A/N: Well I hadn't planned on this chapter being a monster. This is one of my least favourite episodes. I find it very problematic in a lot of ways, but it also contains some of my favourite scenes between John and Sherlock. There was too much to poke at in this to pass up, so I have divided it into two parts. I have also divided it into the Van Coon/Lukis bits in this chapter and the Soo Lin bits in the next chapter.
Thanks again to Ariane DeVere and all the hard work and funny, funny comments in creating the Sherlock transcripts. Much as I enjoy watching Sherlock over and over (and over) again to grab bits of dialogue, she has cut my writing time in half. I did add some of my own twists in some of the dialogue:P
And special hugs and thanks to my friends mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady who catch my mistakes and letting me bounce ideas off of their noggins.
3. The Near-Sighted Money Lender
Bored.
A bored Demon is not a good thing. A bored Demon can cause all kinds of havoc. A bored Demon can whisper in the ear of BBC and tell the head mucky-muck that hiring Jeremy Clarkson is a really good idea (Sherlock) or switch the regular coffee for decaf, added to a few sleepless nights and poof! Chernobyl (Mycroft).
Sherlock was actually enjoying running around London with John. No surprise there. It would be better if he could figure out how to get John to lead the chase because then he could watch that magnificent arse as it moved ahead of him; he'd have to settle for following behind, up the stairs, whenever they finished a case. Yeah. That would be good! He was a bit surprised at how much he enjoyed solving crimes, some of which were created by his brother, some by other Demons and some just happened because people were, after all, people (blerg!). Many of the cases had come along because Lestrade had asked him for his help. He did not mind working with him as much as he thought he would. Lestrade had some potential to provide entertainment and Sherlock mentally patted himself on the back for choosing the man to be one of Sherlock Holmes's connections.
But…
But he hadn't heard from Lestrade in over a week. He was apparently busy with something, but no one seemed to know what that was and when Sherlock tried to scry for the man all he got was fog and a flock of pigeons. Weird that.
And his brother! Where was Mycroft? You'd think he'd be interested in keeping tabs on Sherlock's progress, but when he tried to contact him through dark magic, Anthea just said he was 'occupied'. (There were actual quotes. It was one of her powers.)
Enough was enough and it was time he had another case. Not having won the bet yet, he couldn't very well let all Hell break loose just because he was bored. Rules were rules. He pulled out his emergency mobile, one he was only supposed to use to contact Mycroft in emergencies, hence the emergency part of the emergency mobile. And if being bored wasn't an emergency, what was?
These devices were something. He'd become almost as enamoured of them as Anthea. Almost. There are easier and more nefarious ways to contact his brother, but he didn't want to burden Mrs. Hudson right now. She just got the bloodstains out of the carpet from the last time. Although he preferred texting, this was important enough actually to speak, with words and voices and things. He punched in Mycroft's super secret special emergency number and rolled his eyes at the same time. 6279 and then 7677467. Really Mycroft!
"I'm rather busy at the moment. Is this necessary?"
"Yes, it is."
In the background, Sherlock could hear a familiar voice say. "Here to sweep your Chimney, Guv!"
"Is that Lestrade? Mycroft! What are you doing with my Detective Inspector?"
Through Mycroft's hand over the phone, he could hear him shout out to Lestrade. "Please step in time, Mr. Chimney Sweep. Is that a broom in your hand or are you just happy to see me?" Wild, raucous music began playing in the background and then Mycroft's voice came through as he hissed, "This is none of your business! I will NOT be speaking to you about this. Good Day!"
Sherlock felt his stomach heave and tasted a tiny bit of bile. He vowed to never, ever speak to his brother again. He was also going to try to avoid being in the same room as Lestrade for a long time.
He tossed the phone onto the coffee table and hastily wiped his hand on his jacket. Now, what? And where was John? At least if John were here, he could pretend to be looking at his email while secretly mooning over the way the sunlight shone upon John's golden head.
oOo
John, meanwhile, was not having a good day. He really, really hated the self-checkout at Tesco. He much preferred a real, live person, someone to chat with, talk about the weather, the cost of veg, bitch about politics. Not some cold machine that seemed hell bent on making his life miserable. He was pretty sure it was possessed. Instead of the usual clear, crisp, monotone female voice, this one was definitely male and with an attitude.
