A/N: I know, it's been a while. And I have no excuses…
BUT: Everyone's favorite consulting detective and his blogger will be making an appearance! Read on to find out what they're up to!
…..
"We need your – "
"Three separate locations – a bank, a museum, and most recently, a jewelry store. You need help finding the burglar."
John looked up from the newspaper he'd been reading to watch the world's one and only consulting detective finish whatever sentence the caller had started. No doubt showing off with his prior knowledge of a case.
"No, I saw it on the telly." Pause. "Nope. We're on our way." Sherlock Holmes whipped around, throwing the cellphone to the side. "John! Get your coat."
"Robbery?"
"Obviously."
John shot up from his chair and hurried to keep up with his much longer-legged friend. With a practiced hand, Sherlock flagged down a taxi and they hopped in. As soon as the cabbie was instructed, they were zipping away toward the crime scene.
"Was that Lestrade?" John asked Sherlock.
"Yes." Sherlock stared out of the window. "I'm fairly sure this won't be as open and shut as last time. No case-cracking evidence – at least, none that they can find. But then, they always miss something."
They rode in relative silence for a while after that. Then, without warning, Sherlock launched into a rapid fire stream of words that John had to focus to keep up with.
"The first two jobs were flawless – no fingerprints, no sign of forced entry, and no leftover tools. This time, however, our cat burglar made one big mistake."
"What was it?"
"You're not even going to try?"
"Nope. What was the mistake?"
Sherlock sighed in faux disappointment. "The nighttime guard. The burglar must've gotten sloppy – the guard saw and needed to be disposed of. The only one who could attest to the identity of who took our missing item – a singular, teardrop sapphire – was found dead by the scene of the crime."
John frowned thoughtfully as the cab slowed to a stop in front of the jewelry store. He paid the cabbie and they both hopped out, weaving through the mess of police equipment and yellow tape that clogged the site. Detective Inspector Lestrade was waiting for them at the door to the Diamonds, Diamonds, Diamonds! Emporium. The taller of the two strode forward with brilliant purpose, barely stopping to give the silver-haired man so much as a "hey".
John offered a smile. "Hey, Greg."
Lestrade nodded in amicable greeting, before jerking a thumb in the direction Sherlock had just gone. "What's his deal? I usually get at least a slight on my intelligence before he sweeps in solving things."
John shrugged. "It's been a while since somebody's come to him with a legit case. This is a welcome break from the body parts he's been bringing in from Bart's to put in the fridge."
Lestrade wrinkled his nose in mild disgust. Sherlock strode back into sight, his pale eyes sparkling with intense fascination and challenge.
"Well? I can't very well share my deductions with Anderson – he won't understand half of what I'm saying!" He disappeared back into the emporium.
John exchanged a look of familiar exasperation with the detective inspector before following wordlessly.
"What've you got on the guard?"
Sherlock turned toward him with an almost maniacal grin. "Something that will take us one step closer to identifying our thief!"
John glanced down at the body on the floor. "And that would b – "
Sherlock cut across him. "The guard – obviously inept at his job, judging by the magazines at the counter and the depressions in the chair by his post – left the emporium early this morning. Earlier than he should, but his watch is set to ten minutes before his shift ended – "
"How'd you know his shift hours?" Lestrade frowned.
"They're listed on a piece of paper behind the counter," Sherlock said, flatly. "Correlated the nametag on his uniform with a name on the list. Don't interrupt."
John rolled his eyes.
"Anyway - he's a habitual skiver. The fact that one magazine was left in the first place – within sight of the scene of the crime – means he left it behind. There are a stack of the same kind in his car – don't look surprised, I can tell his is the one parked on top of the curb – which means he came back to get the one he forgot. Our burglar and murderer, astutely aware of his skiving habits, was in the act just then. To avoid having a witness, the thief improvised – she didn't see the need for a weapon in the first place – and choked the man to death."
Sure enough, there were tell-tale, finger-shaped bruises around the man's neck. John grimaced.
"But we already knew he was strangled," Lestrade said. "Wait – she?"
"Yes, she," Sherlock grinned, holding up a single, long blonde hair. "The bruises were made by delicate hands, and – balance of probability – no male burglar would think it conventional to have hair this long. Neither would our burglar, but she is so obviously fond of it – the guard reeks of hair care products made for women – so, instead of going through the trouble of shearing it all off, she ties it up. In the struggle, it came loose, and here is the evidence." He tucked the strand into a plastic baggie. "Found on the inside of the lapel of the guards' jacket. Our burglar was either an effeminate man that uses women's hair products or – the more probable scenario – a woman."
"Bloody brilliant," Lestrade shook his head, taking the baggie from Sherlock and grinning. "DNA sample. We'll know who it is by this afternoon."
