Sherlock has been appointed by the highest authority.
AN: Hey friends! I am sorry it's been a while on this story. I've been consumed with my little!Sherlock story, 'Not Leaving' and I got a bit distracted. Trying to balance between writing multiple stories is a bit tricky, so bare with me! You all are fantastic, and I hope you like this chapter. Especially because we have Sherlock parading around in a bed sheet most of the chapter, so.
;)
xxHoney.
Sent — 11:08 AM
what have you done, and why am I in a bloody helicopter?
is the text Jane sends Sherlock as said helicopter is taking off from the ground where she was just at a crime scene moments before. As if talking to her half-naked flatmate via Skype wasn't embarrassing enough, getting the call that this was her ride to some undisclosed location is just the cherry on top, really.
Sent — 11:20 AM
sherlock. seriously. should I be worried?
"Ma'am," the voice of the pilot crackles in her headphones. "Please refrain from using your mobile device while we are airborne."
"Right, sorry," Jane says. She sighs through her nose, and tucks her phone into her jeans pocket. "Any chance you can tell me where it is we are going?"
"Didn't they tell you? BuckinghamPalace," the pilot says, giving her a sceptical look.
"Of course," Jane says clenching her jaw.
I just might kill him.
-oOo-
The large man who rudely shut his laptop in the middle of his investigation, sets a neat stack of Sherlock's clothes down on the desk. (Good thing he already saw all he needed to solve the case, even though he did end up deducing a bit more than he anticipated about his podgy client.)
"Pardon me, heart what? As in heart condition?" comes the dim, and very belated reply. Sherlock nearly forgot about the client in his annoyance, and he cringes inwardly.
"No matter. Rest assured the case has been solved, Henry. Mrs. Hudson will show you out," he dismisses.
"It's Phil," he says weakly, and Mrs. Hudson helps him to his feet with a motherly hand on his elbow.
"There, there, dear. You heard him, all will be well. But I might pop round the doctor for a check-up. Couldn't hurt," she says, shooting Sherlock a concerned glance, and shuffling to the door.
"Please, Mr. Holmes," the man says gritting his teeth. "Where you are going, you will want to be dressed."
Sherlock sniffs disdainfully, clutching the sheet wrapped around him closer to himself in petulant defiance. His eyes flash over the man rapid fire. Based on his hair cut, manicure, the matches in his breast pocket, and evidence of two (no three) dogs — he knew exactly where they were going.
"I'll go with you," Sherlock says imperiously as if he actually has a choice in the matter. (He most likely doesn't.) "But on one condition."
His eyes flit to the neatly wrapped present sitting next to his chair, a mischievous grin curling the corner of his lips.
...
The theatrics really were dull. Mycroft could be so predictable at times, but Sherlock will admit the fact he is currently sitting in BuckinghamPalace is a little intriguing. He must be in need of his help rather direly if he gave 'Brutus' the directive to deliver him by whatever means necessary, even letting him walk out of the flat still dressed in the sheet. He smirks to himself, looking at his stack of clothes sitting on the ornately carved mahogany table in front of him. The present Jane got him is sitting just under his shoes. She would have to let him open it now, surely. Once she got here, of course.
As if on cue, Sherlock hears Jane's sensible shoes tapping cautiously against the marble floors. She's getting closer, but every so often her steps falter, no doubt ogling the lavish surroundings of the Palace. He feels anticipation warring with annoyance. (Yes, yes, it's a palace, tapestries and oil paintings and ornate filigree on the ceilings and come on already, Jane.)
Finally, Jane makes it into the antechamber to the room he was in. He looks at her, and has to repress another smirk as she cranes her head back to look at the crystal chandelier sparkling in the natural light pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. She, eventually spots him, however, and her eyebrows lilt in bemusement. She gestures silently, arm sweeping out to encompass the hall, and Sherlock merely shrugs.
She nods, seemingly not wanting to break the silence, (almost unsure if she's even allowed, probably) and resolutely marches towards him. She narrows her eyes at his state of undress, and spots the clothes sitting on the table. If she's curious as to what the gift is doing here, she doesn't make it known, instead sitting stiffly next to him on the Italian leather sofa.
"Are you wearing any pants?" she asks after a beat, staring straight ahead.
"No," he answers swiftly.
"Okay."
