Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding…
Sherlock Holmes was wrenched from his dreams by an incessant noise that, had his mind not been drugged with sleep, he might have recognised as the doorbell. The relentless ringing had crept into his dreams and woken him up, and, considering this was the first proper rest he'd had in five days, he was not best pleased about it.
With a groan, he rolled over, squinting at the hazy autumn light that was undesirably falling through the gap in the curtains. Sherlock glanced at the clock on his bedside table, which read as a few minutes past eight o'clock, and he hauled himself from the bed, yawning and taking his time to pull on blue pajama bottoms and a grey T-shirt, before wrapping himself in his silk dressing gown. Whoever was being so rude about getting his attention could certainly wait a bit longer.
As the fog of sleep cleared from Sherlock's head, it was clear that the visitor wasn't a client. The length of each ring was wrong. The sound that reverberated around the flat was just over a whole second each time it rang out (he really had to do something about getting rid of that doorbell), which indicated that it was someone he was familiar with, and therefore it could only be one person.
He pulled open the front door with a little more force than necessary and scowled at the person on the other side, making it clear that they had disturbed his sleep.
Mycroft Holmes stood tall on the pavement outside, looking down his nose at his younger brother. He was wearing a grey suit that didn't quite do any favours for his stomach and he was holding a black umbrella in one hand - despite the fact it hadn't rained in weeks - which he leant on just slightly, and he had some files tucked neatly under his other arm. As Sherlock glared at him, he determined that his brother had put on another two pounds and his hair had thinned just slightly more than it had the last time Sherlock had seen him (possibly due to stress).
"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped. Of course, it was obvious from the rather large group of files under his brother's arm that it was another case. While cass that came through Mycroft were often interesting, he didn't see why Mycroft had to come round so early to talk to him about it.
Mycroft gave a tight smile in return, idly tapping his umbrella against the step in front of the doorway. "It's lovely to see you too, dear brother, may I come in?"
"No." Sherlock knew that if Mycroft was truly desperate for him to do the 'legwork', as he liked to call it, he'd come back later. The younger Holmes made to shut the door, but Mycroft promptly wedged the tip of his umbrella in the gap, and he looked up at him in annoyance.
"I really think it would be worth your while, Sherlock."
"I did inform you yesterday that I wanted to speak with you," Mycroft said with a weary sigh as he sat down in the armchair opposite Sherlock's. The detective had slumped into his own chair, dressing gown spewing over the edge of the seat flamboyantly, and was now focused on stretching out his long limbs into Mycroft's foot space so that his brother had less room to move his feet.
"No, you didn't."
"I did."
"Well, I deleted it, then. Hardly my fault you were being boring," Sherlock said shortly with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Mycroft sighed wearily, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers before leaning forward and handing the files he was holding to Sherlock. Sherlock snatched them after a moment of reluctance and examined them.
The folders were made from expensive card, and with a quick flick through the papers in one Sherlock realised they were from very high up in the government. Which, really, wasn't a surprise, knowing Mycroft.
Sherlock pursed his lips as he scanned the documents inside briefly, reading words such as 'humanoid' and 'energy efficient'. "What is it?" Sherlock asked bluntly, not bothering to read through properly.
Mycroft gave him a withering look, leaning forward to take the files back, but Sherlock held them out of his reach. Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh and sat back in his chair. "Research labs from all over have been working on this project for a while now," Mycroft said slowly, as if thinking through each individual word.
"They have created an artificially intelligent operating system, or an A.I.O.S. for short," Mycroft went on. "It's a system that can be wired into a building to control things like security and heating, but one scientist had a particular breakthrough and has invented a software to give the A.I.O.S. a personality, of sorts, so that it's more appealing to retail customers."
Sherlock frowned. "If it's for the public, why are the government, namely you, looking into it?" He asked, flicking through the folders with mild interest.
Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin smile. "The system, if they do create more than one, would also be used to spy on certain groups, even possibly dispose of them, but," he looked away, picking some lint off of hs trousers, "you don't need to know about that."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and leant forward to look his brother in the eye. "If I don't need to know about that, why are you telling me?" He asked sceptically. Mycroft must want something from him, or he wouldn't be here. After all, neither were exactly the sentimental type. Mycroft never visited because he was 'just popping by'.
"Ah," Mycroft said with a nod. "I'm telling you because I want you to test the first prototype. You fit the criteria for the main audience we're looking at, so I thought you could—"
"Be your guinea pig?" Sherlock finished. He sighed dramatically,leaning back in his chair and making it quite obvious he wasn't interested. He could hardly believe that Mycroft would expect him to agree to such a facile request.
"No, of course not, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I know how much you enjoy… examining things," Mycroft said slowly with a glance to the pictures and notes of the detective's current case stuck to the wall by Sherlock yesterday. "You're the best man I know for the job. Just write down anything you notice about the system that might be faulty, anything you think could be altered. It is only a prototype, after all."
Sherlock pressed his lips together, his hands coming together and resting under his chin. "What's in it for me?" He asked after a moment. Mycroft seemed surprised that he was even considering it.
"I imagine you would get paid for your troubles. And it would only be a trial period- a month, at most," Mycroft assured, smiling tightly.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother before looking down at the folders again, idly flicking through without paying much attention to what he was looking at. The case he had at the moment was really a five barely scraping a six, so it would be preferable to have some other distraction to keep him from suffocating in monotonous boredom. But then another thought occurred to him.
"What do you mean I fit the criteria?" Sherlock asked sharply. "What is the criteria?"
