Recap:
"Here to speak to Mr Berwick," dad says to the prison guard, flashing him a small ID card. "I believe he wanted to speak to us?" The uniformed man nods us in, and I follow my breath into an even colder, but larger room.
After we'd finished the case of the angels, we were contacted by a prisoner called Barry Berwick, an English man who's gotten himself into a bit of trouble here in Belarus.
"Mr Berwick," dad says coldly as we walk up to one of the tables. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my daughter and accomplice Sophia. I believe you wanted to talk to us about your case."
The case with the angels shook us both up, but we're managing to ease ourselves back into the game. It is quite disturbing being in the nineteenth century one moment with the author of your books, but then to step into a time machine which is bigger on the inside is mind-blowing.
"Thanks for comin' Mr Holmes," Berwick says, and we sit down in the seats opposite him. With the exception of the one guard at the other end of the room, we're alone with a potential, rather violent murderer. Dad was very reluctant to come here, but I persuaded him into it, but even I am beginning to regret it as I feel the bite of the cold snow outside whilst I look over the boring client. "I don't really know where to start."
"Just tell me what happened, from the beginning," dad prompts, already sounding bored.
"We'd been to a bar -" Berwick begins, "a nice place - and, er, I got chattin' with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren't 'appy with that so ... when we get back to the 'otel, we end up havin' a bit of a ding-dong, don't we?" His misuse of grammar makes us both cringe, and dad lets out a deliberate, noisy sigh. "She was always gettin' at me, saying I weren't a real man."
"'Wasn't' a real man," dad corrects him before I can.
"What?" Berwick demands.
"It's not 'weren't'; it's 'wasn't'," dad explains.
"Oh, " he says, looking down, but keeping calm.
"Go on," I urge.
"Well, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands." I roll my eyes; how very original. He's going to say that he's been 'cursed' or something. "And, you know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives." Both of our gazes lower to his hands to cross check that fact by looking at his hands, and the rough palms and old scars seems to confirm his story. "He learned us how to cut up a beast." I grimace again, and dad steps in.
"'Taught'."
"What?" he demands again, beginning to get angry.
"'Taught' you how to cut up a beast." Berwick glares at dad, obviously not in the mood for the portable grammar check.
"Continue, Mr Berwick," I sigh.
"Yeah, well, then ... then I done it."
"'Did it'," dad contradicts.
"'Did it'" he emphasises, slamming his hand down onto the table and causing me to draw my hands away. "Stabbed her ... over and over and over, and I looked down and she weren't ..." Dad sighs again and turns his head away in frustration. Controlling his anger, Berwick immediately corrects himself, allowing dad to turn his head back to face him. "'Wasn't' movin' no more." Dad turns it away again, with an even more annoyed expression painted over his pale cheekbones. "'Any' more," Barry corrects himself once more, before letting out a shaky breath. "You've gotta help me," he says in a lower and softer voice than before. "I dunno how it happened, but it was an accident. I swear." Dad pushes his chair back, and I take it as a cue to do the same, getting to my feet and beginning to walk away. A nice and simple domestic murder, nothing very important or exciting, especially with that type of criminal. "You've gotta help me, Mr Holmes!" Berwick calls frantically and we stop, just for a second. "Everyone says you're the best. Without you, I'll get hung for this." I shudder once more and turn around for myself.
"No, no, no, Mr Berwick, not at all." I look away, smiling thoughtfully to myself. "'Hanged', certainly." I turn and walk away whilst dad cracks him a small, quirky smile. We're back in the game.
Prologue
"What are you doing?" I ask rhetorically as I step into the living room, eyeing the towering figure of my dad with suspicion as he stand on our sofa, spraying a large, yellow smiley face with the paint we acquired at the Chinese circus a while ago. "Mrs Hudson will kill us."
"Doesn't matter," he replies, stepping down and propping the empty can up on the coffee table. "Have you unpacked yet?"
"Just finished," I reply, walking further into the room.
"Good," he answers, tossing me my pistol from the table. "I believe it's been a while."
"Too long," I agree, feeling the bored tension though my body, screaming out for some more adrenaline. "What's the target?"
"Oh, the face will do - anywhere," dad answers casually. I cock my pistol and take aim, squinting down the side of the machine to focus on the strange smiley face. Lifting my arm a little higher, I smile as I release the trigger, and watch as the bullet hurtles through the air to land in the centre of a small, yellow eye. "Not bad," dad teases, flopping down into his chair. I take a moment to swipe over his appearance and down to his ridiculous blue dressing gown and grey pyjamas.