After another moment of silence, they both turn to look at each other and promptly burst out laughing.
"Oh my god," Jane says, bracketing her eyes with her forefinger and thumb as her shoulders shake with giggles. "The bloody Palace. Okay, fine. Absolutely fine."
"Fine?" Sherlock says, laughter still rumbling out of him.
"No. I am seriously trying to rein in the impulse to steal one of those nice crystal ashtrays."
"You don't even smoke," Sherlock chuckles.
"That's the point," Jane says, tears of mirth in her eyes. "Seriously, though. What the hell are we doing here?"
"No idea."
"Here to see the Queen?" Jane asks.
At that exact moment, Mycroft walks in clearing his throat.
"Oh, apparently, yes," Sherlock snarks, and Jane snorts loudly, a new fit of hysterics bubbling up. Her cheeks turn a lovely pink as she tires desperately to stifle her laughter.
Mycroft bristles. "Could you both act like adults for once in your life?"
Jane levels him a patronising 'aren't you cute?' sort of look. "Mycroft. Your brother solves crimes, I blog about it on the internet, and he forgets his underwear. What do you think?"
"Indeed," Mycroft says, heaving a long-suffering sigh. It's vastly irritating.
"I was on a case, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps, scowling fiercely. (Arrogant, pompous, infuriating —)
"What, the hiker and the backfiring car? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious isn't it?" Mycroft says with an unctuous smirk.
( — overweight, good for nothing, toffee-nosed, arse-faced, bastard.)
"Transparent," is Sherlock bitten-off reply.
"Then it's settled."
"What? It's not transparent to me," Jane says, startled. They both ignore her.
"Time to move on, then?" Mycroft says, picking up Sherlock's pile of clothes and holding it out expectantly. When Sherlock refuses to make a move, Mycroft's composure finally cracks. "We are sitting in the very heart of the British Nation; Sherlock Holmes, put your clothes on!"
"Well that's not up to me, is it?" Sherlock says, shooting a glance at Jane. He was already being gratuitously obstinate, might as well draw it out just a little longer. Jane, at first, frowns in confusion before darting a look at the prim present box in Mycroft's hands as he continues to hold the clothes out for him. It doesn't take her long to cotton on, and she glowers at him.
"Oh honestly, Sherlock," she grumbles, folding her arms across her chest while he gives her a Cheshire grin.
"Sherlock. Trousers. Now," Mycroft snaps. It's a sign that his older brother is well and truly irritated when he is reduced to single syllable directives. Sherlock takes it as a victory.
"What for?" he says, arching a bored eyebrow.
"Your client," Mycroft sneers condescendingly.
A spike of anger lights up Sherlock's blood, and he rises to his feet, clutching the sheet to him. "And my client is?"
"Illustrious in every sense of the word," comes a voice through the antechamber. Sherlock turns to see a stately man (the equerry, no doubt) strolling into the room, his hard soles tapping against the floor. "And shall remain, for obvious reasons, entirely anonymous."
"Harry," Mycroft says, crossing the room to shake the man's hand. "I do so apologise for the state of my little brother."
"Not to worry, Mycroft. I'm sure it's a full-time occupation, apologising on his behalf," he says with a cheeky grin, and Sherlock bristles even more. Before he can cut in with a snide remark about the equerry's no-doubt cheating wife, the man turns towards Jane. "And this must be Dr. Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."
"Yes, hello," Jane says cordially, taking his proffered hand.
"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog. Particularly the case of 'The Aluminium Crutch,'" he says.
"I — thank you!" Jane says, a flattered blush staining her cheeks. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"And Mr. Holmes the younger," he says offering his hand to which Sherlock ignores. "I will confess, I thought you'd be taller."
"I take the precaution of a good coat and a short girlfriend," Sherlock clips. Jane sputters beside him, but he ignores it, stepping up into Mycroft's space. "I don't do anonymous clients, Mycroft. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is simply too much work. Good day. Jane?"
He marches past, expecting Jane to follow, his sheet brushing along the floor like the train to a gown.
Suddenly, the sheet jerks and pulls taut, slipping from his naked body. He just manages to grab the end and clutch it around his waist before heactually embarrasses himself.
"Grow up," Mycroft says, his big, fat foot the culprit. (It's like they are children again, and Sherlock reflects how ironic that statement really is.)