Mycroft sighed heavily. "Sherlock, you're… lazy," Mycroft said, hesitating before the word. "You're irresponsible and are, apparently, only capable of feeding yourself when it suits your mind and not your body… You're insufferable when you're bored and you're fussy about what you want to do to stop being bored… Need I go on?"
Sherlock pursed his lips. He knew it was true, not that he was going to admit it, but he hated being told he was irresponsible. "So, what, this machine is going to mother me until I can look after myself?"
"Think of it as having a flatmate, just without them taking up the physical space," Mycroft said, picking his words carefully.
Sherlock scoffed. "What makes you think I want a flatmate?" He said.
Mycroft simply gave him a pointed look before pulling something out of his pocket and handing it to Sherlock.
"What is it?"
The rectangular object sat nicely in his hand, and was similar to a camera phone in the exterior. The gadget opened out like a card to reveal a screen on the inside, which was dull black - turned off, Sherlock noted. He closed it again, examining the sleek design of the of the metal and running his thumb over the camera on the front.
"It allows the A.I.O.S. to be portable," Mycroft said. "That can connect back to the main hub from six miles away." Sherlock nodded, still turning the device over in his hand. "I ought to remind you that that hand-held alone is worth over a quarter of a million pounds, so do be careful," Mycroft quipped.
Sherlock shot him a glare, but stilled the device in his hand. The elder Holmes gave a forced smile. "Why don't you think on it?" He said after a moment, standing up and straightening out his jacket.
Sherlock watched Mycroft head to the door, thinking about the past quarter of an hour carefully. He looked back down at the device in his hand and considered the fact that he'd probably finish this case within a few days, and then what would he do?
"I'll do it."
Mycroft was about to step through the doorway when Sherlock spoke up. He turned around, a small smirk on his lips. He didn't question Sherlock's decision, instead, "Excellent. I'll send a team over to install it right away." He paused. "You might want to go out for a few hours; I imagine you'll just get in the way."
Sherlock was aware Mycroft would probably be watching the front of the flat to see when he left so that he could send his men in. So naturally, Sherlock stayed in the flat for another two hours, taking his time about showering and getting ready, then revising the case notes that he'd stuck on the wall.
In fact, he would have stayed in longer if Lestrade hadn't texted him about the exact case he had displayed on his wall in various diagrams, notes, and photographs.
Another one found down in Kent. We need you at Scotland Yard ASAP.
When Sherlock left the flat minutes later, having donned coat and scarf, he noticed a black van parked just at the end of the adjacent street. He smirked, knowing that it was highly probable that this was Mycroft's team in waiting, trying to be discreet. He was tempted to wave at the van just to rub in the fact that he'd seen them, but decided against it and carried on walking until he hailed the cab trundling down from the main road.
"What's their name? How much did they invest?" was Sherlock's greeting to Lestrade as he entered his office twenty minutes later. The DI looked as if he hadn't been expecting anything else and, with a sigh, Lestrade hauled himself from his desk, grabbing the thick file from on top of it and passing it to Sherlock, who took it from him with a sharp tug. He was started to get fed up of people handing him things.
"Nichole Allen, French investor, found dead in her flat by her husband this morning. We interviewed him; he says that she had gone to bed before him last night admitting that she was feeling a little tired, and when he joined her at around midnight she was definitely still breathing," Lestrade said, watching as Sherlock pulled the woman's profile out of the file and scanned it thoroughly. "Her firm had invested sixty thousand pounds into the business."
"Mm," Sherlock said thoughtfully, flicking through the pages of the file a moment longer. No wounds on the body. It didn't quite match the other murders. There had been two before this one.
The first (Michael Richardson) had been reported in immediately by a witness who said they'd seen, with their own eyes, him being shot in the head on his way home. The second (Peter Scant) had been found dead in his jacuzzi by his maid, with bruises to the collarbone and shoulders. And now this one. "People are killing off the investors in this business one by one," Lestrade said as Sherlock placed the file back down on the desk.
"Could be the same person each time," Sherlock corrected. They seemed to know what they were doing, whether 'they' were an individual or a group. Lestrade didn't seem to appreciate this suggestion as much as Sherlock thought he should.
"Yeah, but-" he insisted, "- why, though? What are they gaining from killing off people who have already invested their money in the business?"
Said business was that of one Catherine Hughes, a newly blooming entrepreneur who, two months ago, had attracted exactly nine millionaire philanthropists from around the world to invest in her rather small trade of making and selling a new brand of designer clothes in East London, known simply as 'C.H.'. It had seemed suspicious from the start, of course, but Sherlock had only been called in when Michael Richardson had been murdered.
"It's a mistake to theorise without all the facts, Lestrade, you know that." He said, and stared at the file in thought. "And anyway, the motive tends to become clearer the deeper one delves into a case. I need blood samples. And... I need the recording of your interview with the husband."
The cab ride home was a quiet one, with little traffic; the way Sherlock liked it. Not that he really noticed, since he was too busy thinking about the case. Ten minutes later, he had arrived back at Baker Street, and he paid the cabbie before stepping out onto the pavement. Going up the stairs to the flat, he could already feel something was different.
He hit the landing and paused, peering into the living room. The lights were turned off (hadn't he left the kitchen light on?) and the twilight outside cast shadows across the space in such a way that it left the impression on Sherlock that he wasn't quite alone.
Cautiously, he made his way into the living room, reaching to turn the light on.
They turned on before his hand found the switch.
Frowning, and somewhat alarmed, Sherlock looked around, and then—
"Hello, Mr. Holmes, and welcome to the A.I.O.S.."