"I see you didn't bother to get changed." I smirk as he lets a bullet fly, and it hits the thin line of the smile.
"I see you did," he retorts, resting his head low in his chair before taking two more, blind shots which both find their mark on the curved smile. He closes his eyes briefly in another way of expressing his complete and utter boredom before opening them and gazing up to the ceiling as I hear the door shut downstairs. I take aim again, focusing this time on the other eye before releasing it. It finds its mark easily, making a smooth dent in the wall. I wonder if the message the Doctor left us in the last case is still there. It'll be worth a look when Mrs Hudson has the wall fixed.
"Yeah, I got bored," I smile, shooting again to prove my point. "John's back." Dad sighs and lifts his hand back up for another couple of blind shots, both of which, again, find their spots on the smile. "I think it may need a nose." I suggest sarcastically, looking at it sideways and raising my gun to shoot again, but he turns his head around to face the wall and fires his third shot which lands right in the centre of the face, between the eyes and the mouth.
"There," he grunts, before turning to me, "Done."
"That was my shot!" I sulk, tossing my gun back onto the table in mock protest as John comes running up the stairs, his fingers in his ears to protect them from the noise.
"What the hell are you doing?" John yells from the landing, not daring to move any closer at the moment, but lowering his hands.
"Bored," dad answers sulkily.
"What?" John says, lowering his voice as he squints at dad in disbelief.
"Bored!" he repeats, louder as he springs up from his seat, and John retreats back onto the landing, recovering his ears.
"No ..." John orders, but dad switches the pistol to his right hand and turns it back towards the face before firing again.
"You know, some people just play Cluedo when they're bored," I suggest, flinching slightly as he swings his arm around his back before he twists it slightly and fires again from behind his back.
"Maybe next time," he murmurs under the sound of the shots. I do realise he gets bored easily - so do I - but it doesn't take long before I can continue with my life. On the other hand, he has to act like a little kid. "Bored! Bored!" he continues angrily, bringing his arm back around to glare accusingly at the wall. Taking this as an opportunity, John hurries into the room and snatches the pistol from dads hand before sliding the clip out as dad walks towards the sofa. "Don't know what's got into the criminal classes," dad mutters sulkily. "Good job I'm not one of them."
"So you take it out on the wall," John states, locking dads gun away from him in the small safe on the dining table.
"Ah, the wall had it coming," dad replies, tracing his hand along the painted smile to inspect his handiwork, and I roll my eyes.
"Nice trip?" John asks me, tactfully trying to divert from the subject as we watch dad flopping down onto the sofa. I groan at the memory of that painful interrogation of Britain's lowest class of criminal, who seems to make it his duty to commit crimes against grammar, and shake my head. "What about that Russian case?" John says, brushing over it and aiming the question to dad instead, who pushes himself into a more upright position before answering.
"Belarus," dad corrects. "Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth our time."
"Ah, shame!" John replies sarcastically, walking past me into the kitchen. He throws his arms up in despair as he sees the organised chaos of the science equipment which dad has already managed to spread around the room, and not bothered to but away. "Anything in?" John questions, walking towards the fridge. "I'm starving."
"Um, John, you may not want to ..." I fade off as the fridge door opens and I watch as he notices for himself the head resting on the shelf inside.
"Oh, f..." he begins to curse, and immediately slams the door shut again, unable to believe his eyes.
"It's not like I didn't warn you!" I sing as John gulps, opening the fridge door for another look at the all-but-empty fridge. He stares at it for a second before closing it again.
"It's a head," John mutters.
"Brilliant use of your deducting skills, John," I retort.
"A severed head!" he calls out, glaring silently at me.
"Just tea for me, thanks," dad replies, seeming to be ignoring him.
"And for me," I add cheekily, smiling widely.
"No, there's a head in the fridge." John repeats, seeming to be ignoring us now as he comes back into the living room.
"Yes," dad replies calmly.
"A bloody head!"
"Well, where else were we supposed to put it?" dad demands, looking around at John. "You don't mind, do you?" John holds his hands out in despair and looks back at the fridge as I crack a small smile. "I got it from Bart's morgue."
"Why the hell do you need a bloody head?" John demands, burying his head in one hand.
"I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death," I reply. "You never know, could be useful when we finally find a case."
"You'd have one if you two weren't so fussy," John replies, and I'm about to retort when dad waves his hand in the vague direction of John's laptop, ending our conversation.
