"Sherlock, stop it," John muttered sternly, crouched over the body, his eyes flickering between the mess of the victim's head and his infuriating flatmate.
"Stop what, John?" Sherlock asked innocently, miming vacancy.
"Stop glaring at him!" John snapped. "You're making him uncomfortable!"
"I'm making him uncomfortable?" Sherlock muttered back indignantly. "I am mentally scarred, thanks to him!"
"As you keep saying!" John retorted irritably, pulling on some latex gloves. "But no need to keep antagonising him about it!"
Detective Inspector Lestrade was standing a considerable distance away, firmly keeping his eyes trained on his phone. He was right on the outskirts of the crime scene- Embankment, near the river, and it was causing quite a fuss with the rubber neckers and tourists- avoiding Sherlock Holmes at all costs, but occasionally sparing a fleeting glance to the angered man, and blushing embarrassedly every time he saw Sherlock glaring.
"There's every reason to keep antagonising him about it," Sherlock said in a deep voice, intensifying his death-stare for the DI just as Lestrade peeked another look at the two of them.
"How about, instead of making him feel bad about pursuing a relationship for the first time in five years, you focus on the case, Sherlock?" John asked exasperatedly. He was missing a potentially successful date in return for chasing a killer around London.
"Boring. Clearly it was her own mother. She usually wears a heavy pendant around her neck, and it's gone, as you can see from tan lines and worn skin. Probably because she was going to sell it or give it away. Family heirloom that's been passed from mother to daughter for years. Victim gives an indication that she's going to get rid of it, and the mother reacts. Boring! Bored! Go find the mother, and you'll find the pendant, and most likely the blunt instrument used to kill her."
"I'm not going to do that! Go tell Lestrade yourself, you child!" John reprimanded, annoyed at Sherlock's attitude. Lestrade had been gracious enough to even give Sherlock a case, after the debacle at Mycroft's house, but had resignedly kept far away, letting Donovan deal with them and lead them to the woman with the bashed in head.
"I'm not talking to him!" Sherlock replied resentfully, pouting like a teenage girl, and glaring even more at Lestrade, who was shuffling awkwardly as he felt the death-stare increase by one Sherlockimeter. Death-stares, John knew, were measured in intensity of Sherlockity.
"Fine!" John said, standing up and pulling off his gloves, throwing them in Sherlock's face. "You're being totally unreasonable! I don't understand you."
"Not many people do," Sherlock replied coolly, also standing, and thrusting the gloves back into John's hands.
"Have you two done, then?" It was Sally, approaching them from behind.
"Yes, it was the mother. Simple really. You need to-"
"Whatever, Freak, go tell Lestrade. I need a coffee," Sally said wearily, rubbing a hand over her face.
Sherlock looked pointedly at John, who sighed.
"Sherlock isn't talking to Lestrade, at the moment," John said, like he was speaking something utterly absurd. Which he was.
"What, why not?" Sally demanded, looking over her shoulder to Lestrade, who was talking to Gregson.
"Because he's upset with him for shagging his brother," John said bluntly. "I could do with a coffee too, you know."
"You have a brother?" Sally asked, astounded, rounding on Sherlock, who looked impatient.
"Yes. A slimy, secretive, obnoxious bastard of a brother. And I was unlucky enough to accidentally witness their...liaison." Sherlock spoke with disdain.
"No! You barged into their bedroom unannounced!" John corrected. "And now he's all uppity about it. As if it's their fault."
"It is their fault!" Sherlock exclaimed. "What is wrong with them?"
"Maybe they actually like each other," John said despairingly. It was like reasoning with a brick wall.
"No need to do...that, though," Sherlock mumbled, and screwed up his face in the memory.
"I don't want to know!" Sally said, looking rather sympathetic for Sherlock. Maybe she had also had an unfortunate incident with a family member.
"Just tell him, the mother is your murderer," Sherlock said stoutly, and headed for the main road. At that moment, his phone started to ring from his pocket.
"Oh what now?" he said distractedly, pulling the phone out of his pocket. He made a disgusted noise when he saw who it was, but answered it anyway.