"Unexpected item in bagging area. Please try again."
"What? Oh for the love of…" John removed the plastic bag off of the glass of the scanner. "I just put it down for a moment. Fine, fine." He picked up the head of lettuce and attempted to scan it.
"Item not scanned. Please try again."
"D'you think you could keep your voice down?"
"Perhaps if you knew what you were doing, I wouldn't have to shout."
"What? Did you…?"
"Item not scanned. Please try again."
John shook his head. He hadn't slept well last night. He tried the lettuce again. This time, it went through. He picked up a box of condoms next.
"Seriously, do you think you are going to see any action? Item not scanned. Please try again."
John stood there, a look of surprise and shock on his face. "Now look here…"
A man standing behind John cleared his throat.
"All right, all right, keep your shirt on," he muttered. He tried again. This time, the box went through. Next to go through was a bag of crisps followed by a package of biscuits.
"Both of them? You aren't working, you're starting to get a bit pudgy around the middle, perhaps you should think about putting one of those items back."
"What?"
"You want to date and get some, obvious from the condoms, but you're not going to get anywhere if you keep putting on weight."
John looked back at the man standing behind him and took in the slightly impatient expression. It didn't appear he heard the scanner. The queue behind him was growing longer. John scratched his head. Is it possible Sherlock had somehow got his hands on the machine? It sounded a bit like him. Except Sherlock didn't usually insult him about his weight, much, intelligence yes.
Shaking his head again, he pulled out his card to complete the transaction.
"Card not authorized. Please use an alternative method of payment. Loser."
"Got nothing. Right, keep it. Keep that. Loser, huh?" He leaned in and whispered hoarsely, "I'll show you who's a loser. Next time I'll come back with a screwdriver."
Storming out of the shop, he thought he could hear a faint raspberry coming from behind him.
By the time he reached the flat, he'd managed to convince himself he'd imagined the whole thing. He knew the effects of sleep deprivation, and he certainly hadn't been sleeping well.
He trotted up the stairs and found Sherlock sitting in his chair, a faint look of disgust upon his face.
"You took your time," Sherlock said.
"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping."
"What? Why Not?"
"Because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip-and-PIN-machine. I think it was possessed." Sherlock was sure he heard John mutter something about showing that machine who the real loser was. Sherlock thought for a moment. Ah, Tesco. That would be Tony Blair or perhaps Oswald Mosley. Oh wait, Blair wasn't dead. Not yet. Mosley on the other hand, very dead. He'd been a real menace on Earth and in Hell and had been sentenced to serve time somewhere safe and dull. No one liked politicians, not even Demons, and they usually ended up somewhere annoying. Look at what happened to Hitler. It appeared it wasn't working for Mosley. Fascists. It was a nuisance but not Sherlock's concern; if he thought about it, he'd mention it to Mycroft.
He promptly disregarded and deleted it. What use were politicians when John was clearly upset? John hadn't had sex, he could see that, in spite of what the flushed face and slightly dishevelled hair might suggest. He'd been running his hands through it again, but in frustration, not gripped in the throes of passion. A somewhat dreamy expression crossed Sherlock's face as he imagined doing that to John, preferably while he lay helpless on the bed, tied down and…he abruptly stopped that train of thought and addressed the matter at hand before John became too suspicious.
"You…you had a row with a machine?"
"Sort of. It sat there while I hurled abuse at it and possibly it may have snarked back once or twice."
"What?"
"Never mind. Have you got any cash?"
Ah! John needed funds. Hmmm. He had to do something about that before John took matters into his hands. Interesting. In the meantime…
"Take my card." Get John out of the flat and he could fix this.
"What happened to finding a case while I was gone? No word from Lestrade? Or even your brother?"
A slight atavistic shiver ran down Sherlock's back, as he imagined, briefly, why that wasn't going to happen. Must ask John to pick up bleach so I can douse my brain. Erg!
"Ah not at this time. It appears they are both somewhat busy." Blech!
"Huh. Weird."
"What?"
"That they're both busy. You don't think…?"
"Don't even go there, John.''
"You're right. Although…"
"Nope."
John chuckled a little. "You know they're both lonely. It might be nice…"
"Please. Just get the shopping."
