There was a conversation between two Sherlock fanfic writers (or are we bloggers?) – and from the conversation came this idea…MapleleafCameo, this is especially for you!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!
Sherlock watched as John methodically stripped his gun down and cleaned it. He watched his hands as they moved with a sort of grace over the component parts, gently rubbing, cleaning, oiling, then putting it back together with smooth movements borne of long practice. Not once did his concentration waver.
"Treat your gun with the respect and it will always look after you" He had not missed his flatmate's keen observation, he expected no less from the self-styled Consulting Detective.
"Do we attribute that quote to your Regimental Sergeant Major?"
John grinned. "Warrant Officer Lightson. One of Sandhurst's finest, scourge of the RAMC officer cadets." His eyes went temporarily out of focus as if looking back to his time at Sandhurst. "If I'm honest, we were all terrified of him. Fond of lightning inspections he was, and woe betide the man with even the tiniest speck of dirt in the mechanism! Y'know, we were all convinced he was born saying that." He pushed the slide back into place, cocked and aimed it at away from himself and Sherlock and pulled the trigger. A smooth solid 'click' sounded satisfactorily in the otherwise quiet room. Replacing the magazine he flicked the safety catch on and placed the weapon on the table beside him. "What was the text?" It had pinged through 5 minutes ago or more, and Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes from John's routine – or so John had thought.
"Mycroft, he requested our presence."
"Requested?" John's eyebrows rose. "You're telling me he actually asked us? I mean, instead of kidnapping us?"
Sherlock grinned. "You notice I haven't replied John, which means he'll send a car to – as you so eloquently put it – 'kidnap' us. He'll get what he wants; we'll save ourselves the cost of the cab fare!" With movements that put John in mind of a cat Sherlock uncurled himself from his chair and rose to his feet. "You have just five minutes to get ready."
John also rose, using the rag he had cleaned the gun with to wipe any traces of gun oil from his hands before picking the weapon up. As he moved past Sherlock the younger man grasped his arm.
"Take the gun, John. If Mycroft needs our assistance badly enough for him to be in his office on a Saturday afternoon things may get a little…." He paused, quirking an eyebrow at his flatmate. "….interesting!"
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
"Why us Mycroft? What's wrong with using your own men?" Sherlock flopped down into an overstuffed wing chair and steepled his fingers under his nose. "Don't you trust them?"
"Don't be silly Sherlock, they spy on people for money – don't they Mycroft?" John sat in a chair the twin of Sherlocks, his back straight, his feet planted squarely on the floor. Only the pseudo innocent smile which graced his featured was at odds with his military bearing.
"When you two have finished your music hall double act…." Despite his neutral expression there was an unusual level of asperity in his normally cool cultured voice.
"He's not enjoying our company Sherlock" John looked sadly across at his flatmate.
Sherlock grinned back at him before turning a cool stare on his brother. "I'll ask again – why us?" he caught the slight change in his brother's bland countenance and sat up suddenly, gripping the arms of his chair. "No, not us – me!"
Mycroft reached into a desk draw, pulled out an envelope and handed it to his brother. "It was addressed to me, delivered to my club an hour ago. He – and yes I am certain it's a 'he' – has specifically asked for you."
John watched as Sherlock scanned first the envelope, then its contents.
"You're right, it is a man. The writing speaks clearly of a private education – not Eton or Harrow though, maybe Kimbolton or Wells" he read the contents more carefully this time before handing it over to the man at his side.
"I'm sorry, what does this mean Sherlock?"
"A riddle – a clue John, obviously. Someone is playing games with me"
"You hate riddles."
Sherlock nodded, waving long fingers in the direction of the paper in John's hand. "I'm less interested in the riddle than in his choice of materials. Look at it John, notice anything odd about it?"
"Very thick paper – old fashioned style of writing – I'm no expert Sherlock but I think he's using some sort of parchment and ink?"
"Right! And then there's the wording…"
"Taking you back in time….." Mycroft recited the words he had memorised, before adding "Not recent history though."
"No," his brother agreed "the nib used is hand carved, possibly a quill or feather. He's trying to make this a history puzzle."
"Yes," John interrupted his musings "But that bit about you seeing the face of London's tall boy fall, it doesn't make sense."
"No." Sherlock sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers against his lips, letting his eyes slip out of focus as he pondered the riddle.
"He travelled from the East to live with Stephen, but in the wee hours, if you fail to find me, you'll see the face of London's tall boy fall…." John read the line aloud, a frown creasing his brow. He accepted the cup of tea that was placed in his hand by Anthea, quietly thanking her before turning his attention back to the paper.
"Oh!"
John and Mycroft looked expectantly at the now alert consulting detective.
"Oh, that's clever!" he sounded smug "More so, Mycroft, because if I'm right, the answer is right on your doorstep!"
The eyebrow rose. "How so?"
"I assume you have access to the keys to the Houses of Parliament? Or more importantly, the clock tower?"
"Bloody hell Sherlock!" John exclaimed "London's tall boy – Big Ben."
Mycroft was already on the telephone to one of the many faceless minions he had at his beck and call. As he finished his conversation he looked at his brother. "The custodian will meet us there – my car is…."