"I expect at least a puppy and a new chemistry set, after the terrors you have inflicted upon me," he snarled into the phone.
"That'll be Mycroft," John muttered.
"Mycroft? Were their parents lunatics?" Sally asked. "I'm going to grab a Starbucks from just down the road. Do you want to come with?"
"No no, I think somebody needs to stay here to keep him from throwing a tantrum. Thanks anyway."
Sally shrugged and walked away just as Sherlock yelled, "I'm not being juvenile, Mycroft, you're being...being...gross!"
John sighed. "Sherlock..."
"No, I absolutely will not talk to him!" Sherlock was ranting. "How do you even-"
He whirled around and his eyes landed on a lone well-dressed figure several feet away from the crime scene, who had a small video camera in their hands.
"Spying again, Mycroft!" Sherlock sneered, but it seemed the elder Holmes said something which made Sherlock redden. "I was not!"
John was waiting for something to blow up, like the moon, or possibly a nearby planet, such was the levels at which these two siblings fought.
"Fine!" Sherlock shouted. "Fine! I'll give it to him!"
And he flounced off towards Lestrade, who looked alarmed as he saw the great mass of flapping coat and indignant hair storming towards him.
"Here!" he thrust the telephone at Lestrade, who tentatively took it.
"Hello?" he said into the receiver.
John wasn't a master at reading faces, but even he could see the changes in Lestrade's tense expression as soon as he heard Mycroft's voice.
Sherlock, however, was having a major sulk, and muttering curses under his breath.
"Oh! Oh, um, okay," Lestrade said. "Yes, that- er- that would be lovely."
Sherlock huffed angrily, bristling like a bird, puffing out his metaphorical feathers in anger.
"Alright. I'll see you on Saturday then. Smart wear?" Lestrade was smiling slightly. "Okay. No, no, don't worry about that! I'll deal with him! Okay. Bye."
He hung up and gave the phone to Sherlock.
"Stop bloody grinning," Sherlock grumbled, snatching it back. "He invited you to the Christmas party."
"Um, yes. Yes he did," Lestrade said warily, as if Sherlock might bite him or something.
"Well! Have fun!" he sounded more and more like a petulant child, and turned on his heel and stalked off.
Lestrade looked a little startled.
"If you were hoping for his blessing, that's about as much as you'll get," John told him with a smirk. Lestrade went slightly pink.
John jogged after Sherlock, who had made it to the main road and was hailing a cab.
"Why are you in such a bad mood?" he demanded, as soon as they were in the taxi.
"Because!" Sherlock postulated. "He's Lestrade! Mycroft probably only wants him to perform government experiments on."
"Don't be ridiculous!" John said, really on his last tether. "Why can't you be pleased for them?"
Sherlock gave him a withering look.
John inwardly sighed. God, give me strength. "What's this Christmas party that you mentioned?"
"Mother always holds an annual Christmas party up in the country for the whole family. I deduced that Mycroft has asked Lestrade to go as his...date," Sherlock had a sickened look on his face, that John wanted to slap off him.
"Are you going to this?" he pressed.
"No."
And that was that.
It took far long for John to realise that they weren't headed for Baker Street. John could have smacked himself on the head, his observational skills were so awful.
"Where are we going?" John asked.
"You'll see."
"Are you always this cryptic when you're in a bad mood?"
"No."
John rolled his eyes. He pulled out his phone, and opened the GPS app. The little blinking arrow on the map that represented his whereabouts indicated they were heading towards Richmond.
"Will I be back before eight o'clock?" he inquired.
"You can catch it on iPlayer, John," Sherlock said with a small smirk, which John tried to hate, but honestly loved.
"Fine."
There was more silence. John prayed to god that Sherlock had cash, because they were accruing quite a hefty bill.
They passed through Richmond and into Twickenham.
"Are you taking me somewhere to murder me?" John asked, quite seriously, but it made Sherlock laugh, his sullen expression lifting.
"No, no."
"Please! Just tell me! I hate surprises!"
"Five more minutes."
John gave in to his fate, and looked out the window. He saw that the houses they were passing were getting increasingly larger.
