Greg was already in bed and about to fall asleep when he heard a knock on the window. It took a second and even a third knock for him to understand that someone demanded to be let in. Opening the window he helped Sherlock Holmes, who was dangling from the edge of the roof, to climb inside.
"I'm not an acrobat," the young man growled, once Greg had closed the window. "How long did you plan to leave me hanging from that roof?"
"Had I known you would climb through my window, I would have left it open."
"Imbecile," Sherlock muttered before he walked further into the room and began rummaging through a chest of drawers.
"Oi, what do you think you're doing?" Greg demanded to know.
"I'm hungry."
"First, you won't find food hidden between my socks and second, you could just ask," Greg told him before he shut the drawer, almost crushing Sherlock's fingers. "Wait a moment," he told him, ignoring the glare.
Greg scurried downstairs to the kitchen, took some bread and cheese and went back, handing everything to Sherlock.
Sitting on Greg's bed, Sherlock began eating. "You wanted to see me, here I am," he said between two bites.
Watching Sherlock eat, Greg told him about the spy the government had sent and that he felt the man wasn't an actual spy.
"What name does he use?" Sherlock asked, swallowing the last bit of bread and washing it down with the weak beer from a cup on Greg's desk.
"Edwin Holmes," Greg said. "A relative of yours?"
Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared in the mop of hair that fell onto his forehead but instead of answering he asked another question. "What does he look like?"
"Fair skin, blue eyes, auburn hair, well built, elegant hands that aren't used for manual labour."
Naturally Sherlock noticed the soft smile on the policeman's face.
"You are attracted to him," he stated.
Greg didn't even try to deny it. He scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, I guess I am."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up. Brushing breadcrumbs from his clothes he went to the door. "Expect me tomorrow night at the same time. And try to get some wine. The beer was disgusting."
"Nobody told you to drink it," Greg replied. "Why aren't you leaving through the window?" he asked when Sherlock opened the door. "That's how you got in."
"If somebody was watching the house that's what would be expected," Sherlock told him, hurried down the stairs and out of the front door without making a sound.
After he had brushed the breadcrumbs from the blanket to the floor Greg went back to bed. He hoped Sherlock would come back the following night with good news. He wanted this Edwin Holmes to be his real contact; someone he could trust.
He wondered if Sherlock was related to Edwin. But then, Holmes was a common enough last name.
oOo
Mycroft was just eating breakfast when he heard excited cries from Mrs Hudson downstairs. Less than a minute later the door burst open and his younger brother strolled in, looking around curiously.
"Good morning, Sherlock," Mycroft greeted him, not bothering to ask how Sherlock knew that he was currently lodging in a flat at Baker Street. The elder Holmes kept reading the newspaper, waiting for his visitor to end his inspection of the room.
Mrs Hudson came in and, to Mycroft's great surprise, brought a tray with tea and freshly baked scones. Neither tea nor scones were for him but for Sherlock, who smiled at Mycroft's landlady and smirked at his brother before he took a large bite of the crumbly pastry.
"Now, brother dear, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" Mycroft asked, wondering if he could successfully steal half a scone without getting his wrist slapped.
"Rumour has it, that you're pretending to be a spy these days," Sherlock told him, once he had washed down the first scone with a mouthful of tea and moved the plate out of his brother's reach.
'Darn!'
Knowing it would be futile to deny it, Mycroft merely nodded. "That's true. Paintings have been forged and I'm investigating in a club called 'Earl's Backyard'."
Upon hearing the word investigating, Sherlock snorted. "It's dangerous business you're sticking your nose into. Shouldn't you leave it to the professionals?"
"A policeman is already involved but they needed somebody to blend in and talk to the members of the club. Somebody who has knowledge about art and has the ability to recognize a forged masterpiece."
The corners of Sherlock's mouth pulled down because he knew that his own knowledge about art was nil.
"I suppose you blended in really well when the Gregorian Gladiator took the stage."
Sherlock was satisfied to see his sibling blush.
"David!" Mycroft blurted out.
"David?"
If anything, Mycroft's face turned an even darker shade of scarlet upon Sherlock's gloating.
"I needed a designation for my contact and chose the name David," Mycroft said.
Sherlock was certain there was more to the name David than it simply being a designation but knowing his brother wouldn't volunteer further information he let it go for now.
"I know him," Sherlock said. "The policeman. He's as much a fool as the rest of the police but he allows me to investigate alongside him."
Mycroft put away his newspaper for good and gave Sherlock his full attention.
"How long have you been investigating the club? And more importantly, why? I discovered the forgery just a few weeks ago but … ah … David must have been on it at least three month.
"The police were investigating a club called 'Rembrandt's Home' well over a year ago under the suspicion it was a place for smugglers but instead of observing first, they barged in and searched the place. They discovered nothing of significance but a few prostitutes. 'Rembrandt's Home' burnt down just weeks later but several of the former members moved on to 'Earl's Backyard'."
Sherlock drank his tea before he continued.
"I heard, that hours after the place was searched, a couple of policemen spoke about a jewelled egg they had seen. The Detective Inspector in charge went back with one of them but the egg was no longer there."
"The lost Fabergé egg!" Mycroft cried out. "The Hen with Sapphire pendant. It was made in 1886 for Tsar Alexander III, who allegedly was to present it to his wife, the Empress Maria Feodorovna but it is said that the Fabergé egg disappeared before she ever laid eyes on it.
"Anyway," Sherlock continued, not the least bit interested in that egg, "once 'Rembrandt's Home' had burnt down the police terminated their investigations until Commissioner William Kent heard about it. He thinks that there had been an insider who gave away that the police was about to search 'Rembrandt's Home'. The only policeman currently actively investigating is … ah … David."
Mycroft blinked. That was a lot to take in. And so much responsibility resting just on one set of shoulders; as broad and beautiful as said shoulders might be.
"Enough idle chatter." Sherlock jumped up from his chair. "You could have come up with a more inventive name than Edwin Holmes," he said, looking at his brother with glittering eyes.
"Nobody but our parents and you know that is my second name," Mycroft replied. "And I promise to be careful."
Sherlock huffed over the notion that he could be worried about his brother's safety. He was almost out of the door when Mycroft called out. "Wait!"
"What is it now?"
"About David, what is his real name?" Mycroft asked, involuntarily tugging at one of his ears.
Sherlock blinked before he shrugged. "I have no idea," he said and was out of the door before Mycroft recovered from the surprise.
Fact: Tsar Alexander indeed gave Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs to his wife and eventually "The Hen with Saphire pendant" was lost. When though, I don't know.