We just want to thank everyone who favourited and reviewed our story, as well as those who put this story on Story Alert and us on Author Alert! You are all wonderful darlings who have probably understood the agony of watching Reichenbach Falls and never wanting to live ever again. Let us share our agony in our crack! No angst in this chapter though. We'll get there...eventually.
John was a very simple man to please. A bit of peace and quiet, a good shower, his favorite snug bathrobe and he was set. At least, until the next time Sherlock started annoying him again. Still, he thought as he put on his bathrobe, hopefully the consulting detective would be too preoccupied with the FBI thing to bother him for a bit. Maybe he could even do a little sightseeing without Sherlock. The thought cheered him up a great deal, and he was smiling to himself as he threw his towel over his shoulder, ready to leave the bathroom.
Just as he was about to turn the doorknob, he heard a loud crashing from outside, and someone shouting, "FBI!" He froze. He hadn't expected the sodding FBI to show up so quickly. A part of him admired the efficiency of the FBI, but another part was going, 'I'm in my bathrobe.'
Should he go out now? Should he wait till Sherlock had explained everything? What if they checked the bathroom and thought he was trying to hide from them in here? Would they shoot him on sight? Do they shoot on sight? He tried to think of what little he knew of FBI procedures. After a split second of consideration, he decided he'd come out of the bathroom. He opened the door slowly, trying not to startle people with guns.
A group of people, all with their guns out, were in the room. An older, grim-faced man and a brunette woman were pointing their guns at Sherlock, who was sat on the only couch in the room. The others – a tall, intimidatingly muscular man and a slighter and younger-looking man – had their guns trained on him. He raised his hands up.
Sherlock merely said calmly, "John, this is the FBI."
Emily frowned in confusion at the sight of the men; they hadn't profiled a partner. Her frown deepened further when she heard the man on the couch speak– he was British, cultured and definitely not someone local. She raised an eyebrow at the man in the doorway of the bathroom, dressed in his bathrobe and looking rightfully bewildered. "Are you John Watson?" she demanded; Garcia had prattled off the details of the person the hotel room had been booked under, and judging by the name the dark haired man had uttered, the wide-eyed blonde man in the bathroom doorway was the person who had sent the text.
"Hullo," John offered them lamely, even mustering the courage to wave stiffly at them. "Right, um, I'm not quite sure what Sherlock's told you, but um. We've only just got here."
She raised an eyebrow at his accent; English, cultured yet again. Neither of these men was a local. It didn't take her skills in linguistics to conclude that – even Hotch seemed to be faltering in his step at the British man's utterance. Still she glared at the man suspiciously. Accents were simple to imitate, given the experience and skill, and they had profiled their UnSub to be a man of above average intelligence. Most killers were of above average intelligence – she'd never say it aloud, but some perhaps had a higher IQ than Reid.
"Our Technical Analyst tracked a cellphone to this hotel room," she told them, eyeing John dangerously; daring him to deny the allegation. When the man lowered his gaze to the one he called Sherlock, her grip on her gun tightened.
Sherlock spoke, and Hotch took a menacing step forward. "Yes, that would be my doing." The man raised an eyebrow at the gun that was rather close to his face, blue eyes tracking up to the stone-set of Hotch's face. His eyes flickered and darted about the federal agent, stowing away what information his body seemed to betray him of, and Sherlock smiled a slow, crooked smile. "I see you've been having trouble with apprehending your murderer, agent. It was a very close profile, but no cigar, I'm afraid."
Hotch scowled at the smirk on Sherlock's face. Narcissistic UnSubs always tempted his temper; the fact that their hands were covered in blood seemed to get them off, and this man before him seemed to be no exception. "How do I know I'm not looking at him?" he growled.
From behind him, Reid appeared at his side, next to Emily. Hotch's eyes darted to where the younger man was murmuring into the woman's ear, brow furrowing at the way Sherlock was watching in amusement. He waited impatiently for Emily to turn to him, and stared at her expectantly.
"They're not our UnSubs, Hotch," she told him, lowering her gun slowly. The man was dubious still, but she motioned to the passports that lay open on the desk. "They're fresh off the plane – they can't possibly be our guy. They're British."