Sherlock nodded, frowning suddenly. "That was too easy. I thought this would be at least a seven."
John's shoulders sagged. "Back to experimenting, then?"
Sherlock's mouth quirked to the side. "To Bart's it is!" He strode out without another word.
"Aw, hell," John grumbled, following after him.
oooOOooo
"There you are, dears," Mrs. Hudson said to her tenants the next day. John was lounging in his chair on his laptop; Sherlock was at the kitchen table with his microscope. "I was looking for you yesterday."
"Lestrade called," John told her. The landlady nodded in understanding.
"Well," she said. "I just wanted to come announce the good news – I would've done yesterday after you came back, but I'm afraid it slipped my mind…"
"Good news?" John prompted, shutting his laptop and giving her his full attention. Sherlock remained unmoved, his gaze on his flesh-eating skin samples and nothing else.
"Someone finally came to me with an interest in 221C! Isn't it wonderful? Of course, it was only a matter of time since I've had that man come and fix the damp – "
The abrupt scraping of a stool across the kitchen floor made both Mrs. Hudson and John jump. Sherlock stood, staring at their landlady with unmasked discontent.
"221C? There's no need for another tenant – there's just the right amount of noise now! Imagine if another person tossed in their loud dog or raucous tears in the middle of the night!"
"Olivia doesn't have a dog," Mrs. Hudson replied patiently. "And she's quite the polite and courteous girl."
"What if she's a serial killer in disguise?" Sherlock suggested, a sneer on his lips. "Or some sort of weird stalker that takes pictures of her housemates and sells them? Why wasn't I there when you decided to let a complete stranger into the building?"
"I like to think I'm good judge of character, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson frowned. "She was nice, nothing strange about her at all." She pursed her lips. "And she's had a bit of a row with her sister – she's been staying with her since she moved here from America. I'd appreciate it if you were both sensitive to her situation…"
"Of course," John nodded.
"I'll just be myself," Sherlock nodded.
Mrs. Hudson sighed exasperatedly, knowing it was as good as she was going to get, and hobbled back out of the flat.
"A new tenant," Sherlock scoffed, going over and picking up his violin from where it lay near the window. "A new tenant."
"Well, she might not stay long once she meets you," John smiled.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to play, effectively flushing out his frustrations.
Later that same day, when the playing had finally come to an end and the detective was sitting silently on the couch with his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, a stranger stepped over the threshold of 221 Baker Street, let in by Mrs. Hudson. John was the first one to notice the new voice downstairs – Sherlock was far too immersed in his mind palace to pay much attention.
The ex-soldier, who had been tapping out the beginnings to a new addition to his blog, left the flat and went downstairs to greet the newcomer.
"Oh, John!" Mrs. Hudson beckoned him over cheerfully. "I was just about to have tea with Olivia."
"Hello," John greeted with as charming a grin as he could muster, sticking out a hand.
Olivia was a young woman – no older than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, John surmised. She had large, doe-like eyes that peeked out from underneath her side bangs. Her wavy brown hair fell just below her shoulder blades, and she was short and petite – with a slim figure akin to that of a ballerina or a pixie. She's cute, John concluded. Really cute.
"Olivia Buchanan," she introduced herself, taking his proffered hand with a dimpled smile. Her voice was bubbly and bright, but not annoyingly so. "It's nice to finally meet you. Mrs. Hudson's told me so much about you and Mr. Holmes already."
"Oh, really?" John raised his eyebrows at the retreating back of Mrs. Hudson, who had scurried away into 221A, rambling on about jam to go with the scones. "Because, contrary to popular belief, we are not a couple."
Olivia giggled. "I don't judge, John."
"No, we're really – not – "
"I know," she said, smiling. "I'm only teasing."
John smiled in return, about to say something else, when the thumping of someone coming down the stairs caught both of their attention. Sherlock came stalking down, his curly dark hair bouncing with each hurried step. He walked up to them and simply stared at Olivia for a long time.
She quirked her mouth to the side, her left dimple prominent with the action. "Are you just going to stare or are you going to say hello?"
"I'm going to stare," Sherlock stated plainly.
"Alright," Olivia said at length.
"Sherlock," John warned the tall man.
Sherlock began speaking like he hadn't heard him. "So, late twenties, one sister of whom you don't get along well with, your parents died when you were young – "
"Sherlock." John was trying to convey his apologies to Olivia with his eyes. She wasn't paying attention; her focus was riveted on the detective. She didn't look happy.
" – You engage regularly in some sort of exercise – acrobatics, I'm guessing, judging by your figure and the state of your arms, legs, and middle. Mild psychological and anger management issues – there's a nervous tic in your right hand and you're growing abnormally agitated by my analysis of your person – more so than anyone else that I – "
SMACK.
