A/N This is Chapter one of two - you might view this one as an opening, with real action in second one. Rating is a bit high because of a few cuss words, especially in the second part.
Enjoy! And please, whether you like it or not, please review, there is nothing better than even two or three words of opinion!
PART 1
"This is ridiculous!" was the first thing John heard from the flat while climbed up the stairs, three TESCO bags full of food (and milk!) in each hand. John barely stopped himself from groaning in frustration; not 'stupid' or 'retarded', but 'ridiculous'. This could mean only one thing – Mycroft came over with a case they can't refuse (John was positive that if they did, Mycroft would BUY them a horse, and decapitate it just to prove his point).
"Now, Sherlock, it is a matter of global importance" said Mycroft in his 'I'm dealing with a overgrown child here, yes, you, don't look over your shoulder stupid' voice. John, curious, pressed his ear to the door to hear everything better. Knowing what is going on is one thing; revealing himself to Mycroft was, on the other hand, something he would rather skip if possible.
"The matter is so vital to our geopolitics, that I should probably have a person, who by any chance wanted to eavesdrop by the door, killed in very messy and non – humanitarian way" continued Mycroft and John almost dropped the bags. He was not a doctor and soldier for nothing, however, he could deal with three crises before breakfast and even have some free time left to watch TV. He waited exactly two minutes, before taking deep breath and opening the door.
"No worries, I can manage, Sherlock, you don't have to stand up, really… Mycroft, what a nice SURPRISE!" he managed to add a tingle of delight in his voice, but the skeptical looks, eerily similar, from both brothers stopped him from saying anything else except small "Hi".
"As I was saying, Sherlock, it should be simple enough for you. All you have to do is dress in the tuxedo I shall bring you, go on the party in Polish Embassy, have a drink or two and find the murderer before he can murder anyone." Said Mycroft, stressing every other word with o swing of his umbrella, held as if it was a final argument in any case (or, what more probable, as if there was a magic wand hidden inside and older Holmes was practicing 'imperio'). Sherlock, holding en garde his violin bow, made a 'pfft' noise, and added, as if explaining himself, "Boring".
"Wait, is it murderer if he hasn't murdered anyone yet?" wondered aloud John, what was a more sophisticated equivalent for "What the hell is going on?"
"My sources have given me the information that a murder will take place at the party in Polish embassy" explained Mycroft pleasantly, smiling like Cheshire Cat after botox treatment. Both Holmses knew that if John was convinced a case was worth taking, Sherlock would, albeit unhappily, take it.
"Who will be murdered?"
"We don't know"
"Oh. And who could be a murderer?"
"Well, everyone that will be in the embassy at the time, no saying if it will be another guest, someone from the staff or hired gun…"
"I strongly suspect that your source is a fortune cookie" mocked Sherlock. " 'Beware of murderers in Polish embassy', indeed."
Mycroft ignored him pointedly, and turned to face John, who was still standing in the kitchen.
"Your marksmanship, Doctor, can be invaluable on this case…"
"WHAT? I am not bloody going to any party in any embassy!" shrieked John in horror, trying to suppress his memories from the only ball he attended while being in the army. Oh, those three chandeliers he shattered by accident were nothing, also spilling vine on a dress of general's wife could be forgiven, as well as tripping and falling on a cellist. But pulling the tablecloths off from all four tables at once, throwing everything on the floor… that was a little too much for everybody. Especially because he was absolutely sober, and he did that completely accidentally. The joke could have been understood by his army colleagues… but this was beyond everything they ever encountered. No, John did not want to go through this again, thank you very much.
"Doctor, I will say that once" said Myrcoft, pointing his damned umbrella at smaller man, who prepared himself for avada kedavra. "Close your eyes and think of England! Your country needs you. Besides… "he added after a minute of thought "there will be no tablecloths there"
"Oh" was the only thing that came out of John's mouth, and it was a condensated and shortened version of his entire speech about serving his country, his war wounds and not understanding what Mycroft meant by those tablecloths! Sherlock 'tsk'ed in the background.