"Fine, fine." John left. Time to fabricate some work. Something that would pay well, enough that he could split the fees with John and John wouldn't have to worry about stupid things like money.
He sat down at John's laptop and began to work a little dark magic. Muttering incantations, he soon found someone who would tie in nicely with Sherlock's 'past'. It looked like he needed the help of a Consulting Detective. Ick. What a slime ball this man was. He was definitely going somewhere irritating after death.
oOo
John returned with the shopping and groused a bit about the lack of help, something about being upset about his password and Sherlock using his laptop, and where did the chicken feathers come from, blah, blah, blah, (John would look lovely with a ball gag in his mouth, he mused) Sherlock shoved John out the door and to a convenient crime. An 'old schoolmate' of Sherlock's had emailed him about an issue at the bank he worked for and how he needed his help. Of course, John would never, ever know about how Sherlock had discovered it by a judicious use of meditation, black magic and chicken feathers. It had been an easy matter to slip false memories into this Sebastian Wilkes's head. He'd never know either. After it was all finished, and the case solved, Sherlock would arrange for the heart attack already developing to happen a little early, cover his tracks. 'Sebby' as he was known to his 'friends' would continue in the afterlife as the voice of Tube announcements. Sherlock was becoming more proficient at using quotes. Now Anthea wouldn't be the only one. Ha!
Shortly after arriving at Shad Sanderson Bank, they were shown to Sebastian Wilkes' office.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Sebastian." As they shook hands, Wilkes clasped both of his around Sherlock's and then ran a finger on the back. He was so not Sherlock's type. That hand might have to be removed.
"Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"
Thank Hades, Lucifer and Hel that he had never met this man before. Before Sherlock could react, Wilkes turned and eyed up John. As was typical when someone first laid eyes upon John, all sorts of lascivious thoughts went through Wilkes's head. Sherlock was not amused. Perhaps he'd have to remove Wilkes's brain as well. After all, he wouldn't need it to make Tube announcements. There was no way he would let this creature touch John.
"This is my friend, John Watson." Emphasis on the word friend, my friend, Wilkes. And soon so much more than a friend. You are not coming anywhere near him. Wait! What was that? What did John say?
John had said, "colleague."
Why John? Why? Sherlock was quite confused. What was this he was feeling? He was a Demon. He was a Hell VIP. There was no reason this should hurt him. But he was. John had called him 'colleague.'
John leaned over and whispered, "Sherlock! Are you listening to this? And why do you keep making air quotes?"
"Oh, uh, right, it's nothing. Thinking out loud. Right, Sebastian, we'll take the case. It's an easy solution. I will be investigating one of your bank employees, Edward Van Coon. The yellow paint on the portrait is a specific message for him, a warning, a cypher. Although I am certain he is being threatened, I am not sure why, but I will have an answer for you shortly. John, collect the advance, and we can deposit it in your account. I am going to get some photographs of the message and then we'll go and speak to Van Coon. Right. Off we go." He stood up quickly, wanting to leave the office before he did something even more embarrassing.
He was babbling. He knew he was babbling, and he couldn't seem to stop. John had called him a colleague. Here he was spewing all he knew about the case before Sebastian could fill him in. Stupid, stupid, stupid. His day was ruined.
"Wait, Sherlock! Hang on." John caught up with him at the office/shrine of Sir William Shad. Ignoring John, pretending indifference, he whipped out his phone and took several pictures of the painted yellow marks across the overly large and self-important painting of the bank's co-founder.
"That was amazing, Sherlock. How on earth did you know all of that? That arse hadn't even told you anything about it, but you just knew! You should have seen the look on his face. Milk would've curdled. He must have been a right tosser in uni. Git! And look at the advance he gave you!" John beamed at Sherlock and showed him the cheque. All was right with the world once more. John! Beautiful John thought he was amazing.
John leaned in a bit. "Look, I think that I might have upset you back there, but I didn't want to give Wilkes any ammunition. He doesn't need to know we're friends. More professional this way. And what was with the look he gave you and the hand touching? How the hell did you become friends with that? The things you have to put up with in uni." John glanced around the office while Sherlock stood there, stunned. John was the amazing one. John was his friend and John was trying to protect him. His heart melted a little more. Or what passed for his heart. Demon anatomy is quite complicated. We're not getting into that right now.