Sherlock's face snapped to the side, his pale eyes wide with the pain of the cheek that was rapidly blossoming a rosy, hand-shaped print.
"You're smart, and I can appreciate that," Olivia said, her face placid. Her eyes bore into Sherlock's when he turned back around. "But I'm not going to sing praises when you throw my personal information out where everyone can see. We're going to be neighbors – I don't wanna have to slap you every time you open your mouth. It was nice meeting you, John." She offered the doctor a kind smile.
And with that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into Mrs. Hudson's flat, shutting the door behind her with a little more force than was strictly necessary.
Sherlock stared at the door, and John stared at Sherlock.
The shorter man was just managing to keep his amused countenance in check.
Sherlock glowered at him, and then a buzz went off from his pocket. The detective pulled his phone from its resting place.
DNA results came back. Sample was synthetic. Case reopened.
-GL
He stared at the tiny glowing screen, a smile steadily creeping its way onto his face, stretching his reddened cheek. "Looks like we're going back to the Yard."
"What? Why?"
"The hair was fake. On second thought, let's head to Bart's… ah, so much more to do! It was a wig!"
oooOOOooo
The restaurant was a clash of things both fancy and humbly tasteful. The carpeted floors were sporting overlapping gold squares and a gray undertone. The tables were made of dark wood with a polished finish so shiny it almost looked like overly-tinted glass. The walls were of brick, and there was one that had floor-to-ceiling windows with two-seater tables that oversaw the city of London. The establishment was on the top floor, after all.
Juliet fidgeted and tugged on the sleeves of her white sweater; they came down to the middle of her forearms. It wasn't buttoned, showing how her sage green dress was cinched just below her chest. It came down just below her knees. With a deep breath, she put one foot in front of the other and made her way to one of the two-seater tables near the window. One of the chairs was already occupied.
Settling down in the chair opposite, she found it hard – not to look into the eyes of her companion, but to look away. They were wide and brown, and she had no reason to look anywhere else, because no other sight would be as… intriguing, to say the least.
"Good afternoon, Miss Adler," James Moriarty greeted jovially.
"It is, indeed," she smiled, trying not to feel like a mouse in a snake's cage. There were already two crystal clear glasses of water on the table, and she took a sip of hers. She knew that, if she weren't so reluctant to remove her gaze far from his, she'd see that he had men and women with guns peppered around the entire establishment, masquerading as ordinary people.
"Mr. Moriarty," Juliet began. Her hand shook as she put her glass down. "My original request was to stage multiple heists in London…" she trailed off, finally looking down to fiddle with her fancy handkerchief-napkin.
His gaze, unlike hers, never wavered. It was steady and, dare she say it – unmoving. Completely and utterly unchanging, as if he'd either forgotten how to feel different things – or maybe it took substantial effort to switch from one emotion to the other, and he didn't feel like exerting the force.
Swallowing, she continued, because he obviously wasn't going to inquire as to where she was going with her rather obvious comment. "And I murdered someone two days ago. I know you said it might have to happen, but – but I realize that I might be a little less prepared to – to carry out the action than I originally tho – "
The cold, thin press of a blade against her knee stopped her speech in its tracks. She bit the inside of her cheek.
"Now, Miss Adler," Moriarty shook his head, still smiling cheerfully as he had when she'd first walked in. "You can't walk away when things get tough!" He said this like he was playfully chastising a child for not finishing their dinner. "If you back out now…"
The blade pressed further into her knee, and she gasped audibly and felt the sharp, stinging pain as it broke her skin. Only briefly; the blade retreated just a little ways away so that the chill of it raised goose-bumps over the surface of her other knee. She bit her lip and grabbed her handkerchief from the table, folded it, and pressed it to her small wound.
"Well, you won't live long enough to regret it." His Irish lilt was prominent.
She suppressed the dull, burning ache in the backs of her eyes. "B-but i-it was my idea…"
"B-but i-it was my resources…" he mocked.
His expression darkened, then, and rapidly. She had to consciously control her reaction to his complete one-eighty.
"This is no ordinary game, sweetheart," he shook his head slowly at her. His eyes were wide, wild and furious. "This isn't PRIMARY SCHOOL."
She jumped and surreptitiously looked around, noticing that nobody was staring. Were they all… ?
"Yes." He seemed to have read her mind. "There's no backing out once you've entered, Juliet. Julie. Ju."
She exhaled shakily.
"Are you understanding the words leaving my tongue?" he snarled.
She nodded soberly.
Again – one-eighty. "Now, I'm glad that's settled, aren't you?" He plucked up his menu and grinned at her, all traces of his earlier rage evaporated.
No. "Yes, Mr. Moriarty."
She picked up her menu with the hand that wasn't applying pressure to her bleeding knee and scanned it, her stomach plummeting earnestly with each passing second.
...
A/N: Read and review!