"Really Mycroft?" disbelief coloured John's tone as he looked askance at the elder Holmes brother, "you work two minutes away from the Houses of Parliament and you want to drive there?"
Mycroft's face was a picture of distaste as he contemplated walking. His self-preservation got the better of him, and while Sherlock and John set out at a smart pace along Whitehall to Parliament Square and Westminster Bridge, he chose to leave the building by the rear doors and travel to the clock tower in style!
John, Sherlock and the elderly custodian of the tower were waiting in the half light of the autumn evening when Mycroft finally arrived, and all three were looking up at the outside of the tower to the clock face overlooking the River Thames.
"Why back in time though Sherlock?" John was asking as Mycroft crossed the grass to join them.
"The date, John. It's 27th October."
John still frowned.
"Clocks go back tonight!" The custodian piped up brightly, "well, 2.00am tomorrow to be precise."
"And how is the clock put back here? Manually?" Sherlock asked, staring intently at the other man.
"Oh no, sir, those days are long gone! There's a mechanism now…."
"That's got to be it then, we need to get up to that mechanism!" He turned again to the old man. "Where is it?"
"With all the other workings…." He struggled to open the door, looking intently at the lock.
"Problem?" Sherlock stepped up behind him and unceremoniously moved the man out of his way, his magnifying glass already in his hand. "Someone has tampered with this lock. I think there can be no doubt we were being directed here." He took the key from the custodian and with a little dexterous wiggling of metal the lock finally opened allowing the detective and the doctor to enter the stairwell.
"Not joining us, brother?" Sherlock smirked over his shoulder at the embodiment of the British Government.
"No, I'll wait here and arrange any assistance you may need."
Sherlock grinned and he and John started on their way up the 334 steps to the clock faces.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
"Jesus, Sherlock" John clung to the handrail on his left, his right hand resting on his knee as he stood with one foot on the last flight of stairs watching his flatmate bound up to the top "Will you just give me a minute to catch my breath!"
"No time." Sherlock was already at the top of the stairs and moving towards the door that led to the clock mechanism.
"No time, he says!" John muttered to himself. "And us surrounded by clocks!"
"Don't be facetious, John." The door opened and Sherlock disappeared inside.
Following him in, John looked in wonder at the huge cogs, wheels and pistons that drove the clock and its bells.
"This is no time to get lost in nostalgic study John," Sherlock called across the room "five minutes from now the bells will strike the hour. I think you'll agree we don't want to be in here when that happens."
"Right!" John pulled himself together and looked around him. "What are we looking for exactly?"
"I would think some kind of explosive device."
"Great! So we're looking for a bomb at the top of a 300 feet high tower…what part of this venture is sensible?
"As you're so fond of saying John….timing! He said 'back' in time – nothing will happen until the clocks go back at 2am tomorrow morning." Sherlock was crawling up and down the walkways, looking in all the possible hiding places hidden among the metal struts as well as under the working parts of the clock. It gradually filtered into his overactive brain that John was just standing, looking at the clock face. "John, if you're just going to…."
"Sherlock, I think we need to get out of here." He dragged his eyes away from the clock "Now, Sherlock, and down at least two flights of stairs."
Reluctantly the consulting detective noted that they had less than a minute before the clock struck the hour, and as one the two men ran out of the door and down the stairs, stopping only when they had put several flights and a couple of corners between them and the bells that they could now hear winding upwards to begin their four line peal…
…..As the last vibrations of the bells died, and Sherlock and John removed their hands from over their ears and looked at each other.
"That was painful!" John didn't realise he was shouting, he could hardly hear himself think let alone speak.
'We need you to stop the chimes. – JW'
"Mmm – tedious!" Sherlock agreed, equally loudly. "We need to get back up there to search, although it's going to be ridiculously slow if we have to run every 15 minutes…. What are you doing?"
'Pardon? – MH'
'Don't try to be funny Mycroft, it doesn't suit you. – JW'
"Texting your brother." This said a little quieter, as the effects of the noise wore off. "Right, come on genius, let's get back to it!"
'Oh, and stopping the clock might be good too – JW'
'In hand already. – MH'
'Thanks – JW'
As they walked back into the room John grabbed Sherlocks arm and pulled him towards one of the 23 feet tall glass clock faces.
"Sherlock, you need to see what I was looking at earlier," he pointed to the spindle in the centre of the clock face where the mechanism was attached that drove the hands round. "Can you see it, almost hidden…."
Sherlock moved as close as he could to the glass and saw just under the lead frames that held it in place a thin wire leading to the outer lead ring, and pushed in around the outer ring of the face was plastic explosive. Grey and putty like, and outlining the bottom half of the back-lit national landmark. His eyes followed the wire back to the centre, where a small switch was attached to the spindle itself.
"Some kind of firing switch," John observed standing close to his shoulder "I imagine it's rigged to go as the hour hand swings back at 2am."
"I believe you're right John." Sherlock pulled his phone out and dialled.
"Brother dear?" the phone was answered with swift efficiency
"Mycroft, you might want to call in the bomb squad" Sherlock was walking down the stairs as he spoke, John following close behind. "Oh, and I suggest they bring some kind of platform or scaffolding with them." And he grinned as he cut the connection.