"But there will be cellist and some general's wives, regardless… All right, Mycroft, we'll do it, if you stop this ongoing invigilation in our flat"
"What invigilation?" asked innocently Mycroft, trying his best not to smile to one of hidden cameras. "Alas, good. I will get rid of those people NOT following you, of course. But I've got a surprise for you. On this case you'll have backup…"
"No. N.O. Mycroft, if you do this, we're out, we're more out than Australia!" shrieked, yes, shrieked, Sherlock, waving furiously with his violin bow around. 'Not THEM! They're the worst agents EVER"
"No, they are not!" huffed Mycroft his pride visibly hurt with insinuation that his workers were anything but best. "They just have… attention deficit. And issues. Many issues. Agents Caph and Cujam!"
There was some hustle behind the door, painful yelp, sound of something heavy falling down the stairs, shriek of surprise from Mrs Hudson, and eventually door opened up a little.
"Sorry, this was meant to be our dramatic entrance, but from all the drama and awsomess Cujam just fell down the stairs… Ah, here he is. Can we do that again? Just, Boss, please say our names again and we'll enter in friggin' badass way, okay?" said Caph, plumpy blonde with hair in messy bun.
This was going to be such a disaster, thought John while Mycroft made (very loudly) sure that his minions will not try anything so badass in near future. Sherlock probably thought something similar, as he started playing funeral march on his violin.
The debriefing, which was called by Mycrof 'light lunch', was short and straight to the point. Mycroft supplied each of them with thick folder of loose sheets, some showing schematics of the embassy, some being the personal files of some of the most important guests and hosts. Sherlock promptly opened it, shuffled through, and with a frequently practiced and graceful movement of wrist send it flying into nearest bin. He sat on a chair, his legs drawn up and chin resting on his knees; his entire posture was indicating major sulk, what was starting to aggravate John more and more. Not only he had to dress up, go to some stupid party he'll crash and burn, but also he had to deal with moping Sherlock… And moping Sherlock was an overgrown 5 year old with moodswings and a likening for drama.
Mycroft was in a full blown attack of word diarrhea, for seventeenth time (John actually counted) explaining the importance of the case and importance of discretion. Doctor learned to tune out Holmes brothers once they got into speech frenzy, but it didn't mean he wasn't bored with pretending he actually cared what Mycroft said.
He shuffled through the papers, albeit he didn't even try to absorb those facts presented. There were no general's wives' files, so it wouldn't help him much, would it. On his left, both agents, seated at another table as if to show their lower status, were writing down some notes … John tilted back on a chair to get better view. No, not taking notes – they were drawing quite nice caricatures of Mycroft, umbrella and all. And that characteristic smirk… Kids had talent, he had to admit.
"So, now you know what to do. And please, try not to cause international incident… No Sherlock, it is not a challenge" said with definitive warning in his calm as usual voice, Mycroft, standing up suddenly. John felt a tingle of worry, for he had no illusions that Sherlock was listening, as he was lost to the world right now, sulking and thinking of the ways to destroy their kitchen; he didn't hear a thing Mycroft said, preoccupied with art, what led him to a terrifying conclusion, that no one really knew what they were meant to be doing and why.
He stood up, wondering if asking 'wut?' will be damaging to his ego, but before he had time to decide, Anthea-Who-Was-Not-Anthea appeared, carrying two tuxedos wrapped neatly in foil in one hand, and two strange red uniforms with white lapels.
"That's what you will wear, try not to ruin it. Mr. Holmes, that is not a challenge." From the disappointed grunt that Sherlock made, John deduced that he had at least seven highly intelligent plans how to ruin his tux in a very anti-Mycroft way.
"And we're going to work in a kitchen?" this words, full of distaste and surprise, left previously tightly sealed mouth of Cujam, who was wondering what else could go wrong today. He hated kitchens, he hated working in a kitchen, and he hated that cheerful voice of Caph, who exclaimed suddenly:
"Cool, I always wanted to be a cook!"
"No, you didn't" piped in Cujam, who reminded himself that he was talking to overgrown child with strange fascination with porn (or fan fiction, as she always clarified).
"Okay, I didn't" admitted she cheerfully. "But my sister did."
