The rent for 221C Baker Street had been paid for two months, but there hadn't been a sign of the tenant as of yet. Mrs. Hudson chose not to worry: With the discount on 221B she welcomed any money. The flat was far from comfortable, so somewhere in the back of her mind she was happy the tenant obviously had another place to stay. She hoped it was somewhere rather more cosy. When she called, inquiring whether the tenant had perhaps met a girl and moved in, so love struck that he had forgotten to cancel the direct debit, he had assured her he would be moving in soon. Mrs. Hudson hung up quickly and made her way down. The least she could do for the poor single fellow was make the place less dreary.
A man moved into the flat only two days later. He was dressed richly, yet casually. He was tall and ginger-ish blonde hair topped his head, his face rough and his body muscled. An ex-army man? Mrs. Hudson wondered, distantly she was pleased because he would be someone for John to talk to.
John needed someone who knew about the army life and perhaps, if she happened to be nearby, she could hear some heroic stories she could share with Mrs. Turner later. Some stories that would make her huff in jealousy, because her 'Married Ones' were a lawyer and a surgeon, thank-you-very-much, and obviously better than a man with a profession that doesn't exist and an out-of-work, invalided army-doctor. It wouldn't be eavesdropping, she wouldn't stoop so low. Oh no, it would just happen to be nearby. Always something to clean at 221 Baker Street.
The man kept to himself mostly, as did the woman who joined him three days later. She arrived when the official tenant wasn't at home, but Mrs. Hudson let her in anyway. It was cold and rainy and she had introduced herself as his assistant. Suitably impressed, the old landlady wondered why a man with an assistant would ever live in a rundown place like 221C. Must be married and keeping this assistant as a mistress, she thought, grinning delightfully at this juicy gossip. Soon after, however, she remembered her own predicament with her husband and her stomach ached with pity for the poor woman who was the man's wife. She must've thought she had it all: a soldier, big and muscled, with a perfect dress sense. Little did she know.
Mrs. Hudson smiled kindly at the 'assistant' and offered her tea and biscuits, which the woman kindly declined. "Nothing to do with her figure," she added rather hastily, "just not a fan." Her hands twitched by her side, as if they needed something to do, and soon one shot up to play with her hair. Her hair was brown, big, long and curly, extraordinarily kept and cut. Mrs. Hudson suspected she had just come from the hairdresser and was here to impress her lover.
She asks whether she can get into the flat and Mrs. Hudson takes pity and lets her. The woman looks so out of place standing in the middle of her living room in her neat suit, her perfectly done hair and face. They seemed rather perfect for each other, so slick.
When the ex-soldier came home later that day, he found the building empty. He signed for a parcel that is delivered for 221B and went up to knock on the door. He heard muffled sounds inside, but no one answered, so he took the parcel downstairs to 221C and placed it on his table. He spotted a large scratch on the surface that wasn't there before he left and lifted his eyebrow in annoyance. The table wasn't his most prized possession, but this meant someone had been inside when he wasn't there. He looked around the flat to see if anything else was out of order and only observed the still-packed boxes stacked against the wall. He hadn't really unpacked, he didn't really mean to. He wasn't going to accept having to stay here for long.
A stern knock on the door broke him away from his contemplations. He rushed to the door, but opened it cautiously. His training would never leave him vulnerable.
On the other side of the door stood a man, not short nor long, with blonde hair. He was wearing a jumper that failed to conceal his slight belly, nor his big arms. Obviously old muscles.
"Hi, I'm John Watson," he introduced himself rather formally, "I live in 221B. They said there's a parcel here for me."
The resident turned around, very obviously blocking the door with his entire body mass. The parcel, however, was no longer there. He swore softly, but when he turned around his face was innocent and cheerful. It was a look rather unfitting for his face and it sent a shiver down John's spine.
"I signed one earlier today, indeed. I seem to have misplaces it in the chaos of my moving. Do come in, I'll look around for it," the man answered, opening the door invitingly. John stepped in without a second doubt and looked around the room with obvious distain.
"I'm Mike," the man introduced himself carefully. He didn't know whether John had picked up any of his flatmate's deduction skills. "Are you the John Watson from the blog? I read it religiously," the man smiled pleasantly.
"Oh," John reacted, unsure how to respond.
