FOUR
Weirdie McWednesdayton
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Breakfast at 221B Baker Street was a hasty affair, concerning mountains of bacon butties - items that all at once intrigued and delighted Dean - lashings of coffee, and an impatient Sherlock. It was nearly nine in the morning before the other three men were ready to take on a British Army contact desk.
"How long will it take to get there?" Sam asked. He placed John's laptop back on the table in the front room.
"Two hours in traffic," Sherlock said over his shoulder, already scooping up his long coat. "Are we finally ready?" A distant honking came from the street, and Sherlock sprang over to look out of the window. "That's our cab. Come on, people."
John picked up his coat and the four of them went for the door. Sherlock's phone began to ring. He ignored it as he pounded down the stairs. The four of them grouped outside the front door, John unsurprised to see a dark purple Vauxhall saloon parked at the kerb. He waved to the driver before opening the rear passenger door for the Winchesters to climb in first.
"Hollyhedge House, is it? Tidmouth?" the driver asked.
Dean, already comfortable against the off-side window, agreed, and everyone else piled into the car. Sam took the front passenger seat, deciding to spare the driver his head blotting out the entire rear window. John closed the door and got comfortable.
The driver checked his mirrors and pulled away from the kerb. "Now then, here we go," he muttered, leaning slightly forward to keep a wary eye on his side mirror. His fluffy brown hair and cheerful demeanour immediately put most of the passengers at ease, but Sherlock went about cataloging the man's early forties' slim build and lack of glasses or hair products. "Bit of a way, gents. Lucky we had a car ready for you lot this morning," the driver said with a smile like a ray of sunshine.
"We're lucky it's not a normal cab," John smiled.
"Yeah. Good for 'round town, not so good for motorway miles," the driver said. "Sightseeing, are you?"
"Visiting soldiers," John said.
"Here - did you hear about them two that died off duty? That's no way for a soldier to go, if you ask me," he said, suddenly perturbed. "I hope they finds who did it - give him a good going-over. It's just not right."
"We will," Sherlock said quietly.
"Ah - I know you! It's Mr Holmes, ain't it?" the driver grinned into his rear view mirror. "Are you on the case then? You going to find who killed 'em?"
"If we ever get to Tidmouth," Sherlock said scathingly.
"Well, there we go. Now I can tell people I had Sherlock bleedin' Holmes in the back of my cab," the driver chuckled. "They won't believe me."
"He's been in half the cabs in London," John said under his breath.
"Hate to break this up, but how long is it to Tidmouth?" Dean asked.
"Oh, a Yank, eh?" the driver grinned.
"We're not from the north," Dean said, off-hand.
The driver barely paused. "Aim to be in Tidmouth before eleven, sir. No worries. Where are you in from, then? New York?"
"Kansas," Sam supplied with a wide smile.
"Hey - listen to this," the man said, as he pushed an indicator stalk and then turned down a road on their left. "This here Vauxhall Omega? It's a Chevrolet Omega in the States. How about that, eh?"
"A Chevy?" Dean asked, his ears pricking up.
"Yes sir," the driver chuckled.
"Did you find anything on that feather, Sam?" Sherlock asked, ice clinging to his tone.
Sam twisted in the seat a way, trying to see over his shoulder. "Nothing so far. I've ruled out most of the things we've seen before, so… the possibilities are thinning out."
The blare of a shrill ringing caught everyone's attention. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his inner coat pocket and hissed something unkind. He unlocked it with his thumb and put it to his ear. "Yes." He paused. "Another one? Where? Who?"
Sam, Dean and John waited, on high alert, as Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.
"And did they find a feather? Where? Anything else?" he demanded. He grunted something under his breath. "Idiots. Cause of death? Hmm. What? —We're working on it. I'll get back to you." He locked the phone but squeezed it in his palm, staring straight ahead.
The entire car waited.
"Well?" John asked, at the limit of his patience.
"Another death - two hours ago. Corporal Christopher Bannister," Sherlock ground out. "Same as the others. This time there were two feathers. Lestrade actually did his job and had any soldier deaths reported to him at Scotland Yard."
"Bloody hell," John breathed. "What was the cause of death?"