"You don't have a sister"
"But if I had, she would want to be a cook! Ha, in your FACE"
"This is going to be a looong evening" muttered Sherlock, as he and John made their way, tuxedos in their hands, to dress themselves up while two (still bickering) agents were instructed by Anthea. John had to agree.
Polish embassy turned out to be small building jammed between two high tenement houses, surrounded by subtly posh cars and not so subtly richly dressed people, men in tuxes dragging by elbows their spouses (because in those high spheres no one would go on the important ball a lover, John was sure, especially not that bad looking, as the most of those women were). John tugged on the uncomfortably tight collar of his shirt, that he was sure was made of some light metal, bent in right shape. It was impossible for a cloth to be this stiff and … well, smooth. He looked, once again, at the dignified pairs near the embassy entrance. Then it hit him.
'Wait!' he practically shrieked, full of bad feelings like friggin Obi Wan Kenobi, 'I wasn't invited, was I? As whom am I coming in?'
The silence, and the fact that both Holmes brothers (bastards managed to look comfortable in those tuxes) suddenly found that umbrella handle or the car ceiling can be extremely fascinating, told John everything he wanted to know.
'No… No, I'm not coming as Sherlock's date!' he waved his forefinger in a menacing (or so he chose to think) way, sick and tired of all those innuendos. Sherlock puffed in annoyance.
'Don't be ridiculous, you're most certainly not my date' the disgusted way he said it gave John the urge to take offence (what, is he not good enough), but two second later he settled on joyful 'Okay' instead.
'You're coming as Mycroft's date, of course' added Sherlock in this bored tone of his, like it was the most obvious thing of all. 'Honestly, John, he's the one with invitation'
John was, for once, completely speechless. He casted a glance at Mycroft, who beamed at him with his 'I'm superior, but still I try to be nice to you, little worms' smile. Oh, God.
'You two better pray there really is assassination attempt, because if not… I'll kill you both. Slowly. And painfully. And slowly' quiet chuckles from both Holmes brothers only agitated him further. 'Okay, don't believe me, your constitutional right. But I was an army surgeon… And a bloody good one, so it won't be very hard for me to keep you alive while cutting out your livers without anesthetics.'
'I believe we should be going now' said, seemingly not concerned Mycroft, but John noticed with satisfaction, that he become a little paler. 'We cannot be that late, two minutes are enough.' With a help of very spider-like chauffeur, they had gotten out of the car and headed for the door, where stood small, round man in army uniform covered in medals, his face hidden by extraordinarily big and… well, hairy, moustache. John knew he was being really impolite, but he just couldn't stop looking at those two ferrets glued to the man's face.
'Ah, Mr. Holmes, such a pleasure, such a pleasure!' small man beamed with pride and cheerfulness, catching Mycroft by forearms, and forcing him to bend a little just to kiss him loudly on both cheeks. 'I'd welcome you with bread and salt, but Stefan wants to be more western than traditional, ah, come in, come in… And those lads are…?'
It seemed that the attention span and sight of this man were impaired, decided John a bit offended by the casual 'lad', thrown in his face… and to avoid being kissed, he made a tactical retreat behind Sherlock's back.
'That is Sherlock, my brother, and doctor John Watson, my partner' smiled innocently Mycroft, while maneuvering doctor from his (not very good one, but only available at the time) hiding place. 'Sherlock, John, let me introduce general Jan Rzepicki, a resident of polish embassy.'
John managed dignified 'nice to meet you, general' sulkily holding elbow offered by his (oh Lord) partner, but Sherlock was far more eloquent.
'You are an alcoholic and heavy smoker, with sadomasochistic tendencies. Your wife left you several years ago, because of your romance with male secretary, and your son is homosexual…' he stated, casting self-satisfied glances at Mycroft, who opened his mouth to stop him before thing turned nasty, but general was quicker.
'Why, aren't you a bright lad?' he laughed, patting completely baffled Sherlock on the back. 'Come in, come in, don't let all those ladies wait for you. And If I were you, Mycroft, I'd keep an eye on your boy, such a pretty lad like John will have more than a few admirers' John felt the heat come on his cheeks, when general winked at him. He didn't knew what was worse, that he was considered attractive by a man… or that he felt flattered by it.