Realising he was still staring, Sherlock cleared his throat, "You got the advance?"
"Are you all right? I don't think you're listening. Here look. If that's just the advance you are going to be getting a top rate payment after you wrap this thing up."
"We are."
"Excuse me?"
"We will be getting a top rated payment. Do keep up."
"Oh, but hang on, Sherlock, no…"
"John, don't be tedious. You work for me. When I get paid, you get paid. No more arguing. There can't be too many Van Coons in the phone book. Let's look him up, shall we?"
John blushed. He blushed, and it was so endearing and adorable. But he also looked like he would argue some more, so Sherlock ignored him and left the Bank to find Edward Van Coon.
oOo
They broke into Van coon's flat, found him dead and Sherlock argued with the impossibly young DI (doing the job Lestrade should have been) that it was a murder, not a suicide. After they headed back to the bank to inform Wilkes of Van Coon's death only to find he was not there but out to lunch, in more ways than one. Sherlock rather enjoyed interrupting pig-boy's meal.
"Not murder, Sherlock. I heard from the police. They are saying it is a suicide."
"Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian."
"I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked."
"That went well," said John. "And here I thought all bankers were heartless bastards."
"Don't worry John. He will be when this is through."
John gave him a funny look, but Sherlock was already out the door.
oOo
Early the next day, John left the flat and made his way to a doctor's surgery, where he had an interview for locum work. He hadn't told Sherlock where he was going, partly because he figured Sherlock had already deduced it and partly because whenever John mentioned work, Sherlock got a bit odd.
Odder than usual.
And slightly more possessive.
John wasn't quite sure what to make of him sometimes. After a very clear message that Sherlock was not interested in dating and was married to his work, John gave up on his fantasies.
Sort of.
A wank now and then, thoughts of long legs and dark hair clenched in his fingers and what he imagined Sherlock would sound like as he moaned in his ear, that didn't count.
Not really.
He was ushered into the office of Dr. Sarah Sawyer and for the first time in a while thoughts of Sherlock left his head.
She was pretty and smart. She was impressed with his CV and thought he was overqualified. They flirted a little. She swished her hair, and a subtle cloud of perfume enveloped him. He smiled. He smiled his smile that made men and women drop to the floor on their knees. He mentioned the clarinet.
And thoughts of Sherlock came rushing back.
Why hadn't he told Sherlock about playing the clarinet? Surely he would have been interested, particularly in his fingering technique. He was quite good.
"Hmmm? Sorry?"
Sarah smiled. She laughed. She placed her hand on his arm. She swished her hair again. She said he could start the next day.
oOo
Sherlock repeatedly had to ask John for a pen.
Seriously.
How hard was it to pass a frigging pen?
"John? I said, 'Could you pass me a pen?'"
"What? When?
"'Bout an hour ago and about twenty times since."
"I was out. Getting a job. Didn't you notice I wasn't here?"
"What? A job? You have a job."
"I help you Sherlock, but I need to be employed. I need an inflow of cash upon occasion to buy things, pay bills. Besides I am a doctor. I like being a doctor. I should do what I am trained to do."
"You're trained to kill people. You don't do that often enough. You should do that much more often. Keep in practice."
"Sherlock!"
"It's true."
"We are not having this conversation."
"So this doctor job thing you are doing. How much of my valuable time are you going to take up not being by my side?" This was unacceptable. How dare John work away from Sherlock and not at his side? He should be at his side every minute of the day, preferably naked. And that hadn't happened yet, which was becoming somewhat irritating.
"I'll be working a couple of shifts a week; more often if things work out. Sarah needs an extra set of hands over the next few weeks." A smile played about John's gorgeous mouth, and there was a sex glow about him. Not the after-sex-glow glow, but the one where you are thinking about all-the-sex-you-are-going-to-eventually-get glow.