"Oh no! That's not the reason I moved here," the man hurried to add, "I am ex-army myself, you see. I really enjoy it."
John looked flusters and it was all rather endearing.
Now or never, the man thought. "My assistant must've taken the package away earlier today. She hates the clutter."
John looked suitably impressed and studied the man more carefully. His expensive clothing and tediously styled hair did not go unnoticed. John's expression was appreciative. All of this was going to be so much easier, the tenant of 221C realised.
In a pleasant silence, John continued studying the room. He noticed the scratching on the table and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
The man smiled softly, mostly to himself, "I got it off the street I am afraid, people don't keep their furniture the way they used to."
John looked confused, this man had an assistant and was sporting a suit that looked like it cost a month's wage. Why would he have furniture from the street? Why would he be living in 221C, a flat that was only just habitable.
"I am not a rich man," the new tenant emphasised and he smiled once again. He could almost see John's half-baked attempts at deduction. If he was this easy to impress and confuse, this wasn't even a challenge.
"Well, I'll come back for the parcel," John said and he hurried out of the apartment. Probably to ask his flatmate to study his story and deduce it for him. That should certainly distract the tenant of 221B for a few hours. Perfect.
The man paused by the door, listening to his new neighbour making his way up the stairs slowly. Perhaps his leg wasn't fully 'healed' yet, he mused to himself. When he heard the door to 221B open en close with a soft creak, he turned out swiftly and made his way to one of the two tiny bedrooms.
His assistant was sat on the bare floor, cross-legged and with a smile on her face. Slowly, the man looked her up and down, an appreciative smirk shaping his own mouth. "I knew I would find you here."
"I did say I would be around," the woman answers without hesitation. "Look what we got!" she added with an amused skip in her voice. She slowly turned her arm so the ex-army officer could see the other side. There resided a huge, hairy spider he recognised instantly as a Funnel Web spider. It had obviously come out of the open package that was not sat next to his assistant's knee. With he hiss, he backed out of the room.
He hated spiders.
It seemed his new upstairs neighbours knew him better than he thought. He wouldn't have guessed that Sherlock would know before they'd even met. He also wasn't stupid enough to think of this as a mere coincidence. They must have already found out the plot. Or at least be aware of his presence. That John character had been better at acting than the man ever assumed was possible.
He caught his breath and moved back into the room, to see his assistant peering up at him with a wistful look on her face.
"It seems they have already found you out, sir."
"It seems they have," he answered. "Please put that back in the box."
She picked up the box to do so.
"And give it back to the occupants of 221B," he bit out, "add a roll of yellow tape. The stuff we took from the police. They'll understand."
He retreated to his own room, trusting his assistant to do her work.
In his own room, he dragged a large locked box from underneath his bed. When he'd moved in, this was the only item he had actually bothered to move. He might've unpacked today, but this latest development had stopped him. With Sherlock knowing of his presence, he was in trouble. He opened the large box and inside it found a familiar light brown case and a telephone. He turned on the phone and dialled the only number stored in the phone.
It was answered on the first ring. "Yes?"
The man absentmindedly ran his hand along the edges of the case, cherishing the feel of the soft leather as he listened to the voice on the other end. He nodded softly.
"I can bring the case right now, if you want," he said, but the voice on the other end scolded him immediately for the suggestion.
"I've been here ages..," the man tried. He really just wanted to leave again.
"It's hardly been a few days," the voice answered, distinctly annoyed. The man sighed and decided not to push it, it was not wise to engage in an argument with this man. Especially not over the phone, with all the possible misunderstandings multiplied. He could have the red light of a sniper trained on you within a minute.
"He knows about me, he sent us that package, Jim."
The voice grumbled.
"Yes, I'll bring him the case. Are you sure he will accept the money?" the man finally said after minutes of careful instructions.
"Yes, Sebastian. Trust me," Jim continued, but the man was momentarily distracted as his assistant joined him in the room. He stopped listening as he remembered just what was in the box. He faintly caught the mention of John. That was the ex-army man he'd met earlier.
"He is above bribes," he voiced his doubt immediately, without second thought. This was a train army professional, like himself. Soldiers didn't do bribes, they did bravery.