'Oh, certainly, Jan, thank you… Well, we won't be blocking the entrance any longer' said Mycroft, and smiled even wider, as did Sherlock. John ignored them both. One general's wife less to care about, that must be a good omen.
When elderly general started chatting with another couple, Mycroft released John and stopped, bendng a little to prevent others from hearing.
'Keep your eyes open, both of you, if anything strange, unusual or worrying comes up, find me immediately. Caph and Cujam will be in the kitchen, my trusted waiter will swap information between us…'
'Er… Mycroft? Does a cancan dace by 70 years old lady counts as something strange, unusual or worrying?' asked John, looking on their left, where eally eldery lady in glittering and horrendously short dress stood on a table waving her legs franticly in the air. Sherlock looked positively ill at the sight, but his brother just ignored interruption.
'… and try not to cause international incident, please. That goes to you, Sherlock. And It's not a challenge'
'Says you…'
Smuggling Sherlock on this party was not his brightest idea, admitted Mycroft to himself, scanning the room in search of his brother while talking to some Arabic attaché who was convinced that everyone is as interested in Jaguars as he is. The situation they all found themselves in was quite delicate – Polish were to be left in the dark about the assassination, as this would complicate further affair between them and Russians, and with upcoming changes in Egypt… The matter had to be dealt with in most discreet way. Besides Mycroft had a been convinced that it was this troublesome man, Moriarty, behind this, so dragging Sherlock in would be the best in case. If you want to catch a thief, you send a thief. To catch a brilliant, unpredictable psychopath… you send Sherlock, simple and easy. Mostly because Morarty will think, how Sherlock would think, and Sherlock would think, what would Moriarty think. So they would be completely lost in thoughts and they wouldn't make any more difficulties for Mycroft. Ah, that would be perfect.
In that moment his overly sensitive to deep voice o his brother ears caught word 'pedophile' said somewhere o his left. He excused himself and in two long (but dignified, of course) strides he reached Sherlock, who was in a middle of his deduction tirade.
'… and your dog, basset, is ill now because you have fed him olives with anchovies that were out of date, and about that adultery…'
'That is more than enough, Sherlock' Mycroft cut in sternly, patting his arm with more force than it was really necessary.
'Great, I was finished, anyway. Goodbye, Mr. Yu, it was nice to meet such… interesting pedophile' sneered Sherlock, leaving with a swirl of his coat. Mycroft blinked. Coat? How, for the love of England, did he manage to smuggle in his coat?
'I am terribly sorry, terribly, I do not know what had gotten in him today. Being a pedophile is not your fault…or rather not really' said Mycroft softly to Chinese ambassador, who still stood unmoving, as if in shock, positively green. Holmes opened his mouth to offer more moral support, when with a corner of his eye he caught Sherlock, gesturing wildly at Czech cultural attaché, who started sobbing quietly.
'Excuse me, I'll be back in a minute…' he managed to get through clenched teeth. 'Mummy will so hear about this, Sherlock, you just wait.' He murmured, pushing through the crowd.
John hated to admit it, but he was quite enjoying himself. Remembering his previous experiences, he kept away from clothed tables, general wives (clothed or not) and orchestra, but as close as possible to young ladies in short and tight dresses. Yes, this evening, he reflected as Mary Morstan, daughter of some Canadian attaché fed him grapes to complete delight of other giggling ladies, could be salvageable.
'Maybe a drink?' asked suddenly male voice on his left. John turned, alarmed, just to see Cujam in perfect waiter's attire, holding a tray with wine glasses.
'What?'
'A drink, sir, maybe you or one the ladies would want a drink' secret agent explained, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. John felt the urge to strange him, has those guys ever heard of something as a plan?
'No, thank you very much' he answered calmly, trying to telepathically show Cujam it really meant You stupid bloody idiot, what the hell are you doing here!. Clearly, his magical skills left much to be desired, as Cujam continued on as happily (or rather indifferently) as before, gracefully passing drinks to giggling ladies, winked at John, and left in two or three swift moves. Good. John went back to having best time of his life with young blondes.
Or rather, he wanted to, if the very meaningful cough from above his head didn't freeze his blood.