"I see you've written up the taxi driver case," he mentions, and I widen my eyes in surprise - I haven't seen that yet, so I log onto his blog on via my phone.
"Uh, yes," he replies nervously, obviously apprehensive about our reactions towards it.
"'A Study in Pink'," I read. "Nice!" I finish, sarcastically.
"Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone - there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"
"Erm, no," dad and I say in unison as I finish skim reading the post. He hasn't added in half the amount of information I wrote in my version, and this is tacky to say the least.
"Why not?" John replies, sounding hurt. "I thought you'd be flattered." Dad lowers the magazine he's holding to glare at him.
"Flattered?" he repeats, before directing his gaze over to me, and I begin to narrate another section of the blog.
"'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'"
"Now hang on a minute," John begins to protest, and I raise my eyes to look at him in disbelief. "I didn't mean that in a ..."
"Oh," dad interrupts, "you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way! Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister ..."
"I know ..." John mutters quietly.
"... or who's sleeping with who ..." dad continues.
"Whether the Earth goes round the Sun ..."John says softly, but pointedly.
"Not that again," I groan.
"It's not important," dad adds, simultaneously.
"Not impor..." John stops as he shifts his position in the chair to face dad. "It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?" Dad presses the heels of his palms to his eyes in frustration.
"Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."
"'Deleted it'?" John repeats, and it occurs to me that he doesn't know about our mind palaces, so dad swings his legs around to the floor as he sits up to explain.
"Listen," he begins, pointing up to his head. "This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful ... really useful." He grimaces at trying to explain such a simple method of memorisation, so I continue.
"Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?" John looks at me for a moment, biting his lip until he can't contain himself any longer.
"But it's the solar system!" he stresses, and I groan, looking away in despair as dad buries his head in his hands.
"Oh, hell! What does that matter?!" he retorts. "So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots." He ruffles his hair with both hands as if to stress that point before looking up to glare at John again. "Put that in your blog. Or better still; stop inflicting your opinions on the world." After making his point, dad recoils into a tight ball on the sofa, tossing the magazine across the table. I look over to John and watch as he sets his jaw and purses his lips.
"John..." I try, but he ignores me, standing up to leave and walking across to the living room door. I know it's hopeless to try, and dad and John have their misunderstandings all the time. It's like a full time occupation trying to keep these two happy.
"Where are you going?!" dad questions, twisting over his shoulder to face John.
"Out," he says tightly, pulling on his jacket. "I need some air." He heads for the stairs and shifts to the side to dodge Mrs Hudson as she comes up. "'Scuse me, Mrs ..." he begins, pushing on past before he can finish.
"Oh, sorry, love!" our landlady chirps, moving aside to let him come through and I perch myself at the desk in an attempt to escape the false conversation.
"Sorry," he mutters again as he continues down the stairs. Annoyed at this play of 'happy families', dad turns away again, tightening up further in a sulk.
"I don't know why he's being so testy lately," I sigh, annoyed. "We can barely say anything anymore without him flipping."
"Ooh-ooh!" Mrs Hudson calls from the door. I turn and smile falsely at her as she walks through into the kitchen with our shopping, and I count down the seconds until she notices the wall. "Have you two had a little domestic?"
"Excuse me," I say, a little offended. I get so frustrated when people assume that dad and John are a couple, it's as if they don't consider where I come into the bargain at all.
"Oh, sorry love," Mrs Hudson apologises, absent minded, and obviously not meaning a word of it as dad stands up on the sofa and takes the shortest route across the room to the window, which just happens to involve standing on our coffee table. "Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there. He should have wrapped himself up a bit more." I stand back up from my seat to join dad by the window as we watch John cross the street and turn right.
"He's going to Sarah's," I observe. "I thought after Martha..." I stop as I realise he isn't listening. John Watson strikes me as the sort of man who has more girlfriends then he does hot dinners, and it won't be long before he dumps Sarah for the next woman who just happens to look at him the right way.
"Look at that, Mrs Hudson," dad says, scanning the empty street and grimacing. "Quiet, calm, peaceful. Isn't it hateful?"
"That's your receipt, Sophie dear," Mrs Hudson murmurs as I walk aimlessly into the kitchen before she turns to dad. "Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder - that'll cheer you both up," she chuckles as she heads back towards the living room door. It'll be any moment now...
"Can't come too soon," dad mutters wistfully to the window, his voice only just carrying across the room.
