TheMeddler: Thanks XD As for how Sherlock managed to fake his own death, who knows? I guess we'll have to wait a couple of years to find out
Q: Yeah, I write Sherlock too ;) There seemed to be far too many angst fics out there, so I wanted to write something more in keeping with the series XD
"Battersea Baffled By Big Burglaries?"
"Boring, and too much alliteration. Next."
"Mysterious—"
"Next," I interrupted.
John glanced at me over the paper. "You don't even know what it is."
I sighed.
"A newspaper would only list a case as mysterious if it was too boring to catch the public eye and sell papers otherwise. If it's too boring for the public, it's definitely too boring for me. Next."
John turned a page, hunting through the paper for something intellectually stimulating and important enough for me to get involved. Since the paper in question happened to be The Sun, even I had to admit this was something of a challenge.
"Oh, here's something. Mogul Emerald Stolen, Reward Offered." John whistled. "One hundred thousand pounds."
Money. Why does he get so obsessed over money? Why does anyone get so obsessed over money? It's one of the most boring things in existence. Doesn't do anything, just sits there waiting for someone to come along and give you something nice in exchange for it.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I pay my share of the rent. I buy groceries when it's my turn (and sometimes even when it's John's turn, depending on how much he spent on this month's girlfriend). I pay half the bills. I accept that money is necessary in this world. It's just so damn dull. Where's the challenge? You can get money just by pushing a hoover around some rich man's house or by shoveling sewage or emptying dustbins. All worthwhile occupations, I'm sure, but not exactly stimulating.
"Could be an interesting case," John hinted.
It really is astonishing how often interesting case and case with at least five figure reward coincide in John's mind.
"Inside job by a rich celebrity to generate publicity. She obviously hid it somewhere. Not worth my time. Next."
There was a short silence, one I was very familiar with. Five, four, three, two, one—
"How the hell do you know that?"
—bingo! If only the weather was this predictable. I've been trying to teach John how to think, but it's a very slow process.
Actually, no, that's not fair. John is learning, although as with any new skill, it takes time to become proficient. Still, at a typical crime scene, I can confidently say that he will now only miss twenty obvious and important things, as opposed to his previous twenty one. On a good day he'll only miss seventeen or eighteen, although those don't come along very often and when they do they're usually related either to the Army or some obscure medical facts.
"Oh, for god's sake, John, isn't it obvious?" I demanded.
From the vacant look on his face, it clearly wasn't. I sighed.
"The last record of the Mogul Emerald was in two thousand and one when it was sold by Christie's for two point two million pounds to an anonymous buyer. You wouldn't sell something like that privately, you'd never get what it was really worth. No, the only way would be to sell it through another big auction house, therefore this so-called theft has been reported by the same person who bought it ten years ago. If she were serious about remaining anonymous, she would have called the police, kept it hushed up. No, she goes straight to the press with it, gets them to run a major story. Next week, the emerald's magically found in a toilet cistern or in her makeup bag or somewhere equally improbable, maybe someone will be named, maybe not, works better if the person returning it is completely anonymous, that way nobody's going to check whether or not the reward was actually paid or indeed if such a person even exists. Having generated all this publicity, she'll then permanently loan the emerald to a museum and impress everyone with her generosity, bringing herself into the public eye once again and earning herself a lot more jobs in the process. So, who would care about that level of publicity? Politician? Maybe, but it doesn't actually pay as well as people think and besides, admitting they have a jewel worth in excess of two million pounds will just get a load of people banging on about wasting the taxpayers' money. Therefore, clearly an actress or a supermodel and clearly an inside job. Case closed, move on, next."
John was gawking at me with his jaw hanging. He does this a lot.
"She?" he said at last.
"Could be a man," I admitted, "but not very likely. Men tend to go for yachts or islands, or expensive paintings. Not many of them buy jewels, even of that caliber."
"And...an actress?"
"Not many people earn enough to spend over two million pounds on nothing more than a big shiny rock either. Really, John, you ought to be able to work that much out at least!"
"But how—" John began.
"No. Bored now. Next case."
"There is no next case."
I blinked, sitting up and swinging my bare feet off the couch.
"There must be a next case."
"No." John tossed the paper over his shoulder to join the fourteen others he'd gone through that morning.