'Enjoying yourself, John?' asked Mycroft; for someone who encountered the man for the first time his tone could be neutral, amused, even. But John felt the vibe of anger in there, and had to count to tree before turning not to look like a teenager caught watching porn by his mother.
'Yes, actually, we were having most delightful conversation going on here' well, John was a soldier after all, he could stand his ground. Mycroft smiled at the girls with such a venom, that they fled almost right away, offering lame excuses if any. Before John thought of something to say (and sorted out why actually he felt guilty), Mycroft dragged him behind the column, where they were mostly hidden from the rest of guests. That didn't bid good, did it? Under piercing gaze of older Holmes John was contemplating whether he was brought here to be berated, or to be kissed (and he honestly couldn't decide which was worse).
'You saw agents Cujam and Caph as waiters?' asked Mycroft, coming straight to the point for what John was extremely grateful. 'This was not a part of the plan; find out what is this all about, I have to stop this insane flatmate of yours from causing world war three…'
'Don't let him hear that, he'll take it as a challenge' warned John, and then rethought what Mycroft really said. 'He's your brother, not my flatmate! Oh, ok, he's my flatmate too, but don't you dare to blame ME for his… his craziness!'
'Well, I am not the one who lets him keep body parts in the fridge!' snapped Mycroft, which was so unlike him, that John's jaw dropped. 'That spoils him!'
'What? Spoils him? And who lets him get away with everything? He probably could murder half of bloody London and you'd just sigh and say something about upsetting mummy!'
'Awww… How sweet, lovers' quarrel!' giggled tall, lanky man with goatee, who appeared out of nowhere, or so it seemed. Mycroft instantly mellowed.
'Ah, Mr. Rominiecow, how nice to see you here…' started he, but Russian ambassador cut in instantly.
'Your brother, I presume, tall, dark curly hair, is now talking with Americans. Loudly. And not very diplomatically …'
'Thank you, ambassador, I'll take care of it right away.' Before leaving Mycroft turned to doctor (who sighed and nodded his head, understanding that he didn't exactly came here to entertain young, pretty, blond girls) and gave him a slight peck on a cheek, just to keep up appearances in front of Russian ambassador, who made at this his girly 'awww' sigh again.
'You're extremely nice couple' offered Rominiecow, leading John out of the dark corner, clutching his arm a little too tightly for smaller man's comfort, both psychical and psychological. 'I shall go now, but if you ever want to talk about this kind of relationship… You can always knock to the door of Russian embassy.'
'I think I'll pass' muttered John as a goodbye, what didn't save him from a slap on his ass from winking Rominiecow. This evening was a disaster, and with every minute cutting out Holmesian livers sounded better and better…
If John thought that catching one of the agents would be easy in the crowd that occupied the embassy, he was very, very wrong. Thirty minutes, two bizarre conversations about Thai Internet and one about implications of wool prices in Columbia later he was no closer to finding Caph and Cujam than to finding cure for common cold.
He desperately looked around.
'You're lost, doctor?' said a deep voice above his left arm, causing him to drop the glass of vine he took from one of the waiters who were not agents. John turned around, only to find himself face to face with endlessly amused Sherlock.
'Having fun, John? Because I just discovered why Mycroft enjoys those social events!' Sherlock was smiling as if there was at least a dozen dead bodies scattered on the floor, not about seventy living ones in fairly good shape. 'Can you believe that Brazilian ambassador is a serial killer? It's all so exciting! And this brunette, wife of polish minister is in fact…'
'Sherlock' interrupted John swiftly, not really wanting to know most personal details, at least not now. 'Have you seen Caph and/or Cujam? I can't find them anywhere, and…'
'Oh, this is beautiful, look at this blonde in red dress…' muttered Sherlock, and John wondered, not for the first time, why no one had younger Holmes diagnosed with ADHD. But, of course, he looked obediently in pointed direction.
'Jeanie Bessette' supplied John, adding unhelpfully 'good aim at throwing grapes.'
'… She's got a gun hidden under that short dress of hers!' giggled Sherlock, behaving suspiciously as if he was drunk. John sniffed, just to be sure that his friend (who was about to become murdered, oh, screw the liver and slow death, John wanted to do it NOW) really wasn't, and then, it hit him.