"Hey," she says, stopping at last as she spots the damaged wall. I turn and smirk shamelessly. "What've you done to my bloody wall?!" Dad turns around as well to admire our handiwork. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" She storms off down the stairs, and dad and I exchange smiles before he turns to the face again to give it a slightly over dramatic smile. I feel a slight quake in the ground as I walk over to the bookcase, now prepared to read the book Arthur wrote for us. I spin around as a massive explosion goes off in the house opposite. The windows blow in, shattering thousands of glass shards through the air, and the force of it hurls us both forward and onto the floor. I feel my vision go blurry, and then my eyes close.
"Sophie? Sophia?" dad calls, using my full name as a sign of his panic. I groan, beginning to open my eyes, but they seem so heavy.
"I think I'm okay," I confirm, allowing dad to help me up. "How long was I out?"
"Around ten minutes," dad says as he assists me into sitting down in John's armchair. "You took quite a hit when you fell. The paramedics arrived a few minutes ago - someone will be up in a minute."
"There was an explosion..." I try to remember, but dad shushes me. I can't remember much before I hit my head, it just goes fuzzy and black.
"It's alright," dad reassures me. "The flat's a bit of a mess, as you can see, but they're patching up the windows soon." I nod and begin to look around at the damage. Dad's music sheets lie scattered around on the floor, and bits of rubble are strewed everywhere. "Mrs Hudson's being treated for shock downstairs," he continues. "Nobody seems to know what the cause for the explosion was, but it seems to me like a gas leak." I hear some unfamiliar footsteps on the stairs and dad helps me sit up from my slouched position.
"Paramedics," the woman states as she enters the room with a green first aid bag. "We were told there was a minor concussion as a cause of the impact?"
"Yes, the other day," dad tells her, and I smile weakly at the confusion on her face. "But the impact of the explosion has just caused it to happen again, possibly triggering extensive memory loss if not treated now." She nods hesitantly, but hurries over to my side, bending down as she takes a small torch from her bag and shines it in my eyes. I feel my eyes begin to focus on the light, but my vision is still blurry, and I still can't remember a lot. I have a feeling that may be a problem, but I don't know why.
"Can you remember your name?" she asks me, switching off her torch and slipping it back into her bag.
"Sophia, Sophia Holmes," I reply instantly, and she refers back to dad who nods once.
"Brilliant, now Sophia, can you remember what happened before the explosion?"
"I was ..." I pause, and look up to meet dad's eyes, but he's looking to the floor, lost in thought.
"It's alright," the woman says gently. "Take your time."
"I went to read a book," I say hesitantly, and the nurse nods in understanding.
"Can you tell me why?"
"I - I don't know." I stop again for a moment. "I was bored, I think. Something had happened, or rather, not happened, and we were waiting around for something to do."
"That's brilliant, absolutely brilliant," the nurse encourages, before standing up and turning back to dad. "Your daughter has developed a stronger concussion than the one she had before, but as you saw, she's beginning to overcome it." Dad nods as he listens, his brow almost furrowing in concern. "It's normal for her to feel tired, so I advise that she stays in bed for at least the rest of the day. Draw the curtains, reduce as much light and sound from her room as you can. You should begin to see some improvement after about an hour or so." Dad nods briefly, and she leaves. As the door closes downstairs, I leap up and begin to pace, ignoring the overwhelming urge to fall over.
"What are you doing?" dad questions.
"Well I'm not going to bed; I thought that was fairly obvious." I begin to sway, and dad catches me.
"No, absolutely not. Doctor's orders are to stay in bed."
"And I'm not already in bed, therefore I can't stay in bed," I retort lethargically, trying to stand up on my own two feet.
"I can't argue with that, but I must insist you get to bed."
"Why should I?" I reply, swaying again in dad's arms.
"No arguing. Come on." He picks me up and I groan in protest. "When did you get so heavy?"
"Probably around the same time as you sent me to ballet and gym to build muscle," I mumble, but allow him to lie me down in the soft covers.
"I'll come in later with a glass of water, get some rest," he orders, and reluctantly bury my head inside the pillow, falling asleep instantly.
"I expect John will be back soon," I predict, lazily getting out of bed and walking into the living room, following the sweet violin music being played. My memories of yesterday's events are a bit blurry, but my sore head and the mess the apartment's in seems to make up for it. "As soon as he sees the news, he'll come back, you know he will." Dad nods in agreement with me and holds his instrument to his side as we stand in silence for a moment. Somebody raps on the door downstairs and I sigh heavily and move towards the dining table to sit. The rap is immediately recognisable.