"Hasn't anyone been murdered today?" I demanded. "Or even in the last week?"
"Sorry."
"God! What the hell are people doing with themselves?"
John drummed his fingers on the table for a few seconds, then glanced at me. "Tell you what you could do."
God help me, I was actually desperate enough to listen to him.
"What?"
"Well, you still haven't visited Lestrade and the others at Scotland Yard."
I shrugged. "No point. Mycroft had all the papers run the story. My name's cleared, and my reputation is intact again. Lestrade already knows what happened."
"Not quite," John pointed out. "They didn't say anything in the papers about you still being alive. Just imagine the look on Lestrade's face when you walk in." He paused, then said, "Or Sally's."
I was off the sofa and onto my feet in an instant. "I'll get my coat."
I was actually looking forward to seeing Lestrade. He's one of the very few people I can tolerate – and more importantly, who can tolerate me – for any length of time. He's also one of the even fewer people who stood by me during Moriarty's attempts to discredit me.
I'm not a fan of drama for the sake of it (despite John's sarcastic remarks about my coat collar) but I couldn't help enjoying the reactions as I walked into Scotland Yard and through CID. Heads turned. Jaws dropped. Phones went unanswered. Conversations died. Given the state of chaotic busyness that usually exists within the place, I was surprised that Lestrade didn't immediately poke his head out of his office door to demand what all the quiet was about.
As it turned out, Lestrade was standing with his back to the door when John and I entered. He didn't turn around to acknowledge our presence, which is a sure sign that something's wrong.
"Greg?" John's voice was a little apprehensive; even he must have been able to observe that Lestrade had something serious on his mind.
"John." Lestrade spoke without turning around. "Yeah. Sorry, haven't got time to talk right now; there's been a series of murders followed by sexual assaults on a bunch of teenage victims in the East End. It's only a matter of time until the papers get hold of it and when they do, I'd like to have something to tell 'em."
My flatmate frowned. "You mean...sexual assaults followed by murders?"
Lestrade let out a short, hollow laugh. "No, I don't!"
John winced. "Ooh."
"Yeah, it's a big case. Nasty one too."
"Your big case, is it?" I asked him, moving an unprotesting John out of the way. "Would you like it to be your last?" (I couldn't have stopped myself for the world).
Lestrade froze. Really froze. I don't think the man was even breathing.
"W-what?" he said at last.
"Oh, that's not what you're supposed to say," I told him. "For that matter, it's not what you did say. I seem to remember that the words sunshine and dickhead featured rather prominently in your original answer."
Slowly, so slowly that I was tempted to grab him and help him along a little, Lestrade turned to face me.
"Good morning, Detective Inspector," I said. "It's been a while."
I could see his mouth and throat working as various words fought for control. At last he said, "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"
"Giving you a brain hemorrhage, apparently," I answered, then gestured at the chair in front of his desk. "Do you mind?"
"Are you real? I mean, you're really here? I've not been working too hard or anything?"
"John believes I'm here, and he's a medical man," I answered, sitting down in front of Lestrade. "Took my pulse and everything."
"You...what? Faked it?"
"Well done. You got there quicker than John; I had to spoon feed him the answer."
"What happened to the hat?"
I glared at him. Lestrade knows my feelings on The Hat. Everyone in Scotland Yard knows my feelings on The Hat. I wish I'd never picked the damn thing up.
"I lost it," I told him.
"Really? Oh. Sergeant Donovan's going to be very upset," Lestrade answered in an innocent tone which didn't fool me for a second. "That present was her idea."
"Ah. I must remember to send her a thank you letter."
Lestrade fixed me with a hard stare, all innocence gone. "Yeah, well, don't wrap it around a brick this time, will you?"
John glanced at me, all abounce with curiosity that I had no intention of satisfying.
"For god's sake, that was over five years ago!" I reminded Lestrade.
"Yeah, I know, but women never forget things like that. And Sally always knew that the note that came through her window also came from you."
I gave Lestrade my most imperious stare. "Of course she knew it came from me. I signed it. Where is Sergeant Donovan anyway?"
"Off on her lunch break. So's Anderson, and half the staff. And no, I won't tell you where; if you're going to meet her again, I'd rather you do it here, where there's witnesses."