'How the hell do you know what she has under her dress?'
'How do you know she's good at throwing grapes?' Sherlock could make even this question sound like an insult, so John, folding his hands defensively, retorted quite brilliantly, if someone asked him.
'It was an experiment. I did it for science!'
'So did I' answered Sherlock, but before John had a chance to ask what the hell did he mean (and why was he cheating on his work!), he started pushing through the crowd, disappearing among the well dress people. 'I've got to go, there is Mycroft on my trail!'
'I'm really sorry for everything he… Ah, It's you, John' Mycroft was actually panting. 'Good. What did you find?'
'Sherlock, two guys groping my ass and three girls that wanted…' one look at Mycroft's face confirmed his nagging suspicions that maybe small talk about kinky intercourses were not welcomed, not very warmly, at least. 'But no sign of Caph and Cujam… When I saw him before he seemed quite happy, so I don't…'
'Psst! Boss!' The tray appeared exactly on John's eye level, and after throughout examination it became clear that there was Cujam attached on the other end. 'We're in shit! Caph was kidnapped!'
The room that Mycroft had secretly, of course, gotten access appeared to be woman's bedroom, with king-sized bed, enormous wardrobe, and several mirrors hanging in strategic points. They were sitting reluctantly on pink puffs scattered around on the floor, trying not to look as uncomfortable, as they felt. Cujam, still red from either excitement or anger, was panting slightly, shaking his head very twenty seconds and muttering something to himself.
Sherlock and Mycroft, on the other hand, were sitting deadly still.
'Okay, so Caph saw, just like Sherlock, that Jeanie had a gun. She started following her, and you lost her from your sight, right?' John tried to make some sense from the scraps of sentences, that left agents mouth; moreover, Sherlock was just dragged upstairs by his furious brother, and didn't hear it at all.
' Yeah, and then I went down to the kitchen… You've got to go near the restrooms, there, and here I saw Caph, led on gunpoint by blonde in really short red dress' finished Cujam, with a sigh. 'She was covering it with her handbag, so it wasn't obvious, but, hey, I'm not a secret agent for nothing. They were there for… seven minutes, thirty seconds, and then lady in red came out, without Caph or he gun, and got back to the party.'
Sherlock squinted eyes in concentration, Mycroft started playing with his umbrella, John just waited for them to state the obvious.
'Last cabin, pipes' muttered Sherlock, and Mycroft shook his head.
'Sink, Sherlock, I believe it was sink'
'Sink yourself! Seven minutes would be sufficient…'
'No, they don't want to raise alarm! They…'
'Hello? Are we going to tell Polish ambassador what is going on now?' asked John, waving his hand to wake and shake them up a bit. Three pairs of surprised eyes turned to him, blinking in disbelieve.
'Of course not, don't be stupid John, it cannot get out to public!' Sherlock was agitated, and all former elation just vaporized. He suddenly stood up in one leap got to wardrobe and opened it wide, scanning its contents. From John saw, there were just bunches of dresses, in all kinds and shapes. After a moment, to John's utter surprise, he took out one and analyzed carefully. 'We need to know what is going on in the ladies room' he stated after a while.
'Yes, but our only female agent is inside and probably can't get out… And all of us are, in fact, men' pointed out John, certainly not liking the way Sherlock was examining long, gold dress covered with sequins. And he certainly did not like those calculating looks he was getting from both Holmes brothers. Nor the fact that Cujam was switching his gaze between John and the dress. Not a bit.
'John…' started Sherlock, in this bloody voice of his that made everyone feel like the worst bastard if they didn't do just what he said. Mycroft was already searching through cosmetics lying on the davenport in the corner.
'No. I will not wear the bloody dress, forget it!' shrieked John in panic. 'No bloody way!'
'John, be reasonable. We need to get in there and…' started Mycroft, a bit too calmly for John's taste. This wasn't a calm before a storm; it was a calm before tsunami.
'I don't see any of you, reasonable people, wearing this ridiculous thing!' snapped doctor, not missing the wolfish look on Sherlock face. 'I've got short hair, and my legs are all hairy. And I don't look like a bloody girl!'