"What's Mycroft doing here?" dad groans, stepping away from the window and dad sits in his own seat as we hear his heavy footsteps on the steps, following sluggishly behind Mrs Hudson's small patter.
"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson says, as she reaches the door. "You weren't answering the door. It's your brother." She stands aside and the bulk frame of Mycroft Holmes enters the room, looking it over with a critical eye.
"Good morning," he says, and Mrs Hudson turns and leaves back downstairs. "It's a bit of a mess in here, Sherlock, haven't you tidied it up yet?"
"I was preoccupied with other things," dad says grimly, plucking at the violin strings in annoyance, but I see his eyes drift over to me in my seat as Mycroft crosses over to sit in John's seat.
"Ah, yes, Sophia. I had heard of your little accident yesterday. I do hope you are quite alright now."
"She's fine," dad answers for me. "But we all know that's not why you came." Mycroft looks taken aback as he tries to cover it up.
"I'm sure I don't know what you -"
"Why are you here, Mycroft?" I question, beginning to get impatient as I look down at the folder he's holding.
"I've got all the evidence you need. Look at me and make your deduction." I sigh in added annoyance and begin to look him over.
"You obviously require our help, but what for?" I begin thoughtfully. "The folder you are holding is unmistakably from your office, so it's involving the Government, but the fact you'd come to us means that it's something more secretive than usual. Something you have to keep hidden from the press." Mycroft smiles, humourlessly, and fiddles around with his umbrella handle.
"A fine deduction, really," he says, sarcastically before looking back over to dad. "I am indeed, Sherlock, in the very unfortunate position, I assure you, of needing the help of you and your daughter." He sighs, and continues to play. "The M.O.D. is working on a new defence system - all top secret, of course. The Bruce-Partington Programme, it's called. We can't trust anybody else with this information, and of course, your name has arisen." He pauses as we hear the quick footsteps of our blogger on the stairs. "That would be Doctor Watson, would it not?" Before we have time to reply, John bursts through the door, the panic on his face showing us that he was concerned for our safety.
"Sherlock, Sophia!" he cries as he hurries into the room and his eyes are immediately drawn up to the boarded up windows in front of him, and then to dads chair. Dad plucks his violin string again and glares petulantly at Mycroft.
"John," dad replies calmly, glancing up at him, and I smile up at our flat-mate as well.
"I saw it on the telly," John states, seeming to be ignoring Mycroft for the moment. "Are you okay?"
"Hmm? What?" dad questions, looking around at the broken glass and scattered paperwork as if he's already forgotten about it, which in truth, it's very likely he has. "Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently." He looks over to me slightly, and I nod my thanks. I don't think John needs to know about the accident - it'll only worry him further. Dad turns back to uncle dearest, who stares at him pointedly, still wanting his answer. He plucks the instrument again, playing with time for the moment just to annoy Mycroft. "I can't," he replies finally, simply.
"'Can't'?" Mycroft repeats, raising an eyebrow.
"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time." I smirk softly as John looks across to dad in a clear face of disbelief, obviously not understanding why dad would refuse such a case, especially one we would normally jump at, and certainly whilst we had nothing on. But if I know dad, we will, we wouldn't want to avoid a case just because it was Mycroft who offered it to us.
"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."
"Oh, well that's alright then!" I say sarcastically. "I'm sure we'll take it now, won't we Sherlock. It is of 'National importance' after all!" Dad's lips quirk up to one side in a small smile as Mycroft glares at me.
"How's the diet?" dad asks, deciding to add salt to the wound.
"Fine," he replies, failing to rise to the insult, and I laugh softly as I glace up at his bulging stomach. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John."
"What?" he questions, not at all listening to our conversation as he inspects the damage the window has had inflicted upon it.
"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent." It's my turn to glare at him this time.
"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?"
"No-no-no-no-no," he refuses flatly. "I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time - not with the Korean elections so ..." I smile with satisfaction as he lets slip this piece of information, and he trails off, but not before dad and John look to him in surprise. That's interesting. That's very interesting.
"The Koreans giving you trouble?" I tease, and I watch his face harden.
"Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" He smiles humourlessly in a clear message to forget everything that's just been said. But when have I ever been known to listen to him. I file it away for later use. "Besides, a case like this - it requires ... legwork." He grimaces with distaste at the word, and I realise that this is the only, real, reason that he's here. He couldn't be bothered to hire another detective and try and persuade them to do the work. He's too lazy to sort out his own Government and country when it's his job. And people wonder why he and dad fell out. Dad mis-plucks one of the strings, an annoyed look on his face as he too picks up on that bit of information, and looks up to John, deciding not to continue this argument any further.