"Sarah? Who is Sarah?" She must be found and eliminated as soon as possible. John would not look so smitten if they hadn't shared some flirting time. Arg! If Mycroft weren't somewhere chim-chim-chereeing with Lestrade, he'd suspect him of setting this up to get Sherlock moving. It wasn't as if he didn't want to corrupt John and make him fall. He wanted to corrupt him so much and in so many different ways and positions. It was just that it was incredibly hard to corrupt John. He was your basic decent person and he had the added benefit of having a little bit of a glowing personality. Literally. That was probably why this Sarah person had been all over John. He was sure she had touched him. Probably laid her hand on his shoulder. He figured it would smell a little like her, something sweet and cloying.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"Why are you smelling my arm?"
"Hmmm? Oh no, uh, testing for air pollution. I'm doing a study of different effects of air pollution on body chemistry depending on the predicted weather forecast."
"Sure you are."
"Never mind that. Look at this."
The looking at this bit led them to the next body. They arrived at the home of Brian Lukis another, mysterious almost suicide. What was with the murderers in London having their victims look like a suicide? Tedious.
Eventually, they arrived at the Kensington Library and finding the same yellow paint cypher on the bookshelf, which Sherlock found to be a less than easily accessed place to put a cypher. Who does that? Move a few books and hope Lukis would just happen upon this threat, whatever it was. Very sloppy work. Sherlock was beginning to wonder if this was simply a matter of inept criminals or if there was some weird connection to the something new Mycroft had spoken of after the cabbie affair. Something new that didn't have a grasp of finesse.
Back at the flat Sherlock stood in front of his wall of crime, looked thoughtfully at the photographs he had taken. John stood close at hand and looked equally thoughtful.
And he smelled wonderful. Like himself again. Not like that harlot Sarah, with her perfume.
Probably has swishy hair, too.
"Sherlock?"
Which she wants to drape all over him and move it up and down, tickling his body. "Hmmm?"
"Why did they die? Van Coon and Lukis."
Sherlock taped the newest photograph of the cipher at the Library. "Only the cipher can tell us, John. Let's go. I have to consult an expert!"
"What?"
"You heard me!"
Arriving at Trafalgar Square, Sherlock led John back behind the National Gallery, where he consulted a young man named Raz. Raz apparently was a paint expert or at least a spray-paint expert and a professional in the fine art of graffiti, a trade somewhat frowned upon, particularly on public buildings. Sherlock asked him to search for signs of the yellow paint and the odd cipher. Before they could leave, a Community Support Officer rounded the corner. Sherlock dashed off, assuming John was behind him. He returned to the flat, still chatting to John.
"That was a close call. Are you making tea? John? Oh for Hell's sake. Where's he got to now?! Typical. Now I'll have to make tea myself."
When John finally returned, Sherlock was engrossed in a book. He failed to notice the look of anger on John's face.
"You've been gone a while."
"Miss me, did you?"
When he finally looked up and saw John, he realized that it might not be good. "Umm…"
"I got an ASBO!"
Sherlock thought for a moment, then a surge of joy thrummed through him. An ASBO. What was that again? Does this mean John has done something truly terrible, and I've won the bet? Oh no! Erg! It's just a small-time offense. Probably community service or some sort. No worries, I'll fix it later.
"That's nice."
"Nice?! NICE! Sherlock! I have to appear in Magistrates court on Tuesday. I was fingerprinted! Me!"
"I'll get Mycroft to take care of it. I'm sure he knows the judge. Or at least what he likes. Right now I need you to go down to the police station and look through Lukis' things. See if he had a diary or a day planner, something to tell us where he's been."
oOo
Not long after, Sherlock, hurrying through Chinatown, bumped into John. When he had sent John to NSY, he had gone back to Shad Sanderson to speak with Van Coon's PA. Figuring out from Van Coon's receipts and tickets, he'd ended up here.
"Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died – whatever was hidden inside that case. I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information..."
"Sherlock..."
"...credit card bills, receipts, the position of the moon, a lucky coin and a black cat. He flew back from China; then he came here."
"Sherlock..."
"Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don't know where, but..."
"That shop over there," said John, pointing to the shop across the street.
Sherlock looked to where John was pointing and frowned. "How can you tell?"
"Lukis' diary. He was here too. He wrote down the address."
"Oh." He followed after John, a little dazed.
He's marvellous. He's beautiful. I think I love him.
oOo
Mycroft sat up from where he'd been nuzzling Greg's lovely tummy. A chill wind blew through the room.
"Oh shit."
"What is it?"
"Oh Sherlock, no."