The Case of the Man in Iron
Ch. 2: Just Follow My Lead
If there's one thing on earth that Sherlock Holmes hates more than a dull case, it's having no case whatsoever. As he stares into the empty glass tumbler in his hand, Sherlock imagines he can quite literally feel the ever so slow decay of neurons and synapses as his brain cells wither from disuse. One might dare say he's becoming mediocre in his forced retirement.
And oh, how it was forced. Apparently a man could not let the world believe him dead for a few months without there being certain…consequences upon his reemergence to the world of the living. Oh, Watson had forgiven him, eventually, but their already tumultuous friendship was even more strained than before and there was no question of him ever joining Sherlock on another case again.
"Not that I have any cases," Sherlock mutters as he pours two more fingers of scotch into his glass. Another consequence of "faking your own goddamn bloody death" was no longer being privy to Scotland Yard cases. Yes, detective inspector Lestrade had made it quite clear to Sherlock that the Queen's finest had no more need of his consulting services, something about being made fools of and whatnot. As if they needed his assistance with that.
Another thing Sherlock hadn't foreseen was the fact that, once the world thought you dead, it was quite difficult to make them believe otherwise. Many who hadn't known Sherlock personally, or as personally as any but a choice few could know him, thought him to be an imposter. Thus, the once dozens of letters he'd been used to receiving asking for his consulting assistance had dwindled considerably to but a scant few and very far between.
Needless to say, Sherlock Holmes is not taking retirement well.
Sherlock swallows the scotch with one tip of his glass and gets to his feet. He's about to check Gladstone's progress (he really should have roused by now, the sedative wasn't that strong), when he hears the telltale squeak of the second landing floor boards, signaling Mrs. Hudson's imminent arrival at his door.
"Ah, Mrs. Hudson," he says as the landlady opens the door and walks in, tea tray in hand. "Is it tea time already?"
Mrs. Hudson sets the tray on the table, studiously ignoring the unconscious bulldog lying underneath. "A bit early, today, Mr. Holmes," she says as she pulls a folded card from her pocket. "A messenger just delivered this for you."
Sherlock takes the card and flips it open, his eyebrows quirking up as words like urgent and Scotland Yard jump out at him. When he's read it twice he tosses the card aside and claps his hands together, barely able to contain his excitement at the prospect of a new case.
"Ah, dear Nanny," he says as he searches beneath piles of sundry for his waistcoat, "it seems I'll be taking tea late today." He finds his rather rumpled waistcoat beneath a stack of anatomy textbooks and begins to button it as he walks toward the door. "Oh, and do be a dove and keep an eye on Gladstone while I'm away. It's possible I may have…miscalculated something or other."
Mrs. Hudson sighs heavily, "You really have killed him this time, haven't you, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock pauses at the door and casts a brief but fond smile toward the sedated dog. "I should certainly hope not. Otherwise I'll have to find some new…means of testing my formulas." And with a wink he's gone, leaving Mrs. Hudson with the sudden resolution to never again share the same pot of tea with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock is met outside the entrance to Scotland Yard by a very perplexed looking inspector Lestrade and two policemen who can't seem to take their eyes off him.
"Well, Inspector, here I am as you so urgently requested. How may I be of service to you?" Sherlock continues without letting the other man respond, "Although, why you would be requesting my services is something of a mystery considering the last time we spoke you made it quite clear that Scotland Yard no longer had any need of me."
Lestrade glares at him. "Yes, well extenuating circumstances and all that."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow and sweeps Lestrade with a critical eye. "Are we still playing this game? Your handcuffs are missing and there's red clay on your boots, which means you've recently been to Market Town where you only step foot to make an arrest. Your officers keep staring at me as if I've been speaking in tongues this entire time. So tell me, inspector, who do you currently have in custody and what connection could they possibly have with me?"
Sherlock smirks as Lestrade's jaw tightens and he can see the inspector willing himself not to react in any physical way. "There was an incident at Market this morning, and if you could answer a few questions…"
But Sherlock is already moving around him and the two officers are parting to let him through. Sherlock walks into the station and all conversation stops as his presence becomes known. It is a somewhat unnerving phenomenon but Sherlock presses on, especially when he hears a voice coming from the back holding cells.
"Hey, somebody wanna tell me what's going on?"
American male. Caucasian. Spends time on the east and west coast. Interesting.
As Sherlock makes his way toward the back of the station, the voice becomes louder, clearer.
"What am I, invisible? Rhetorical question, I see you staring at me, Opie."
Approximately 5'7" to 5'10". Between 160 and 170 pounds. Mid to late…thirties…
Sherlock knows which cell he needs by the number of officers congregated in front of it, all trying to look busy and not like they're completely engrossed with whoever's behind the cell bars.
"Seriously, guys, I'm not gonna bite. I can play nice. That whole thing earlier was an accident. How's your friend's nose, by the way? Not broken I—"
Sherlock catches a flash of metallic red as one of the officers shifts to the side, and suddenly he's forgotten how to walk because he's staring at himself behind bars in a bizarre suit of armor. The man who looks so much like Sherlock that they could be twins is staring back at him with his eyes and moving his mouth open and closed and it's decidedly not his voice saying, "Holy shit," that brings Sherlock back to his senses and his feet are moving again.
With three long strides he's got his hands wrapped around the iron bars, face mere inches from the other man's. "Who are you?" he says in a low, harsh whisper.
The man smirks and mimics Sherlock's low tone. "I don't suppose the name Iron Man means anything to you. Name's Tony Stark," he says as the smirk expands into a grin, "And you must the mysterious Sherlock Holmes." At Sherlock's raised eyebrow, Stark continues, "Yeah, they've been talking about you all morning around here. Well, after they realized that I wasn't you."