"How's Sarah, John?" he questions. "How was the lilo?" I grimace slightly; studying again John's arched back and the crease lines on his shirt.
"Sofa, Sherlock," Mycroft corrects, consulting his pocket watch and not even bothering to look up, which just shows how lazy he is. "It was the sofa." Dad looks John over briefly again.
"Oh yes, of course," he agrees, beginning to sulk. He absolutely hates loosing anything to Mycroft, especially 'Deductions' because Mycroft is so much better at it then dad is. Just don't tell him I said that, I'd never hear the end of it otherwise.
"How ...?" John begins incredulously, then thinks better of it. "Oh, never mind." He sits down on the coffee table in from of the sofa, and Mycroft smiles falsely across at him.
"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you all became ... pals." Dad throws him a dark look, knowing as well as I do where this is heading. "What are they like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."
"I'm never bored," John says simply, standing up to Mycroft in a way that tells us that he has already built up a decent amount of distaste for my uncle as well.
"Good!" Mycroft smiles, condescendingly. "That's good, isn't it?" We both glare at him again, an as Mycroft stands up, dad whips out one end of his bow, in an attempt to hit his brother, I should imagine. Picking the folder up from beside him, Mycroft steps forward to offer it to dad, but he simply stares stubbornly back at him. He grimaces again in obvious annoyance and almost considers handing it to me for a moment before he notices my glare, so he settles for handing it to John instead. "Andrew West, known as 'Westie' to his friends," he begins to explain, and I see John's startled look as he takes what is classified information. It certainly shouldn't be given to anyone from outside the Government, especially under the circumstances. "A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."
"Jumped in front of a train?" John suggests, but already knows that he isn't right.
" Seems the logical assumption," Mycroft agrees.
"But ...?" he urges, a small smile creeping onto his lips.
"'But'?" Mycroft repeats, quizzically, jesting again.
"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." Dad and I exchange a smirk as he applies some rosin to his bow with a cloth.
"The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system - the Bruce-Partington Programme, it's called," Mycroft sighs, then looks over towards me as John begins to flick through the folder. "The plans for it were on a memory stick." John sniggers quietly in response and I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. Who would keep the secrets of the country on something as insecure as a memory stick? It's outrageous!
"That wasn't very clever." I see dad smile in agreement from beside me.
"It's not the only copy," Mycroft continues, ignoring my small smirk.
"As if that makes it any better," I snort.
"But it is secret," he pushes on. "And missing."
"Top secret?" John questions.
"Very," Mycroft replies. "We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He turns back to dad and I. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you." I laugh at the very thought. Breathing sharply through his nose, dad poises his violin, ready to play, then looks calmly back at uncle
"I'd like to see you try." Mycroft leans down, probably in a feeble attempt to seem more 'threatening', but the truth of it is that it only makes me think about how large his nose is.
"Think it over."
"I think you know what our answer is," I reply, nodding towards the door. Taking the hint, Mycroft turns and heads over to John, offering his hand to shake.
"Goodbye, John." Politely, and rather ridiculous to say the least, John rises to take his hand. "See you very soon." I roll my eyes, unimpressed, as Mycroft heads back towards his armchair for his coat. Dad smiles knowingly at me, and begins to repeatedly play a short, annoying sequence of badly tuned notes until uncle has left the room. As Mycroft reaches the landing and begins to descent on the stairs, dad lowers his violin.
"Why'd you lie?" John asks, sitting back down on the coffee table as Mycroft reaches the ground floor, and the door shuts. "You've got nothing on - not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"
"Why shouldn't I?" Dad shrugs, and I begin to fiddle with the mug of hot chocolate on the table in front of me, anxiously not looking up.
"Oh, I see," John says, nodding as he realises at last something he figured out the first time he saw us together. "Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere." Dad turns, about to deny it, but his phone begins to ring. He swings his bow back down again and places it back on the seat before he fishes the phone out from his jacket pocket.
"Sherlock Holmes," dad says, talking into the phone. We quieten for a moment as we wait for the other end of the line to speak, and I watch dad's expression change. "Of course. How could I refuse?" He stands up and tucks the phone back away as I smile, readying myself before following him towards the door.
"Lestrade?" I question softly.
"Lestrade," he confirms, louder so John can hear. "We've been summoned. Coming?"
"If you want me to," John replies.
"Of course," dad says as we take our coats. "I'd be lost without my blogger."