Because being a millionaire is only fun and games until someone gets hurt.
NOTE: Part 5 of the "Mistaken Identities" series, and immediately follows "Free Will", and therefore contains spoilers.
As always, I don't own any of the characters but my original ones. I just like to play in the BBC Sherlock universe.
Takes place immediately after the events of "Free Will."
It was late afternoon when John and Sherlock left Ian's house.
News of Ian Littleston's death had obviously already leaked, as the press was already gathered on the sidewalk. Sherlock only hoped that they hadn't yet heard who the heir to the estate was.
Looking through the door, he saw Mycroft's car pull up and he looked at John. "Ready?"
John pulled his shoulders back and lifted his chin in a nod, and the butler opened the door. Sherlock went first, clearing the way for John. Not surprisingly, he was recognized right away. Shouts came from all sides. "Mr. Holmes, what can you tell us?" "Is it true that Andrew Littleston kidnapped you?" "Why are you here? Is this death suspicious?"
He ignored all of them, and plowed through the crowd on his way to the car, Mycroft's driver already standing with the door open. John clambered in behind him, exhaling loudly as the door closed behind them. "I gather they haven't heard yet," he said.
"Mycroft said something about a press release tomorrow morning."
John nodded, eyes sad. "He's really been very helpful. However is the British government managing without him?"
Sherlock huffed. "You don't think the death of Ian Littleston counts as something the British government is concerned about? Keeping the financial markets stable is fairly important, I'm told."
John just shook his head. "Now that's not something I thought I'd ever be connected to."
"Don't worry. The markets don't know you're involved … yet"
"Thank God. We've got a few hours then. Maybe we should stop at the grocery and stockpile some items for the siege ahead?"
#
The next few days were a nightmare, and John was forever grateful that they were a blurry nightmare.
First, there was losing the father he had only just discovered. He'd only spent a few hours with Ian, but he had liked the man and regretted they'd never have a chance to know each other. In any normal life, that would be a major event right there, but in his?
Well, there was the money. Ian had been so clever, so tricky in his generosity. John had outright told him he didn't want to be saddled with a fortune, so Ian had worked around that. He'd set up a trust fund that would pay John "rent money" every month—except the sum would be enough to buy 221B Baker Street outright, or to rent a flat in the most expensive neighborhood in London. Or so John imagined. He just knew it was far more than he could ever spend.
In addition, Ian had—in the name of keeping a "roof overhead"—left him two houses. John had no idea what to do with those, either. But how could he complain? Ian had been generous, and had still put most of his fortune into charity. As long as John kept a good money manager (he was sure Mycroft could recommend someone), he could simply go about his life as usual.
Except—none of this was 'normal," anymore.
Not that his life had ever been what you'd call normal, other than his nice, ordinary, middle-class childhood. When he thought about it, he wasn't even sure he knew what normal was, but he was sure that running around London chasing criminals with Sherlock Holmes was not it.
Barricaded in their flat, ignoring the hordes of reporters outside, John made tea. (He made lots of tea.) He'd called the surgery before the media frenzy to say he wouldn't be in for a few days, and obviously taking a case right now would be impossible.
All he wanted was for his life to get back to what passed for normal. Or familiar, at least.
He walked back into the sitting room and set a cup of tea next to Sherlock, sprawled on the couch. "We really need to look into getting an exit out the back one of these days."
"Fire escape?" Sherlock didn't bother to open his eyes.
"I meant a secret exit. A tunnel, maybe?" John gave Sherlock a sharp look. "I'd think you'd be the one going stir-crazy, not me."
"You're never satisfied, are you?" Sherlock swung his feet to the floor and picked up his tea cup with one fluid movement. "Did you want me shooting the walls?"
"No. God, no," John said in a hurry. "But I wouldn't mind getting out of here without having to face … them. What I wouldn't give for a nice, simple crime scene."
Across the room, Sherlock's lips twitched. "To think I lived to see the day John Watson would look forward to a murder."
John smiled back at him. "I didn't say murder, Sherlock. Just a nice little crime scene. Something normal." He huffed a laugh. "As if that's normal. When did my life get so weird?"
Sherlock stood and looked out the window, sipping his tea. "It looks like we've got international press out there, now."
"Christ, really?" John went and looked also. "We'd better hope there's not a fire, because with all those people on the sidewalk, the flat will burn before they can get the fire brigade here."
"You're right, of course." Mycroft's voice came from the doorway. "We'll have the police clear some room."
"Mycroft? How on earth did you get in here?" John asked, stunned.
"Did Sherlock not tell you about the secret tunnel, John?" Mycroft gave his lazy, polite smile. "You do know you aren't trapped in here, either of you?"
Sherlock shrugged. "The press is boring. You can't chase them, you can't punch them, they just lie in wait. I had enough of them last year. They're boring now."
"Yes, well, John put up with them longer than you did while you were 'dead,' Sherlock, and I don't hear him complaining."
"I was just about to whittle my way out of 221C with a spoon, Mycroft," John told him bluntly, "So if you've got a way out of here without the press seeing, I'm all for it."
Mycroft smiled. "It may not be possible without the press noticing, but getting you both out of here is necessary."
"At least it's not another press conference," groaned John.
The day the news broke, Mycroft had insisted. Or, to be clear, Julia, the public relations employee Mycroft dispatched to their flat had insisted. She had told them they wanted to stay in charge of the story, and the only way to do that was to be the ones giving out the information. She had bullied John into his suit (he refused to buy a new one), and put him in front of a ravenous press room.
To be fair, she had done most of the speaking herself. She had talked about Ian's commitment to helping others and how he had established two major charities before his death. She explained that, yes, his younger son's own actions in (allegedly) kidnapping Harriet Watson and Sherlock Holmes had had a direct effect on his decision. Ian Littleston, she said, expected people to be responsible for their own actions, and had long since informed his heirs that they could expect nothing if they didn't live up to his standards. But, yes, Andrew Littleston still retained his generous trust fund.
John had been impressed. He had watched enough of Greg's press conferences to know how difficult it can be to keep the media hounds on track. He and Sherlock had been standing to the side, with Sherlock being his usual tall, arrogant self that just dared the members of the press to imply that being kidnapped had been anything other than his own idea.
They hadn't realized at first that John was there in any capacity other than Sherlock's sidekick.
When Julia had announced Ian's bequest to his long-lost son, the room had exploded. Not literally. (John would almost have preferred it had been literal.) He had had all he could do not to cut and run when every single face and camera lens in the place had turned to look at him.
He gave Julia full credit for her next piece of showmanship, as well. She had projected the photo of him and Ian from his graduation for the room to see. It not only gave the impression that they'd known each other all along, but it put the family resemblance right there for all to see.
Naturally, there had been questions about why Andy had kidnapped Harry and Sherlock, but she skimmed past them, saying she could not comment on an ongoing investigation. Instead, she had turned the reporters' attention to the two charities, introducing the chairmen who would be running them.
It had been a masterful production, and John told her so. He didn't generally have the patience for this kind of event (more than Sherlock, though), but he knew a well-played hand when he saw one.
That had been the last time they'd been out of the flat, though. By the time they returned after the press conference, the vultures were already hovering outside the door.
The first thing John did once he was inside was to apologize to Mrs. Hudson for the inconvenience.
But now, with Mycroft offering a chance to get out, John would almost be happy to endure another press conference. But that wasn't to be today.
Today was Ian's funeral.
#