"And our UnSub is a man that is used to physical exertion and being exposed to the sun. He should be tan and with extensive upper body strength," Reid piped up, glancing at John and Sherlock apologetically. "They're…not." He smiled awkwardly at them. "No offense."
Sherlock inclined his head calmly. "None taken in the slightest," he assured the man. He cast his sharp eyes in the younger man's direction, eyes widening imperceptibly.
Presently Emily had managed to coax Hotch into lowering his gun, and the man now stood tense and distrustful before him. Hotch frowned still at Sherlock, not liking the way the man's bright eyes seemed to probe into their minds and stared right through their Kevlar. He hadn't doubted the fact that this man wasn't their UnSub, but what troubled him was the fact that Sherlock could very possibly pass as one. Like Emily and Reid, he had seen the passports and taken note of the accents, but he had seen many an UnSub that matched Sherlock to a T.
He holstered his gun regardless. A jerk of his head and the rest of the SWAT team departed, leaving the BAU team to their own devices. Four trained FBI agents could handle themselves against two grown men, couldn't they?
The world would end before Aaron Hotchner let another UnSub get the better of him.
"Right, well," John began, shuffling around Morgan and Reid, eyeing the broad chested, muscular federal agent as he moved towards Sherlock. "I suppose it's best that we be acquainted so we can stop pointing guns at each other, yeah?" He thrust out his hand awkwardly towards Hotch, swallowing nervously when the man eyed his hand before carefully accepting it. "Dr. John Watson, sir. The ah…man staring at your crotch is Sherlock Holmes."
The rest of the room eyed Sherlock oddly as the man pulled his gaze from the front of Hotch's pants swiftly, glaring at John petulantly. "I was looking at his belt buckle," he muttered, before shooting the rest of the team members a beaming smile. "Sherlock Holmes; at your service." He inclined his head in a bow of sorts – evidently, he wasn't in the mood to get up out of his seat.
Hotch pursed his lips, but motioned towards the others. "I'm Agent Hotchner – these are my team members; Agents Prentiss and Morgan, and Dr. Reid." Each of them nodded their heads at John and Sherlock, Reid waving at them awkwardly yet again. "You know why we're here."
"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, at the end of that debacle, a steady gaze studying the FBI team. He stood up, breaking eye contact abruptly and said, "I can help you solve your case."
It wasn't a suggestion, nor was it a question. It wasn't an empty boast either. It was simply a statement, made by a man who was so confident in his abilities that he felt no need to reinforce his words with more words. The results would prove him right.
Agent Prentiss shook her head and asked, "Who are you?"
"The world's only consulting detective. Look me up on the Internet."
John interrupted, "You'd have to click the second link, if you're using Google." His housemate frowned at him, clearly displeased.
"What's the first link?" Dr. Reid asked.
"That'd be my blog," John answered, trying not to smile or laugh or do anything that might give away his slightly perverse pleasure in knowing that his blog is infinitely more popular than Sherlock's website. Sherlock's frown deepened.
"Your…blog?"
"We solve crimes together, and then I blog about it."
There was an uneasy silence, and questioning looks from the agents. John cleared his throat, trying to think of some way to validate his claims. They could just get a laptop and Google for the agents to see. He wished he'd asked the reception earlier for the password to the wireless. Or maybe one of the agents has one of those fancy phones that could go online?
Agent Morgan, the wall of muscle that John assumed could probably smash both him and Sherlock into the hotel floor and send them into the floor below them, scoffed. "We busted wannabe detectives." He shook his head derisively. "That's fresh. Man, you realize you could just apply for the FBI or Scotland Yard or whatever it is that you have over there. You don't need to run around playing pretend."
"Kindly tell that to Mr. Holmes, please," John muttered. Although he couldn't help the anger and righteous indignation he felt at the FBI agent mocking Sherlock's analytical skills. They didn't know Sherlock – he'd have their man in a blink and two shakes if he wanted to. "He's…different. He's not like the Yard," he clarified.
Agent Prentiss raised an eyebrow. "Evidently," she muttered. "This guy hacked into a private press conference of the FBI. If anyone at the Yard did that, we'd be looking at political collateral damage." The thought of handling both American and British politics made her stomach roil. Emily hated politics, of every sort. Flying across the ocean hardly changed anything.