I smiled. People complain that I rarely take a liking to anyone, but by the same token, I very rarely take a dislike to anyone either. Sally Donovan is one of the exceptions and the more people were around to witness her reaction to my resurrection, the more satisfied I'd be. She's not too popular with the rest of Scotland Yard either, Anderson notwithstanding. As far as my return from the dead went, I was happy just to walk around and let people see me for the most part, but Sally...no. I had something rather more special in mind for Sally.
It took a little persuasion on my part to convince Lestrade to go along with my idea, but at last he agreed on the condition that I would solve this latest mystery and that he could use me on one additional case of his choice in the future, no matter how boring, and went out with John to get some lunch.
I sat down in Lestrade's chair and waited until I saw Sally enter the room, then I turned around so that the chair back was to the door. I was sure she'd come in sooner or later.
I wasn't disappointed. Two minutes and thirty four seconds after I'd turned my back, the door to the office clicked open and Sally breezed in.
"I've just been speaking to..." She broke off. "Sir? You alright?"
"I was just thinking about Sherlock," I said in Lestrade's voice.
"The freak?" There was a clunk as Sally put her coffee down on the desk. "Why?"
I had intended to end the charade at this point, but Sally's tone irritated me. It always does. I've been called freak all my life – when I was a very little boy I remember asking Mother why I had two names at school and Mycroft only one (and was told that if only I'd try to be a little more like Mycroft, people would like me better) – but that doesn't mean I like it, and I really don't like the way Sally calls me it. She's always so smug, like she thinks she's the cleverest woman on Earth for coming up with the name, and so I decided to amuse myself by playing with her mind for a little while longer.
"Sergeant, I really think you ought to show a little more respect for the dead."
"Sorry sir. But you have to admit that, well, he wasn't exactly normal, was he? What kind of person gets off on crime scenes? Think there was something missing up there, sir."
That has to be the most stupid thing a police officer has ever said, and when you consider the amount of time I've spent with people like Anderson, that's quite a statement.
I watched her reflection in the window and waited until she turned to leave, then swiveled my chair around to face her. Lestrade would probably try to kill me for what I was about to do, but I was enjoying myself too much to care.
"Right, that does it. Sergeant Donovan, you're off the case."
"I'm what?" Sally turned, saw me for the first time and went white.
"You heard me," I told her, still in Lestrade's voice. "Now go on, clear off! Some of us have work to do."
Sally took a tentative half step toward me. I could read her thoughts as easily as if they were printed on her face; her eyes were telling her one thing, her ears another and her brain kept insisting that what she was seeing was impossible. I have to admit, I was surprised. I was certain that she would have worked out what had happened in an instant, when instead she seemed to think that I really was Lestrade and that she was hallucinating. It was clear from the bags under her eyes (poorly concealed with makeup) that she hadn't been sleeping well, but she must really be exhausted to have attained this level of confusion.
"Freak...?" It was more a whisper than a word.
"What did you call me, Sergeant?" I half rose from behind the desk, the very picture of an outraged DI, my body language identical to how Lestrade's would have been.
Sally stared at me, eyes, ears and brain waging a three-way battle for supremacy. I was taking mental bets on which of them would win when Anderson came in with a folder in his hands, saw me and stopped dead.
"Yes, Anderson, what is it?" I said as Lestrade.
Anderson looked from me to Sally (who I know for a fact caused ructions for him at home by 'accidentally' telling his wife about their affair, leading to his sleeping on the couch for the past week) and back to me again, then handed me a manila folder and said, "The case file you requested earlier, sir."
"Yeah, cheers." Even if he'd only played along with me to get back at Sally for upsetting his not so happy home, I made a mental note not to call Anderson an idiot more than five times an hour the next time we worked together, no matter how much provocation I received from him.
I don't know how long I could have kept this going, as even Sally Donovan wasn't stupid or exhausted enough to believe she was hallucinating indefinitely, but it didn't matter since at that point Lestrade returned with John and a bag from the local McDonalds, and that was enough to give the game away.
I grinned. Not something I do very often, I admit, but the look on Sally's face as she realized what had happened made up for a lot of things I'd suffered recently.
"You...you...freak!"