"Just here will do," Sherlock told the cabbie, and they stopped outside of a large townhouse, painted white with an iron fence around it. There was a small lawn and several potted plants outside, and a woman was standing by the doorway.
"Sherlock!" she greeted, as the two men stepped out. "Put that wallet away, I'll get it!"
John looked inquisitively at Sherlock, but was ignored.
"You must be Doctor Watson," she said, stepping out of the doorway and up the path. The iron gate creaked as she opened it, and she went up to the cabbie, opening the large purse in her hand and extracting a fifty pound note.
"Yes I am," John said with a smile. She turned to him and shook his hand. She was taller than him by an inch, and had dark hair streaked liberally with grey pinned back by tortoise-shell clips. She dressed expensively.
"John, this is my mother," Sherlock said, somewhat stiffly.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Holmes," John said. He knew how to be charming. He knew how to make parents like him.
"Pleasure is mine," she said, eyeing him up with a slightly scary smile. She was like Mycroft in that respect. "Come in, Sherlock. I had the cook whip up a pie, when I got your text. What an unexpected surprise."
She headed back up the garden path, and Sherlock followed. John swallowed slightly, worried about entering this formidable woman's home. There were certainly no hugs and embraces in this household.
"I suppose you're here to tell me all about Mycroft's new, ah, relationship, with that policeman fellow," Mrs Holmes said, holding the door open for them. The entrance hall was cream themed, with golden trim on the wallpaper. There was a grand piano in the corner, and four doors on each wall. A spiral staircase led to the upstairs. John gaped.
"It seems you've kept the security tag on him even in his old age?" Sherlock asked wryly.
"Of course," Mrs Holmes said, returning her son's smirk as she took their coats. "Silly boy can run away with himself sometimes."
"Mother used to be MI6, John," Sherlock told him, running a finger over the piano, before dumping his scarf and gloves on the top. "She was a spy during the 70s, and Mycroft used to enjoy the bedtime stories."
John nodded, but honestly couldn't imagine Mycroft as a child at all, so the image was ruined.
"Well, hopefully your goons do a better job at subterfuge than his do!" Sherlock spoke pompously. "John and I were at a crime scene today, and Mycroft's person was in plain view with a video camera in hand!"
"He's lagging," Mrs Holmes agreed. "Let's go into the living room. I haven't had a chance to catch up with you properly in a while. I'm sure you wanted to say more than just tattle on Mycroft's new boyfriend."
Sherlock nodded and followed his mother through a door into a lavish, but modestly sized living room. John's eyes were instantly glued to the sideboard which housed many framed photographs. He ambled over to them and picked up the largest. Mycroft was holding a disgruntled looking toddler who had a large mop of curly black hair. The photograph itself was black and white, but John could visualise the pale, transparent colour of his flatmate's eyes.
"Your father is out late, tonight, Sherlock, so unfortunately he won't be able to see you until Saturday."
"I'm not coming on Saturday," Sherlock said, without hesitation.
"Of course, you are," Mrs Holmes dismissed, and John chuckled at her frankness. He put the large photograph down and picked up another. A small boy with scraped knees, wearing shorts and a checked shirt, was holding out a skull to the camera. His fingers were covered in dirt, and it seemed, in his conquest, he had dug up most of the surrounding garden, but he had the most smug expression on his young face.
"No, John and I have plans for Saturday," Sherlock insisted.
"Don't lie to me, boy. You have no such thing!" Mrs Holmes declared. "John, I want you to see to it personally that Sherlock is in a cab on Saturday, wearing something respectable in time for lunch here at two!"
"Of course Mrs Holmes," John agreed, turning to face them just in time to see Sherlock frown at him. He put the picture of little Sherlock down, and picked up another. This one was of Sherlock asleep as a baby. Small fingers clasped a stuffed bear around the throat.
"You are invited too, obviously," Mrs Holmes continued. "We have been very interested in meeting you, ever since Mycroft showed us your blog."
"Oh, you read the blog?" John asked conversationally, placing the photograph down and going to sit next to Sherlock.