Dr. Reid though, seemed more curious about Sherlock than anyone else. "What exactly is a consulting detective?" he questioned the man. "Are you a PI of some sort?"
A slow, crooked smile spread across Sherlock's face. "Allow me to demonstrate."
Before any of them could say anything, Sherlock turned towards Agent Hotchner.
"Agent Hotchner," he said in a low voice. John knew that tone of voice, has heard it countless times, and has actually been subject to it several times himself. It was the tone Sherlock adopted whenever he was about to….present his analytical deduction.
The consulting detective started, speaking so fast even John needed a few seconds to catch what he was saying at first, "Your clothes are creased in corners and rumpled; evidently they've been worn a while. Since it's only slightly past midday, I'd say you didn't go home last night. Your fingertips have smudges of black ink; you were at the office then, going through this case, thumbing through records and documents."
He stopped for a split second, presumably to catch his breath, and continued, "You had a wife, who left you a while ago, suggested by the fading tan line on your ring finger; she probably left because of your obvious workaholic nature. Also, your clothes, despite being crumpled, are worn immaculately, so you wouldn't let just anyone tie a wonky tie for you. You have a child then, maybe a son, still not too good with a tie. And now this was a little tricky; your gun holster is on your right hip and your dominant hand while holding your gun was your right hand, yet there are writing calluses and the ink stains are on your left hand. So, I'd say you're ambidextrous. Have I got that right, Agent?" he ended, a triumphant smile on his face.
Silence in the room again, though this time it was more of the stunned variety.
And suddenly, Agent Hotchner had a gun pointed at Sherlock again. John instinctively took a step towards Sherlock, but was stopped in his tracks when two guns pointed his way. "Alright, alright," he said, putting his hands up again. He heard Sherlock scoff, just a tiny little bit, and from where he was, he could clearly see a look of arrogance on Sherlock's face.
Agent Hotchner tensed and his finger looked dangerously close to squeezing the trigger of the gun. John wanted to say something, do something before anything happened, but just then, Agent Prentiss wrapped her hand around Agent Hotchner's wrist.
"Hotch," she said, still gripping his wrist. He glanced at her and then turned to look at Sherlock again. In what was another one of those moments where time seemed to stop, Agent Hotchner finally lowered his gun. The other two men followed suit. Before any of them could comment on what just happened, Agent Hotchner was on the move again, this time twisting Sherlock's arm around his back and handcuffing his hands together.
"What do you think you're doing?" John protested. Oddly enough, Sherlock still had a glimmer of smile on his face. How that man could stay so calm under such dire circumstances was beyond John. Perhaps Sherlock would have done well at Afghanistan. Perhaps he would have coped better with it. But John shook all thought of the war from his mind; no point dwelling on it, especially when something dangerous was happening right now.
"Arresting your partner for interfering with a federal case," Agent Hotchner said through gritted teeth. The underlying reason was of course, glibly ignored by the rest of his team.
"He is not my partner, not that way," John said instantly. It was almost a reflex now, though nobody ever listened. And he was right, no one listened, or at least, no one responded to it. "Well, then are you going to arrest me too?" John asked, a hint of belligerence in his voice.
"I thought you said you weren't his partner," Agent Morgan retorted, definitely not smiling, though there was something in his voice that sounded as if he was mocking or teasing John. "Oh, so finally someone hears what I say," John said. Agent Morgan smirked and glanced at Dr. Reid. Even John caught the look Dr. Reid shot back at the man. He cleared his throat, "We are partners, sort of. Just not…oh, you know what, just forget it." He simply walked up to the man and threw a punch at his face. Not too hard, he didn't want to actually draw blood, just aggravate the man enough to be arrested. He didn't have to worry though, Agent Morgan barely reeled back from the punch. But it did achieve what John wanted; he was, quite suddenly, down on the ground, his left cheek pressed against the musty hotel carpet, with his hands twisted behind his back. He could feel the sharp bite of handcuffs snapping over his wrists.
He grinned at Sherlock from across the room. Sometimes, he questioned where his sanity had disappeared off to since he met Sherlock Holmes.
A/N: Okay, we promise that more things will happen soon, that actually relate to the case. Reviews and favourites are, as always, appreciated. :D