Shocked, Sherlock takes a moment to further study the man before him. At such close proximity the similarities between them are even more staggering, right down to the copper flecks in the dark brown irises that Sherlock sees in the mirror every morning and night, now being reflected in the eyes of this man who is him but not.
He is somewhat relieved to note the small differences between them, even if they are superficial. The shorter hair style not yet graying at the temples, the slightly tanned skin developed from spending days under a sun that isn't constantly overcast by English clouds, the close cropped Van Dyke beard that Sherlock should not find appealing at all, and the small scars, which Sherlock has as well, although in different places and certainly for different reasons.
His attention is caught once again by a flash of metallic red and Sherlock takes a step back to get a better view of the red and gold armor that encases Stark from the neck down. It's like nothing Sherlock has ever seen and he is fascinated, possibly even more so than by the doppelganger wearing it. His gaze is drawn to the center of the chest piece where a small, circular glass lens seems to be embedded in the metal armor and his fingers itch to reach through the bars of the cell, to touch and examine and understand.
There's a sharp intake of breath and Sherlock looks up to see Stark, head tilted slightly forward and to the side, staring at him with a look on his face that even Sherlock Holmes can't quite comprehend.
Stark opens his mouth to speak but a voice behind Sherlock cuts him off. "Well, isn't this cozy then?" Lestrade shoulders past the officers that have formed a ring of sorts around Sherlock, holding something, was that a helmet? aloft in his hands.
Stark's face lights up at the sight and presses against the bars. "Hey, that's mine!"
Lestrade shrugs. "One of the boys caught a peddler trying to hawk it in Market Town."
"Sweet, gimme," Stark says, wiggling his ungloved fingers through the bars and Sherlock is suddenly reminded of a child tugging on his father's trouser leg, begging for a piece of candy or new toy at market. The image is amusing and disquieting all at once and Sherlock quickly banishes it.
Lestrade, however, is in no mood to play the indulgent father and holds the helmet, definitely a helmet, away from Stark's reaching fingers. "I want some answers first and then, maybe, I'll let you have this."
Sherlock watches as Stark steps back from the bars and straightens his back, shoulders squared as all traces of childlike amusement vanish from his face. "You really don't want to mess with my stuff, dude."
And maybe it's the quiet promise in Stark's voice, Sherlock thinks, or the unmistakable way his feet shift seamlessly into an offensive position, as if he's about to lunge, crashing through the bars at any moment, that makes Lestrade for once in his career actually stop and observe what's going on in front of him, because the inspector's jaw snaps tight and his lips thin into a grim, pensive little line as he regards Stark through the cell bars.
Sherlock's known Lestrade long enough to know when the man is about to become stubborn and he has too many questions for Tony Stark to let Lestrade throw him in some dark cell for a week until he's ready to cooperate. Sherlock turns his face to the bars and holds Stark's eyes with his for one intense moment before he winks and turns towards Lestrade, hands in the air as if in surrender.
"Well, I think this little game has gone on quite long enough," he says and turns back to Tony as he continues, "Don't you, cousin Tony?"
There's half a moment of startled silence before Tony's eyes catch his and he replies, "Absolutely. Cousin Sherlock. You're totally right."
"Hold on now," Lestrade says, pointing a finger at Sherlock. "You expect me to believe this man is your cousin?"
"Well there is a remarkable family resemblance, don't you think? The Starks are distant relations from the Americas. Cousin Tony here has just popped down for a nice visit."
"And what about that thing he's wearing?" Lestrade demands, clearly not buying into another of Sherlock Holmes' stories. "Witnesses say he fell out of the bloody sky."
"Circus folk," Sherlock gestures dramatically and drops his voice. "Black sheep of the family, never mention them to mother."
"Circus folk…"
"Indeed. This morning my dear cousin was giving me a demonstration of his act and, well, things didn't quite go as planned, did they cousin?"
Tony just shakes his head, doing his best to look embarrassed.
Lestrade thrusts the helmet in Sherlock's direction. "What kind of circus act—"
"Human cannon ball," Tony blurts, earning him a grin from Sherlock.
"Exactly right. Human cannon ball. The suit is mostly for aesthetic purposes. The act is marvelous really, or would have been, if someone had calibrated the cannon properly," Sherlock says pointedly.
Tony raises an eyebrow. "I find that offensive, cousin. As if I don't know how to calibrate my own cannon."
"Did you remember to adjust—"
"For North Atlantic wind currents? Uh yeah."
"Well obviously something—"
"Enough!" Lestrade shouts, shoving the helmet into Sherlock's hands. He pulls a key ring from his belt and unlocks the cell door, swinging it open. "Mary Mother in Heaven I can't handle the two of you. Holmes, take your cousin and keep him off my streets for the rest of his visit. And if I hear so much as a peep coming from Baker Street I'll lock the both of you up. Do you understand me?"
"Absolutely," Sherlock and Tony say at the same time and Lestrade cringes.
"Out of my station, the both of you."
"Well," Sherlock says as he hands Tony the helmet, "shall we?"
Tony hesitates, gesturing to himself. "I'm not exactly dressed in street clothes."
"And I don't suppose you can just…"
Tony shakes his head, but grins. "Not here," he says and Sherlock sees the look return to his face, the look he can't quite read, "but take me back to your place and I guarantee to blow your mind."
"I'm not quite sure what that means," Sherlock says as his lips turn up at the corners, "but I think I would very much like to find out."