"Hmm, yes. Quite the adventures you have, don't you?" she asked with a small smile. "Your father finds them very amusing."
"Amusing?" John asked, somewhat defensively.
"I'll remind you, John, that that was the word you used to describe my website," Sherlock said smugly.
"Yes, well, two hundred and forty three types of tobacco ash is amusing," John ribbed good-humouredly.
"Just as amusing as convoluted and long-winded explanations of-"
He was cut off by his mother clearing her throat, and looked at his knees abashedly. John just grinned.
"Why don't you tell me what it was you wanted?" Mrs Holmes offered as a change of topics.
"Julia Rockliffe has stolen one of the pendants. I am under the impression that she thinks she will be able to use it to force the Addlestones to relent on the reimbursements that she has been paying for the last decade," Sherlock told his mother. John frowned. Was this about the case this morning? Sherlock had dismissed it quite quickly- why was he still investigating?
Mrs Holmes, however, leant back in her chair, a troubled look in her eyes, and adopted the thinking pose John had seen Sherlock use frequently.
"That is troubling."
And that was all she said on the matter.
John looked at Sherlock questioning, and thankfully the man decided to elaborate.
"I had to get the police off the investigation, John. This involves secret organisations, and it's best kept quiet. The victim was the eldest daughter of a prominent family, who have belonged to an elitist group of women- like a secret club," he sneered, and John recalled Sherlock's bouts of prejudiced misogyny, but let it slide. "But over the years it has accrued a lot of money. A lot of money. Members are known by the pendants the eldest daughter of the youngest generation wears, constantly. The pendants themselves are worth a considerable amount of money. But they're also...symbolic. Chaos could ensue if they're used wrongly."
John was still confused. "Wait, what? So, the victim, she was...Julia Rockliffe's daughter?"
"No. She would have been one of the St Claire-Smythes. Also, a prominent family. The Rockliffe's have owed a debt to the Addlestones for a long time. If Julia Rockliffe, having procured herself a pendant somehow, she can most likely force them to relent. Monetary repayments, but also...other things." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's all very dull, John, but whilst the Rockliffes are out there wreaking havoc, we need to ensure that no other innocent women get murdered in pursuit of the pendants." He cast a fleeting glance to his mother, who just smiled.
"I have it here with me," she assured, and pulled a thick chain from under her blouse. It was gold, and held a large, heavy looking oval covered in intricate designs and small inlaid diamonds. She pulled it off from around her neck, and passed it over to Sherlock, who let it fall into his palm before curling his fingers around it.
"I'll see you on Saturday, then," Mrs Holmes said with a wink. "Now, I insist we have lunch. You look like a third of Mycroft."
She led them into a dining room which held a mahogany table with six chairs around them. Mrs Holmes sat on one side, and Sherlock and John sat opposite her. John refrained from making a comment about posh upbringings when a maid brought in their lunch, but instead looked on in awe as Sherlock devoured a very large helping on pie.
Whilst the It's-All-Transport Consulting Detective laid himself upon the meal like John had been starving him for months, John made small talk with his mother. She asked how life was at the clinic, and he ended up having a laugh with her about a patient who had managed to get a variety of interesting vegetables up his rear, claiming that he had "slipped and fell".
Later, as Mrs Holmes patted Sherlock goodbye on the arm, and shook John's hand, John thought curiously about this case. It was turning out to be far more than what he had originally thought. What would he call it on his blog?
Sherlock had called for a taxi, and they rode away in silence, John trying to find adjectives that could go with "pendants".
"Stop it."
He looked up, and realised he must have been interrupting Sherlock with his loud thinking, and tried to quieten it down.
"So, what are you going to do now?" John asked. Sherlock always thought better when he talked out loud.
"Obviously, find Julia Rockliffe before she does anything stupid. Normally I wouldn't involve myself in such trivial matters, but since Mother did ask nicely..."
John tried to think back to at which point Mrs Holmes actually asked her son to do anything.
"But there's more to it! She's up to something," he frowned, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "It has something to do with Mycroft and Lestrade. But I have no idea what."
John had no idea either, but was simply pleased that his friend had forgotten his little vendetta against Lestrade.