"Spontaneous broken arm that caused a haemorrhage so bad he bled out on the spot," Sherlock said. "Miraculously so, considering he was sitting on a bench not ten streets away from Baker Street."
"Great," Dean said. "How many more soldiers are there before John?"
"We'll find out sometime before eleven this morning," Sherlock said quietly.
The car drove on.
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ooOoo
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The car stopped on the tarmac lane in front of the large house. Red brick a long time ago, it was still rather stately-looking in its scrubbed-clean attempt to stay smart. A large tree shaded the front porch containing the official entrance, and several small bushes obscured it from the lane.
The four men piled out of the hired car. Sam stretched and thanked the driver, even as John discussed waiting times for return journeys whilst handing over a few bank notes that seemed to be worth quite a bit of money. Sam stepped away from the vehicle and turned to study the house.
Sherlock closed on him. "Here," he announced. Sam turned around to find Sherlock holding his palm out, containing two small shiny gold items. "UK SIM cards, one for each of you. In case we get split up."
"Whoa - thanks," Sam said, taking them from him and pushing his free hand into his jeans pocket. He pulled out his phone, powering it off ready to take apart, as Dean came round the car. Sam flipped a SIM card at him and he only just caught it.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Put it in your phone," Sam said.
Dean shrugged and dug into his pocket.
John appeared behind Sherlock. "Well, gents? Shall we?"
"Ready when you are," Sam nodded, and then followed as Sherlock and John walked toward the bushes hiding the actual front door.
It was standing open, allowing a cold breeze to fly through and permeate the entire two storey house, but a single woman was standing to attention right inside. Her green fatigues and black beret were crisp, clean, and gave the impression that neither they nor she had moved in a while.
John stepped up first, his eyes going over the pins on her hat. "Private," he nodded. "Former Captain John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland, 1st Battalion, C Company, to see the Lieutenant Colonel."
The woman saluted immediately. "Sir. The ranking officer present is Major Morrison, sir."
"Thank you," John said easily. "I have three people with me - Sherlock Holmes and two gentlemen from the US Air Force."
"Understood, sir," the woman said promptly. "Please follow me."
She turned and stomped off, her hands behind her back. Sherlock and John took off after her. Sam made a move to follow, but then stopped short and turned back. Dean was rooted to the spot, leaning his weight backwards and letting his head tilt so his eyes could watch her go.
Sam slapped the back of his hand into Dean's arm. "Dude," he hissed.
"What?" Dean said defensively, springing back upright and hurrying to catch them up. "Army chicks, man. They can go a few rounds in any weather. —And the stamina. What's not to like?"
The four of them were marched to a long corridor, painted the same off-white as the rest of the house, it seemed. The private bashed on the door, underneath a brass plaque that read 'C Company CO: Maj. H. Morrison'.
"Come!" was the response from inside.
The private nodded to John before opening the door for herself, walking in first. The men filed in behind her as she stopped in front of the wooden desk at the end of the room. "Sir," she announced. "Captain John Watson to see you."
The officer behind the desk sat up, as if mired in deep thought and deeper paperwork. Dark brown hair twisted carefully into a French plait under her black beret, she straightened up in her green fatigues to find four men watching her. She got to her feet. "I am Major Morrison, Mr Watson. How can I help you?" she asked. John saluted out of instinct, making Morrison smile. "You were discharged, sir. There's no need for that."
"Old habits," John allowed, somewhat red faced, before making his arm drop. "How did you know I was discharged?"
"We all know the name John Watson around here," she smiled. "You were one of us. And now you're solving crimes with the most famous man in London." She looked at Sherlock. "I hope that's you, sir. I was toying with the idea of calling you myself."
"Sherlock Holmes," he said slowly. "At your service."
Morrison looked at the private, still waiting patiently. "Dismissed," she said. The woman nodded and left the room, closing the door quietly. Morrison waved a hand out at the wooden chairs to one side of the room. "Please, help yourselves, gentlemen. May I ask who your other two companions are?" She sat as the others found chairs and brought them over, arranging them in front of her desk - but not too close.
John put a hand out. "Sherlock Holmes you already know. This is—"
Sam lifted his palm and John stopped abruptly. "Captain Kerry Livgren, USAF," Sam said.
