The bullpen was even louder than usual on this particular Thursday, as the CBI offices were expecting a special guest. A string of vicious serial murders had left the Serious Crimes Unit at a standstill, the lack of available evidence enough to stump even the talents of Patrick Jane. They'd been about to give up hope and reluctantly hand the case over to the FBI when Abreu, a transfer from NYPD, had come to Lisbon with a surprising proposition.
"There's this guy, a consultant we used back home. I worked with him a couple times on some tough cases. And he's good, boss. As good as Jane, maybe better. I think maybe a fresh set of eyes might help out on this one. I've got his number if you want to give it a go."
So she had.
Jane was certainly less than pleased, but there was little he could do about the decision with the express permission of Director Bertram at its back. The call was rushed through the bureaucratic hoops and the reply came in immediately: "Will be there in 24 hrs. Have case files prepared."
So here they were, still milling about the office at ten o' clock at night, the requisite files spread out on the conference table in preparation for his arrival. Tensions were high and tempers short, and it only ramped up the breathless atmosphere when Jane finally came down from his attic hideout. For him to show his face meant that they had finally arrived.
The ding of the elevator echoed through the sudden silence. The two people who stepped out were a strange contrast to the strictly professional attire of the workplace. The woman was petite and effortlessly chic while the man was all wiry muscle in a strange mix of casual and formal wear. As they approached Lisbon and Jane separated themselves from the group and stepped forward to meet them.
"Hello," the man said, extending his hand to Lisbon with a slight bow. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."
"Well," Jane muttered as if simply thinking out loud, "at least we know daddy's got money."
Sherlock's answering smile was tight and his eyes were hard. "Mr. Jane, I presume? You know, in most systems of stratification old money is considered superior to new money. Though I suppose with your upbringing you wouldn't know that."
The grin stretching across Jane's face was equally false and possibly even more dangerous. "Oh, I'm sure there's something to be said for 'my upbringing.' If nothing else I grew out of my rebellious phase before twenty-five." He looked pointedly at the bare veins in Sherlock's forearms.
Sherlock crossed his arms uncomfortably. "Rather brutal, I see. I'd expect more tact of such an experienced con man. Or did your wife take that with her?"
Jane's cheerful mask dropped for a fraction of a second, but as quick as it disappeared it was back again. "Let's not pretend I'm the only one here who's lost love. Don't worry, you might get past blaming yourself in twenty years or so."
As Sherlock opened his mouth to speak his partner stepped in front of him to address Lisbon.
"Joan Watson. I brought coffee," she said loudly, raising the two cups she held in her hands.
"Thank god," Lisbon muttered, taking one of them.
"I drink tea, sorry," Jane said with a smile that was somehow a sneer. Sherlock's eyes snapped to him and then away.
"The case files are over here if you want to get started," Lisbon said, and Sherlock swept past her to begin perusing them. Jane followed, the two of them immediately beginning to argue loudly over the evidence and potential theories.
"This is going to be a disaster," Joan said quietly, coming to stand next to Lisbon.
"I'm regretting it already," Lisbon replied under her breath.
