2. The Visit.
T: All warnings remain as they were, I own the plot and at least 98% of Guthrie's personality, though his name and everything else you see here is defiantly not mine…mores the pity!
O
Curiosity eventually wins out and he works his way, slowly, to the intercom
"Who is it?"
"Paterson Guthrie, Dr Watson, Mr. Holmes sent me."
Given the frankly startling amount of effort Sherlock had put into 'dying' her can't quite picture him being the 'Mr. Holmes' in question here, plus the formality in the phrasing and intonation of the statement speaks of someone used to a 'higher class' of living which, in turn, all but screams of Mycroft.
He'd not talked to the elder Holmes sibling since…ah apparently not since he'd interrupted that moment of typical Holmesian sibling rivalry…and he'd begun to believe that he was being avoided out of some deep seated guilt for following along with Sherlock's foolishness.
Hmmm, well he wasn't going to prove or disprove that particular theory simply mulling it over in his head and it was likely to be somewhat damp out there right now what with the combination of morning due and the early morning mist, thus buzzing the guy in really was the most logical step forward.
Paterson Guthrie looks as a hundred other men he's passed on the street rushing towards some business meeting or another, all sharply ironed suit and tight crop hair. There are hints, however, that it has not always been as such, the trailing edge of some tattoo or another vanishing its way beneath his left shirt sleeve, the hint of scarring at his left ear that suggests it was pierced at one point or another.
That he is wearing Converses of a pillbox red that visibly clashes with the dark blue of his suit and the hint of…something…there in mismatched eyes, are shows that his recent conformity has been enforced, that he is stubborn enough to rebel a little against said enforcement and yet either too afraid or too nice to push the point too hard.
Each deduction filters through his head in Sherlock's voice and, as he walks this stranger into their living room, he is more than aware that he is missing at least twenty other little details that would bring life and depth to his 'tip of the iceberg' observations.
He falls into the hosting habit of offering and making tea before settling down in his stiff, high backed, chair and enquiring,
"You work for Mycroft, right?"
"I have the honor of being Mr. Holmes's Personal Assistant."
"Right, ok I don't know what 'Mr. Holmes' has been telling you but I'm not completely soft in the head. That means that a) I'm not buying all this 'good little servant' BS you're giving me right now and that b) I do happen to remember things that happened more than a day ago and that I, therefore, remember that Mycroft's PA is a woman."
"Please like someone as self important as he is would only have one PA, though I will assure you that I'm the highest position of authority." Of course one didn't have to be Sherlock to detect the undercurrent of a much larger issue and, somewhat keen to move on before he allowed his 'bedside manner' get the better of him, he enquires,
"So you're here because?"
"He sent me here to give you some paperwork…though he was a little vague on the details."
There had been a letter about that paperwork, a typed, detached thing that Mycroft had signed at some point after it'd been typed and that he'd thrown without really taking in any of the details.
Mycroft was intelligent enough to know that he'd have reacted as such, which well explains Guthrie's presence and yet then why send the man in so very unprepared?
"It's a cover story, right?"
"Yeh, that's what I'm thinking too. You see the truth is that Mycroft is as ignorant as you are about where Sherlock's gotten himself to or what he's up to, which worries him, but of course Mycroft's pride won't let him admit that."
"So why do you think he's really sent you here?"
"To apologies for allowing Sherlock to manipulate him into playing along with his game for this long and to offer you all the help you could ever possibly need to find him again."
"No offence, Mr. Guthrie, but it would have been more helpful if he'd come himself."
The other smiles a warm sort of smile that talks of a friendly, easy going character, or, alternately, the bright falsehood of a conman's charm, before responding,
"I'd tell you that getting his hands dirty isn't really Mycroft's style but I think you know that's a lie despite all Sherlock's done to convince you otherwise. Thing is, Dr. Watson, he's pretty guilty right now, which means he can't bring himself to even talk to you on the phone let alone face to face." The smile grows that little stronger as the other adds, "Plus 'past life' experience means I'm pretty good at this investigation lark."
"You were a Journalist, weren't you?" The instant he poses the question he can see the shape of the logic behind it, can see the little strings of clues connecting together in a beautifully concise whole and yet he can not quite grasp why he had thought to ask it…it is a strange sensation, almost as though his mind is not quite his own anymore.
"I prefer the term 'investigative reporter', Dr Watson, separates me from those wannabes who 'write' for the redtops."
"Ok so now I'm officially curious as to just how that 'past life' leads into you being a PA for one of the country's most powerful man."
"For the moment lets just settle with 'it just kind of happened', shall we?"
A long, stagnant, silence in which they both seem to be waiting for the other to fill the void, before his fatigue warn patience collapses and he breaks the thing with a statement of,
"Ok then, so I'm basically at a dead end right now, so please, offer me some amazing journalistic insight!"
"The first thought would be that he's left because of Moriaty, because he wants to carry on chasing after him without having to worry about other people, however, if that'd been the case…"
"He'd have gone in the hours after the bomb, which he didn't."
"No, which means either he lost Moriaty after the incident and only caught up with him recently…or…" He feels very exposed as that sentence trails away, which is ridiculous, because no matter what his stupid brain keeps telling him there's no way in hell Sherlock's done this stupid thing just because he got shot.
In his minds eye he recalls again the look in Sherlock's eyes as he'd stuck out at the shooter…recalls the sure and certain feeling he'd had that the younger man was going to kill the other right there in front of him.
He feels sick and lost and so desperately in need of a drink that he's up on his feet enquiring, "Care to join me?" without as much as an explanation to the other of where, precisely, he was going.
It's a habit he knows he's picked up from being around Sherlock, from having the younger man constantly reading his thoughts from the strangest of things and answering questions, contradicting conclusions, without him ever giving them voice.
It's also, apparently, something Guthrie is used to as, once he has reclaimed his coat and brief case he states,
"I know just the place."
O
He'd mostly been expecting some form of up market pub on the west end, the sort of pub that 'someone like him' couldn't wonder into without being stared at until one felt uncomfortable enough to leave again. Though a tiny part of his head had thought that, perhaps, the other would lead him to a really gritty back water sort of place on the dock front…a place full of life and character and all the things a journalist needed to make 'connections'.
What he'd not even considered was that the other would lead him right to the grandiose styling of the Diogenes Club and walk him through high, vaulted, entrance hall to a quite little corner of a plush, plush, dining room.
Paintings adorn every nook and cranny of wall space, the fine brushwork and simple subject matter screaming of three figure sums. The chair he's gently guided into is of the really soft, soft, leather that he'd day dreamed over during many a long night of his residency and that he knows costs more than his monthly rent.
All in all he feels small, insignificant and yet somehow Guthrie manages to look at home despite the impression his 'past life' is making still on his appearance.
"So I'm guessing this is some form of cruel journalistic tact? Get me out of my comfort zone so I'm all unbalanced and then get me saying things I wouldn't say otherwise."
"You see and now you're insulting my intelligence. Of course a well seasoned army veteran such as yourself isn't going to crack under such a childish scheme. In truth I brought you here because, unlike your local, you can get utterly drunk and shout your mouth off without fear said shouting being splashed across the tabloids the next day."
There's something else, he's not quite sure how he knows, but the understanding clicks his brain back into the safer path of investigation…has his minds eye splashing the mental image of wild curls and even wider smile, along with the phrase `the games afoot` there in his hind brain.
He smiles for the first time in what seems an eternity, twists a little in his seat to redistribute his weight a little away from his leg and enquires,
"Ok so how'd I go about following through that 'get utterly drunk' plan of yours?"
O
T: Next chapter will hopefully be next week, until then how about a review?