It was a little difficult to tell which of us she was addressing, since she kept turning from one to the other. Based on past history though, I believe she was referring to me, and I made a mental note to have a little chat with Lestrade about his officers' attitude toward the public. I'm very tired of being called that, and if he wants me to keep doing what I do, the least he could do in return is to ensure everyone involved uses my name.
"I do hope the champagne you bought to celebrate my demise wasn't too expensive, Sally," I said.
Lestrade stepped between us before Sally had a chance to do something she'd regret, like leaping on my face and attempting to chew out my eyeballs, for example.
"Alright Sherlock, you've had your fun."
"Yes I have." Oh, how I envy the common mind. To think they get such high levels of enjoyment from watching reality TV and playing pointless video games, while I have to risk assault, imprisonment or even death just to stop being bored. "I'll be in touch about this case, Lestrade. Text me the details. Come on, John, we're going."
I strode out the door and kept walking, smiling. Sally Donovan's had payback coming for a long time. It's always nice to help the universe along a little.
"What was all that about?" John demanded as soon as we were outside.
"What?"
"That! In there, just...that! Why did you say that to Lestrade, about it being his last case?"
"First thing I ever said to him. When Lestrade and I met, he'd only recently been promoted to DI. He was working on a spate of murders across the East End. I finally managed to get in to talk to him, and he told me he was handling it all fine, that this was his first big case, and I asked him if he wanted it to be his last. I then told him about his marital problems, his sleeping habits for the past two nights and his attempts to give up smoking."
"And...?"
"And he ordered me off the crime scene, although I did tell him the three main things I'd observed before I went. Took two days and another murder before Lestrade came to his senses and begged for my help. By that evening, the killer was arrested and in custody and Lestrade was the hero of the day. After that, he'd call me whenever he had a—"
"Psst! Sherlock!"
There is only one person I know in the entire world, never mind in London, who actually says "Psst" and I slowed to a stop.
"Carly." I turned, a slight smile on my face, and held out my hand. "How are you?"
Carly shook my hand, grinning. I don't know if that's her real name, but it's the one she gave me, and she and I have been acquainted for nearly ten years. That's a long time on London streets. Most of the people I knew from my own days living on those same streets have been dead for years.
"Can't complain," Carly answered. "Well, I could, but it's not like anyone'd bother to listen."
"What have you got for me?"
The grin broadened. "New one, Sherlock. Saw him under Waterloo Bridge this morning."
"Interesting. Tell me more."
Carly shrugged. "Don't know there's much more I can tell you. He's a bit jumpy though, so you might wanna go in gently."
"Drugs?" I have no use for addicts; I need someone who's going to be focused on something other than their next hit, and someone who won't sell me out for the price of that same hit.
"Nah. Or if it is, they ain't strong ones. But like I say, he's new on the streets, so I thought maybe..." She shrugged again, one eye on my pocket where she knows I keep my wallet.
I took it out, peeled off a fifty pound note and gave it to her. I'm always looking for new additions to the Homeless Network. The current members know this, and more to the point, they also know that I pay very well for new blood (their words, not mine). In addition to the fifty I'd just given her, Carly would get another hundred if the new one she'd told me about agreed to work for me. So far, I have to say that she's never steered me wrong on that score; she's told me about seventeen other people since I first met her and every one of them worked out fine, which is why she's moved up to getting a little bonus upfront as well as payment afterwards. I've discovered to my cost that she's not very good at anything in the way of spying, but she does have an unerring talent for spotting new recruits. Personally I think she tells them about me before coming to tell me about them, but that's alright. I gain a new recruit, she gains some money and everyone's happy.
I glanced at John and said, "You may as well go back to the flat. This could take a while."
He looked surprised. "What?"
"I never bring people with me when I'm meeting a potential Networker for the first time. I don't like them to feel outnumbered."
John raised his eyebrows. "That...you know, Sherlock, that's actually considerate of you. I'm impressed."
"I've been where they are, John. It's not a nice place."
Before he had time to inquire further into this (honestly, how did I think I became so familiar with the streets of London or set up the Homeless Network in the first place?) I turned and strode away. A new case – better yet, a potential serial killer! – and a new recruit for the Network. So far, this was shaping up to be a very good day.
Okay, I originally intended for this story to be a one-shot, but a reviewer requested a Scotland Yard chapter and I wanted to write it, so I figured, why not? ;) Hope you liked it and if you read, please review!