect fan. "I'm not shortening it," he hissed. "'Unmasking the Supernatural' is only part of the title and to shorten it is plain idiocy."
"The shortened title tests better in focus groups of not only viewers, but sponsors as well," Sally whined.
"I don't care," Sherlock snarled, throwing his hands in the air.
"I'll just call Mr Lestrade!" Sally threatened. "Again!"
Sherlock pulled out his phone and after hitting a few buttons, he turned the phone toward her, Greg's number all ready to be dialed. "I dare you."
Sally glared at him a moment and then yanked the phone out of his hand. She angrily hit the call button. She tapped her foot as it rang through.
"Sherlock!" Greg greeted cheerfully. "I'm excited for this coming season, I'm hearing really good things."
"Sir, it's Sally," she interrupted gently.
There was a heavy sigh on the other end. "Is this about the damn title again?" Greg asked.
"It tests better–" she began.
"Other than the opening placard and his ending narration, is the full title anywhere else?"
"Well, no, sir..." she conceded.
"Then who the hell gives a damn if he says the whole thing?" Greg growled.
"Just me?" Sally ventured a guess.
"That's right. Just you. If I get another call from you about this, Miss Donovan, you'll be looking for work elsewhere. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir." She winced as the other line was disconnected by the phone being slammed into its cradle.
She looked up to see Sherlock standing there with the smuggest expression on his face.
"You knew he was going to say that," Sally accused him.
"Of course," he said, taking back his phone. "After all, producers are a dime a dozen, but there is only one Sherlock Holmes."
She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. He was right, of course. There was no show without him and the smug bastard knew it. As long as Sherlock Holmes wanted the job, it was his. "Unmasking the Supernatural: The Science of Demystifying the Ethereal," for all its cumbersome title, wouldn't be popular without its eccentric host.
Sherlock practically skipped off to his waiting car. It was a good day. There were three new fakes out of business and in the case of one of them, serious jail time. He had won the argument with Sally. And he had managed to dodge Anderson for most of the final shooting.
A man who was currently chasing him. As much as Sherlock wanted to break into a run, he knew that it would only prolong the fight. He slowed to a stop and turned to glare at the cameraman.
"Oi!" Anderson bellowed. "What the hell do you think you were doing out there today? How the hell do you expect me to do my job, with you running about like a fucking gazelle? Huh? It's my job to make sure that we catch your little deduction bullshitting, or whatever the hell it is you do."
Sherlock's upper lip curled into a sneer that almost bordered on a full-on snarl. "No, Anderson, it is your job to man the 'shaking cam', because you have the least steady hands in the business. And since I detest shaky cams, I actively avoid it, you." Sherlock stormed off.
"This isn't the last you'll hear of this," Anderson hissed. "And Sally says to tell that God-damned assistant of yours to answer his bloody phone when she calls, she's tired of leaving messages that never get returned."
"Tell Sally, maybe it's because he doesn't like her that he doesn't answer," Sherlock said with a shrug, before he opened the door to the waiting car and slid in. Anderson continued to rant, but Sherlock closed the door to instant quiet. He tapped on the ceiling of the car to signal the driver. The car pulled away from the curb and started making its back to London.
In the car already was a plump man with wire-framed glasses who chuckled, "How many more people are you going to piss off today?" he asked.
"That depends, Mike," Sherlock said, "on whether or not you're mad at me, too?"
"Not yet," Mike hedged, earning a short huff of laughter from Sherlock.
"What have you got for me?" the TV host asked.
"Right," Mike grunted, pulling out three folders from his briefcase. "Three would-be mediums."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There are no such thing as ghosts, therefore there are no such things as mediums."
His PA chuckled. "First up we have Molly Hooper. Twenty-five, single. Claims that ghosts have been speaking to her since she was thirteen."
Sherlock took the dossier from Mike and flipped through it. "She's not hearing ghosts, she's just a very empathetic person and uses ghosts to explain why she can guess what a person is feeling. Dull." Sherlock tossed it on the seat between him and Mike. "Next?"
Mike rolled his eyes. "We have Richard Brook. Or at least that's his name this time round."
Sherlock practically ripped the folder from Mike's hand and began devouring the details.
"What's his history?"
"Among his aliases are Sebastian Moran, James Winter, and Jared Harris. His real name is James Moriarty. Or Jim. The bloke is wanted in three states in the US, as well as a couple of cities in France, Germany, and Turkey. Several of our own lovely cities would love to get their hands on him. Um...Brighton, Sussex, and I believe Manchester."
"Interesting. What is he wanted for?"
"Estate fraud, scam artist. He goes in as a medium and bilks rich, grieving families out of millions in most cases," Mike explained.
Sherlock let out a low whistle. "Now this is more like it. And he's agreed to our show?"
"He's that confident that you won't be able to spot his fakery; also he's not aware of our little secret fact checker," Mike said, grinning.
Sherlock laughed. "Oh please let me tell Mycroft you called him that, please?"
"Oh hell no," Mike snorted.
"He only does the deep background checks on these people because he doesn't want his only living relation dead because one of the guests became violent and tried to kill me."
Mike chuckled. "I don't care what the reason, I'm grateful. You get kept alive and bad guys go to jail. Really, it's a win-win situation."
Sherlock smiled. "Well, he does love to be of use."
Mike fidgeted nervously in the seat, clutching the last folder tightly.
"Mike?" Sherlock asked, as he set aside Brook's dossier on top of Molly's.
The PA sighed. "Oh, I'm going to hell anyway." He handed over the file. "This one is a little unusual for us. He's a former captain of Her Majesty's army, surgeon, and combat medic."
"PTSD?" Sherlock asked, going through the file gingerly.
"You'd think so, but other than claiming he can see ghosts, he doesn't seem to exhibit the other signs."
Sherlock shook his head. "PTSD isn't the same for everyone. I've even heard of a case where a man couldn't listen to classical music because to him it sounded like sirens. This could be his trigger." He flipped through the pages. "What else?"
"He volunteered," Mike replied flatly.
Sherlock twisted in his seat as far the seat belt would allow. "And how on earth did that happen?"
Mike winced. "I know, right?" Sherlock just glared at him. "I know him, from uni, got back in contact after he was sent home. He's a real decent bloke."
"It's becoming clearer, but it still doesn't explain why he would volunteer!" Sherlock shouted.
"You know how Sally likes to do these in sets of three? Well, you've driven the fake mystics so far underground that your brother can't find them."
"Good for the innocents, but bad for business," Sherlock agreed.
"So we were having a pint, well, he was, I don't drink much anymore–" Mike started to ramble.
"Jesus Christ, Mike. Just get to the point," the TV host bit out.
"Right, well I was telling him about the trouble I was in and well, he offered to help me out."
Sherlock buried his head in his hands. "I'm not going to exploit an innocent, even if he has offered himself up as sacrificial lamb."
"It won't be like that. It'll be more like with Molly, just nudging the person in the right direction. I think he's hoping you debunk him, to be honest," Mike assured him.
"Mike..." Sherlock began. "Wait, he's a fan of the show?"
"Yeah. So you'll do it?" Mike asked, hopeful.
"God help us all, but yes."