'Oh, of course, it's alright John, I didn't know that you were having troubles with accepting your masculinity' said Sherlock casually, smiling maliciously. 'Denial, my dear doctor, is such a sweet thing. See, you look better than both Cujam and Mycroft (not a big deal, by the way, I've seen dead wombats with better presence) and while I could make a more convincing woman, I am too tall for those dresses. But if you are unsure of your manhood…'
'Gimmie that dress, and stop looking smug' managed eventually John, just bloody tired by the whole thing. Besides, thinking of Caph dead body, hanging from some pipe in ladies room made him uneasy enough not to really care if the bunch of perverts from all around the globe saw him as a drag queen or not. Besides, he came as Mycroft's date, so there was also high possibility that he would be humiliating older Holmes as well, what was rather nice concept at the moment.
Getting into the dress was quite an accomplishment on John's part, because he really didn't have curves in right paces and his shoulders were a bit too broad so the zipping was not only hazardous, but also required much force (Cujam even suggested using shoehorn, but the idea was quickly dropped when John started talking about livers, scalpel and no anesthetics). But with couple of socks and thighs on the front, in high heels that were, surprisingly only a bit too small, with the blond wig on his head (found miraculously in bottom drawer of the wardrobe by Sherlock, who managed to turn strangely looking mop into quite nice hair-do), and with makeup put on him by Mycroft (doctor just didn't want to know, not really), John looked… nice. Like a really nice, maybe not exactly pretty, but reasonably not ugly woman in her mid-thirties.
What didn't cheer John up, not at all. Especially not when Mycroft's hand was tracing the line of zipper a bit too eagerly, or was lingering on his cheek a moment too long. Not that John had anything against… God, he had. He had everything against his flatmate's older brother who is the British Government finding him attractive in woman's clothing. Especially in woman's clothing. He pushed those thoughts aside, in favor of images of Caph, bleeding out on restroom's floor, blood slowly outlining the tiles. Yes, it was what he should be concentrating on, not his … feelings (what feelings?) for Mycroft. Nope.
The final touch was provided by Cujam, who with great deliberation handed him small, black handbag.
'It's her bag, inside is her phone, your gun and lots of girly stuff you probably should have, just in case someone gets to look' he explained, his expression grave. John smiled, in vain trying to reassure young agent.
'Don't worry, dear, I'll give it back to her' he answered in higher, more girly voice, checking the gun. With a corner of his eye he saw that Sherlock was smiling evilly, toying with his phone. 'No, Sherlock, you are NOT recording this, and NOT sending it to Harry.'
'Oh, I never wanted to send it to Harry, don't worry. But I always thought that Science of deduction lacked YouTube channel…'
'This is not the way one should treat a lady, Sherlock' said Mycroft, offering elegantly his elbow to John, who draped himself over it a bit too eagerly, even for himself.
'Where the hell is everyone?' muttered John, walking a bit unsteadily (damned heels) towards the restroom. Usually full of people walking to the toilet, waiters with trays, giggling young girls and smokers, now it was completely empty, so the echo of doctor's steps could be heard. Sherlock and Mycroft noticed something is off when they heard… well, then they did not hear a thing. It was calm. It was quiet. There was no music to be heard, no laughter and no metallic sound of cutlery in use.
Cujam was immediately send out to see what was going on in the kitchen, while Sherlock (with his coat spreading like a superhero's cape) run down to see the ballroom. Mycroft had turned then to John, his fingers digging deep into smaller man's arm. And then, with a swift and messy kiss on a cheek, after quick 'be careful', Mycroft, too, was gone.
'Bloody Holmes' spat John angrily, not really knowing if he meant Sherlock for, well, dragging him into this insane world of crime and science, or rather Mycroft, for being stupid British Government, and his bloody kisses on the cheek.
Ladies room was also peaceful and quiet, strangely completely empty. Not even one woman, checking her makeup; all cabins opened wide, except one, tagged 'out of order, sorry for inconvenience' in several languages. So at lest he found where Caph was.
Several small and unstable steps later he was leaning on the door, trying to force them in, what is not easy when you are balancing on high heels.