"Captain Steve Walsh, USAF. We've come over from RAF Molesworth to assist Mr Holmes with his investigation," Dean added.
Major Morrison looked at him for a long moment, then glanced at Sam. "Why would two USAF men be here on a case involving a British regiment?"
"Are you familiar with RAF Molesworth?" Sam asked. "We work at the joint analysis centre, monitoring trouble spots. We consider servicemen and women in danger to be worth our investigative time and effort."
"As do I," she said slowly. "However…" She stood up. "I'm afraid I cannot divulge information on personnel to anyone outside the regiment. Especially the USAF."
"Are you refusing to work with us?" Sam asked, surprised.
"I am following protocol and keeping the problems of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, 1st Battalion, C Company, to its commanding officers," she said.
Dean sniffed, resting back in the chair. "I thought you'd want this solved."
"I do, Mr Walsh," she said curtly. "However, I prefer not to parade our problems in front of allies when we are quite capable of looking into them ourselves. Furthermore, if you've come from RAF Molesworth then you know that you have no jurisdiction when you're off the shared RAF \ USAF bases to which you're attached."
"We're on a long leash," Dean said patiently. "A very long leash."
"That's as may be, but your presence here is unnecessary."
"We're here to help," Sam said, not without a small huff.
Morrison turned her head to pin him with a glare. "I understand that, Mr Livgren."
"Then let us help," Dean said.
"You are not cleared to engage in joint endeavours, Captain," she said.
Dean's face hardened. "Never had this trouble with Pete Wisdom," he said sarcastically.
Morrison studied him for a long moment. Which meant she didn't see Sam's face of Absolute Blame and Ass-Kickery that he was currently unleashing on his brother's profile.
Dean didn't even notice. He simply looked back at the Major as if waiting for a weather report.
Morrison went around her desk and walked out of the room. The moment she closed the door behind them, Sam thumped a hand into Dean's arm.
"Ow!" he protested.
"Nice work, Dean!" Sam hissed. "Now she's going to go check back through her Marvel comic collection for the last time Pete Wisdom appeared in print!"
"Hey - those are classics of the 90s," Dean snapped back. "And in case you hadn't noticed, she ain't thrown us out just yet!"
John slapped a palm into his face, shaking his head. Sherlock simply sniffed, taking out his phone and thumbing at virtual keys as he mouthed 'Wisdom' to himself. He paused, read, and then smirked and put the phone back in his pocket.
Eventually the door opened again, and Major Morrison came back to her desk. She stood behind it, looking at the four men in turn.
"You have my apologies, Mr Livgren, Mr Walsh. I was unaware you had access to top level passwords." She cleared her throat and sat down again.
Sam's head turned in slow motion. His wide eyes latched on Dean. It was possible Dean had never looked more smug in his entire life. He shrugged in a deprecating manner and then looked back at Major Morrison.
"Now that we're all on the same side, and cleared to be so - where do we start?" Morrison asked. She looked straight at Sherlock. "Mr Holmes?"
He leant forward slightly. "We need a list of all serving soldiers in your company, Major. Along with a comparable list of those invalided to England since… Afghanistan."
"All years?" she asked, already reaching for a pen and paper. She began to scribble quickly.
"All years," he confirmed. "I need a look at the uniforms in use."
"Active or dress uniforms?" she asked.
"Both. Also, all records pertaining to all personnel invalided."
Morrison nodded as she noted it down. "Including the exact medical reasons for them being returned to the UK?"
"Yes," he said, a smile playing over his lips. "I also need the circumstances of their injuries."
"You'll have them within the hour," she said, setting down her pen. "I'm afraid I cannot let you leave the premises with the originals, but you can make your own notes based on what you see."
"Perfect, Major Morrison. You are exemplary," Sherlock said, getting to his feet. John gaped up at him in surprise, then looked back at the Major. Sherlock patted John's shoulder suddenly. "John can start on the notes, as can Mr Livgren and Mr Walsh. Show me the uniforms."
"I'll have someone take you round," she said. She pushed at the intercom on the desk. "Barnes - report to my office. Bring Private Paulson."
"Sir," came the answer.
Morrison let go of the button. "Hollyhedge House is at your disposal, gentlemen. Please don't make me regret it."
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