"But Sherlock won't be," Jim said and he broke the connection. The man looked down at his phone for a few seconds and hurls the phone back into its box with more force than strictly necessary.
"It's a go, then."
He picked up the case, locked the box and followed his assistant out into the hallway, carefully locking the door behind him. This would be the last time he'd see the place. Only days after moving in, with boxes full of stuff that weren't even his. In the back of his mind he regretted leaving Mrs. Hudson so soon, she seemed like a nice lady and made the best tea he had had in ages. Jim wasn't any good at making tea, if he bothered with it at all.
He studied his assistant's back again and his gaze lingered appreciatively on her bum. The woman stopped walking and turned around, her eyes glowing with something indescribable.
"When you're quite done, sir," she hissed, but her face was aglow with a smile.
The man still wasn't sure about working with Mr. Holmes's right hand woman, but Jim had assured him several times it was perfectly safe. He had enough information on Anthea to ensure that everyone involved stayed in line and Sebastian trusted him on this. She looked like a woman with more than one secret. As Mr. Holmes's right hand, she would know enough state secrets to make the British government collapse in minutes. A woman like that must've had enough personal secrets to make a porn star blush, he figured.
Despite his doubts, he did certainly not mind working with the gorgeous woman. He stepped forward slightly to reach out to her face and she let him. She obviously didn't mind the attention, even if her shoulders tensed slightly. It couldn't really be called an affair, but he wouldn't mind. He could only imagine Jim's snide remarks and jealous glances if only he saw the two eyeing each other up. Not that Jim had anything to worry about; Seb had taught him that trick with the underwear and would not let him forget any time soon.
Anthea stepped back and reminded him of the task at hand by waving a vague hand gesture at the case in Sebastian's hand, who instantly handed her the thing and reminded her to deliver it on the doorstep of 221B. She nodded and made her way up the steps to the apartment, with the case in one hand and the boxed spider and tape in the other.
The ex-soldier rushed out of 221, throwing a quick greeting at Mrs. Hudson, who giggled in response, muttering something about Sherlock. Sebastian pulled another phone out of his pocket and dialled Mycroft Holmes's number as he pulled the door closed behind him. He would surely have recognised Anthea's breathing if she was in the same room.
He answered quickly, his tone clipped and angry. He is displeased at being used in Jim's scheme, but far too attached to his pet DI to disobey now. Sebastian fondly remembered kidnapping the man a few days earlier. His calm pleas and the way he followed every kidnap protocol he had ever been taught had annoyed Sebastian quickly. The DI had regretted his calm behaviour as Sebastian had kicked into his knee, crumbling his kneecap.
Sebastian laughed at the memory of the DI's surprised yell of anguish and told Mycroft he shouldn't overestimate himself, should think of himself more as a plaything than a piece of Jim's puzzle. He continued and relayed Jim's orders in barking tones as he clambered into an unmarked, black car.
As he pulled the door closed behind him, the upstairs flat of 221 Baker Street exploded.
Sebastian winced and marvelled about the many feelings going through him a second later. Not a trace of panic, he had worked with explosives many times before and had calculated this situation to minute details. He was annoyed at Mycroft's disrespecting behaviour, his demands of 'What do you think you're doing?', he knew better than to piss the ex-soldier off. He realised quickly afterwards that the man would be able to see his response on CCTV and hid his annoyance. Sebastian was smiling softly at the way Mycroft's voice had shot up an octave in obvious panic. Had he realised his little assistant had been at the epicentre of the blast?
On that thought his smile dropped immediately, he remembered Anthea, who was now splattered across the 17 steps up to 221B. Then he realised how pleased Jim would be that she had been disposed off and his heart fluttered. Not only had the man managed to get rid of his rival for Sebastian's heart, he had also pissed of the British government significantly. He would be pleased with Sebastian for holding out and after a few days apart, the sex would be amazing without a doubt. He hung up the phone before Mycroft could decipher his new state of arousal.
As the car drove off, his phone went off again and he grimaced, hoping Jim hadn't changed his mind and suddenly blame him for the death of the valuable woman.
[Withheld]: What happened at 221B Baker Street, I must've blacked out? Meet me.
A poor imitation of an old case, Sebastian realised and he huffed in annoyance. Apparently, he was not even worth some new material.
Sherlock would pay for that.