'Aw, hell' he sighed, and gathered momentum, what opened the door at the impact, all right, but it also sent John on the floor of the cabin, face down. He groaned in pain, rising his head… and he found himself face to face with tightly tied up and gagged Caph, who stared trashing violently and babbling through the cloth over her mouth.
'Hi, I'm John, don't you recognize me? Well, I'm glad to find you alive' he wanted to calm her down, but she didn't stop trashing, her eyes, as he observed, fixed on something above him. Shit. While getting the gun out from behind himself, he mouthed 'one?' to distraught girl, and she nodded evenly, but didn't stop trying to get out of her bonds. She finally did when the click of unlocking the gun cut through the air.
'Hello, girl, didn't see you round here' purred girly and squeaky voice from above him. He smiled, recognizing Jeanie, who was full six feet of sex and had really deadly aim.
'Oh lookie here, and I just have a thing for those last cabins and I thought why not try to get in this one…' he stated, his voice thin, just to distract her. Then, in a second, he turned on his back, gun aiming up and fired once, and once only.
Two seconds later, the body of Jeanie dropped to the floor in the most messy manner, looking almost as if she was knocked unconscious, or just sleeping. Except there was a single hole in the middle of her forehead now, spoiling the artistry of her pretty face. Oh, well. John slowly stood up, trying not to slip in growing poodle of blood from the wound. Caph stared at him, unblinking.
'Well, let's untie you' said John a bit too cheerfully, relishing in the surrealism of the situation. He bent, feeling the dress tighten in warning, and quickly untied the ropes around girl's wrists (slightly swollen and raw from rough fabric). She quickly removed the gag and freed her legs, till staring wordlessly at John, as if in search for answers.
'She was about to kill us' he explained with a sigh, not bothering with lengthy explanation of the fact that he didn't really want to kill the woman, those were his bloody army reflexes, this 'we come in peace, shoot to kill' politics that his brain was so keen on using. Ah, well, we all have our faults, don't we.
'Oh, that explains it, I guess' she nodded, still not convinced in slightest. 'Am I allowed to ask why are you wearing… a dress? A golden one, specifically? It does wonders to you complexion, but is totally… not you, if you know what I mean.'
'Sherlock chose it, not me, really' he explained, checking the dead girl's gun, and shoving it into Caph hands. Only then he saw her half smile. 'What?'
'No, nothing… I mean, I've never saw you wear a dress before. For Mr. Holmes… How very romantic!' she sighed in content and, what astonished John, not teasingly. He narrowed his eyes, thinking about all invectives he wanted to throw in her face, hell, in the face of anyone implying he was Sherlock's boyfriend, I mean, honestly, it was XXI century, couldn't people get through their sculls that two men could live together, spending majority of their time together and sometimes sleep in one bed (occasionally! And it's just sleeping) can be just friends? Well. He saw where confusion could come in, but, honestly!
'We're not together' he said instead, walking to the door. 'You stay here, try to call Anthea and tell her to stand by. Something's wrong, and I'm going to find out what, ok?'
'Sure, I'm your secretary now' she sneered, but obediently took the phone. 'One thing is cool, this isn't big M's doing'
'Whose?' John stopped suddenly, turning to look at the girl who was staring at the dead body distractedly.
'Oh. Moriarty's. His people call him that, and she didn't recognize this. I mean, he's surname begins with M, and he behaves sometimes like this red M&M's… '
'How the hell do you know how… You're working for him?' John was torn between utter disbelieve and deadly rage, if this was Jim's contact…
'Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Watson! It's just… Weeell. Myboyfriendkindofdoes. But we're just dating, I'm not selling no information, I swear, he's just soooo sweet! And kind! And he's so patient… That must be why he's a sniper, all this patience is not wasted.' She started babbling uncontrollably, and John still was torn, this time between laughing out loud and beating some sense into her thick skull. Going out with … Ugh. 'Don't tell the Boss, okay? He'll kill me, and it's just… I'm sitting with him and Cujam on this roof, looking in your windows, all the time. How do I get the social life?'
'Okay, not a word from me. Keep calm and carry on!' John saluted carelessly and almost run out of the door in search of Sherlock and Mycroft.