"What about the necklace?" John prompted. Sherlock scoffed, and pulled it out of his pocket, handing it to John.
It was heavy, a solid weight in John's hand. He prised his fingernail between the two closed windows and pulled them apart. Inside were small Victorian styled silhouettes of the Holmes brothers, and John smiled. Both were easily recognisable- Mycroft from that nose, and Sherlock from the chin and hair.
"Explain more about the pendants," John asked, already imagining how he'd write the blog entry.
"There are six," Sherlock recited. "They were made in the late nineteenth century. Given to six families who had all daughters. Obviously, the names of the family changes each time, because each daughter has always gotten married in order to pass the pendant on. Now, I am to believe that the women in possession of these pendants are us, the Holmeses, the Addlestones, the St Claire-Smythes, a family that has emigrated to Australia called the Richardsons, and two others who I am unacquainted with. We will meet the Addlestones on Saturday, seeing as you so helpfully accepted my mother's invitation," Sherlock shot John a look that had no venom in it.
"What about Julia Rockliffe?"
"From what I gather, the Rockliffes used to be joined to an old family who were well connected, and also, a long time ago, owned a pendant. I imagine Julia wants it back. There's undoubtedly some boring scandal behind the story. What is interesting, though, is what my brother has to do with it."
Sherlock leant back and tucked his fingers under his chin in contemplation.
John let it go, trying to get his head around all this mumbo-jumbo. He supposed it was like how his mother was looking forward to passing on her favourite china tea set to Harry, instead of himself. It must be a woman thing.
"No, wait. How can a pendant even be that important?" John asked, getting thoroughly more and more confused. Sherlock grinned, and took the pendant back from him. He prised away the small panes of glass covering his own and his brother's profiles, and dropped them on the seat next to him, and then did the same to the tiny black and white silhouettes. John's eyes bugged out as two very large diamonds dropped onto Sherlock's hand.
"They are property of the Indian state. There are ambassadors and all sorts of spies looking for these. Twelve, in total, of flawless cut and colour. Worth, as a whole, quite a bit, John. Think of how many beers that would be." John laughed. "Mother used to tell us that, when we get married, we could give them to our daughters. It was part of a covenant the women have- if they do not have daughters of their own, they would open the pendant and give the diamonds to their granddaughters instead. Of course, I have a feeling Mother will be taking hers to the grave with her. I doubt neither Mycroft nor myself will have any offspring. Thankfully." He said the last part as an afterthought, and John almost felt sad, before he realised who it was he was feeling sad about.
"Yes, what else?"
"Well, Julia Rockliffe is going to give the pendant she has stolen to the Indian ambassador, and turn in the Addlestones, who will be arrested for thieving from the Indian state, of course. It's all an incredibly messy business of blackmail and backstabbing. Not worth my time really. If we returned all the jewels that belong to India and South Africa back to their rightful owners, the Queen would be wearing a crown that was empty except for Welsh gold!"
John shook his head. "'Diamonds are a girl's best friend' doesn't quite apply here, does it?"
Sherlock smirked. "No, not quite the right sentiment."
Sherlock replaced the diamonds and slid the pictures and the glass back into place. He then snapped shut the pendant and dropped it into his pocket again.
"Why did your mum give hers to you now then?"
"We'll need it, to entice Julia Rockliffe to come out of hiding."
"Wait a second! You told Lestrade to look for the mother of the victim!"
"And I'm sure Mrs St Clair-Smythe will know exactly what to do when the police come knocking. These aren't stupid women, John. Mrs St Clair-Smythe will be arrested for murdering her daughter, then provide an alibi, and then the government will keep it hushed up. By doing this, we offer the woman ample opportunity to realise what is happening, and she can make arrangements with the other pendant owners to find Julia Rockliffe."
"I thought that was our job."
Sherlock gave a mischievous grin. "Oh yes. But where's the fun if the murderer hasn't been harassed and harangued by a bunch of upper-class, rich, snobby women before hand?"
John smiled and shook his head. Oh, Saturday was going to be fun.
XXX
When they arrived home, the taxi fare once again having been covered by Mrs Holmes, a fancy Jaguar was seen parked on Baker Street.
"Myyyyycrooooft!" Sherlock groaned like a petulant child, and stomped his way into his flat.
Indeed, the elder Holmes was sat in Sherlock's chair, reading a book, when the two entered the living room. He looked significantly less dishevelled than when John had seen him last, and was tightly buttoned up in his shirt and three piece suit, all that was showing was his wrists and face.
"Sherlock, Doctor Watson," he nodded at them both. "How is Mummy?"
Sherlock ignored him, and stalked into the kitchen to prepare tea.
"Hmm, very good, Doctor Watson. You've got him making tea!" Mycroft gave a sour smile in John's direction.
"Go away, Mycroft!" came Sherlock's shout, as he slammed tea cups onto the counter.
"I'm here for the pendant, which is what I assume Mummy gave you. You're right- Julia Rockliffe stole Hannah St Clair-Smythe's pendant and killed her in the effort. I've got my men working on it now. She should be stopped before she can contact anybody. The Addlestones never know how close she came to thwarting them."
Sherlock reappeared, taking off his coat and holding it protectively. "Why do you want it?"
"To make sure you don't damage it, lose it, destroy it, sell it, eat it, the list goes on Sherlock," Mycroft drawled. John looked on in amusement at the two brothers. He was still remembering the portrait of the two when they were little in Mrs Holmes' house.
Sherlock tightened his grip over his coat, where the pendant sat in the pocket. "No. Mother gave it to me."
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Not now, Sherlock. There's no time for silly childish games."
John wished he could put that amount of condescension in his tone when telling patients that there was nothing he could do about a cold.
Sherlock did not budge.
"Fine!" Mycroft huffed, and stood. "Do not worry yourself over this case, Sherlock, I will deal with it."
"How is Lestrade?" Sherlock bit back. "Looking forward to this Saturday?"
Mycroft simply smiled, but John noticed his ears going a little pink. "Oh yes."
And with that, he was gone.
No! No, no, no! What have I done?
Okay, here's what's happening. I've started a WIP. My WIPs never get completed. They fester and die. Which is terrible of me.
But if you've noticed, this chapter is a good 4000 words long. I solemnly swear that I will finish this story. And it WILL end in Mystrade happytimes. But, if you can see, I've thrown in some mystery drama case solving too. And I'm keeping far away from Sherlock/John, because, to be honest, this is about Mykie and his ittie bittie Greg. No need for Sherlock and John's lusty-fusty goings on clouding over the Mystrade.
There will be handsome men in nice suits in the next chapter. And pretty women. And lots of drama. And crazy women killing each other over jewellery.
REVIEW! GOD DAMMIT, I WILL GIVE YOU MY CHILDREN AS SLAVE LABOUR IF YOU REVIEW! NO JOKES, REVIEWS MAKE ME HAPPIER THAN BENEDICT DUMBERBATCH (I'm not even going to fix that typo) LAID OUT ON MY BED COVERED IN HONEY.
So yes. It's my birthday on 27th Feb (which is when the Sherlock Season 2 soundtrack comes out for sale. So when you buy it, remember that Millie is turning 16) and I'm doing my first solo on that day. I training for my Private Pilot's Licence, and I'm only allowed to go solo when I am sixteen, so I'm doing it on my birthday. Don't ask why I'm flying. I'm useless at it. I'm less Douglas Richardson, and more Marti Crieff, if you get what I mean. So, as a birthday present to me, review? I might die whilst I'm up there, I'm that incompetent as a pilot, so let me know what you think before I accidentally fly the plane into a mountain.
I'll try and update before the end of February, but I can't make promises. I'll also try and make the chapters longer.
REVIEW! PLEASE? IF YOU DO, I MAY BE INCLINED TO ADD SOME MORE M-RATED STUFF BETWEEN MYCROFT AND LESTRADE. HECK, IF ENOUGH OF YOU ASK, I MIGHT EVEN THROW IN SOME SHERLOCK/JOHN. PLEASE?
Long AN is long.
Mx