"Get off my sheet!" he snarls.
"Or what?" he challenges in that familiar way of his. (I dare you, Sherlock. Don't be a big baby. You're stupid; I'm telling Mummy.)
"Or I'll just walk away," Sherlock sniffs, as if walking around BuckinghamPalace completely starkers is no big hardship.
"Boys," Jane says, intervening. "Not here."
"Who. Is. My. CLIENT?" Sherlock growls.
"Take a look at where you are standing and make a deduction. You have been summoned by the highest in the land, now for god's sake," he takes a breath to rein himself in. "Put your clothes on!"
Sherlock snaps the sheet out from under Mycroft's foot so he can wrap it around himself like a toga. He turns around and glares at his brother before looking pointedly at Jane. She gathers the pile of clothes, leaving the present on the table, and walks over, holding it out to him.
"Jane," he says.
"What?"
"I'll be needing a shirt."
"You have one right —" she starts before she catches on to what Sherlock is implying. "Oh for the love of…" she mutters, and stomps back over to the table to snatch up the present. She shoves it into Sherlock's chest, almost causing him to drop his clothes and his sheet. He can't help but smirk, however, as she storms away, back to the sofa.
"Thank you, Jane," he says just to be irritating. She flops down, aggravated.
"Piss off."
...
Finally dressed, Sherlock saunters back into the room with a pleased grin on his face, doing up the second to last button on the shirt Jane got him. It's sinfully soft against his skin, and it's just the thing he would have picked for himself, if not for the colour. It's quite bold even for his tastes, and it's not something he would have thought he could pull off given his fair complexion and preference of a more monochromatic colour pallet. But when he inspected himself in the gilded mirror in the powder room, he could admit that he actually looks quite dashing in aubergine.
(And if the faint blush on Jane's cheeks is any indication, it appears she agrees.)
He smirks at her, and she rolls her eyes as he sits down, unbuttoning his suit jacket to maintain the crisp lines.
"Why Jane, I didn't know you had such extravagant tastes," he says.
"Shut up, you great menace," she says elbowing him. He elbows her back.
"Children, please," Mycroft chides as brings the tea service over to the small table, and sits across from them next to the equerry. Both Jane and Sherlock suppress a grin. Mycroft darts them one last stern glare before he picks up the tea pot. "I'll be mother," he jokes.
"There's a whole childhood in a nutshell," Sherlock can't resist but jab. Mycroft glowers at him.
"My employer has a problem," the equerry says to Sherlock.
"A matter of extreme delicacy and potentially criminal in nature has come to light, and in this hour of dark need, dear brother, your name has arisen."
"Why me? You have a police force, of sorts, and a marginally reputable Secret Service."
"Is it not safe to assume people come to you for help, Mr. Holmes," the equerry says.
"Not anyone with the Royal Navy, that I know," Sherlock says.
"This is a matter of highest security, and therefore of trust," Mycroft states.
"Ironic, then, you should come to me, Mycroft. What, you don't trust your own Secret Service?"
"Naturally not. They all spy on people for money."
Jane huffs a laugh, and the equerry shifts impatiently in his seat.
"I believe we have a timetable."
"Of course," Mycroft says amenably, and takes out a silver briefcase, flicking open the latches. He pulls out a glossy 8x10 surveillance photo, and hands it to Sherlock. His eyes track over the candid shot of a woman with a delicate shoulders, (posture erect despite her stature, confident, used to getting what she wants) flawless makeup, (uses her appearance to manipulate), and fiery red hair. "What do you know about this woman?"
"Nothing whatsoever," Sherlock says taking the rest of the photos from Mycroft. They are screenshots of a website with a gothic design, red and black lace, and a shot of a woman from the back of the shoulders down in a tightly laced corset and scandalous knickers. The title of the page isThe Whip Hand, and the marquee states: 'Know when you are beaten.'
"Then you haven't been paying attention. She's been in the centre of two political scandals this year alone, and just recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately," Mycroft says, and something about that catches Sherlock's attention. He looks back at the photo of the woman with hair that matches her lipstick.
"You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is she?"
"Irene Adler," Mycroft provides. Sherlock doesn't miss the scrutinising look leveled at him, and his suspicions are even more heightened. "Professionally known as The Woman."
"Professionally?" Jane asks, leaning over to look at the photos in Sherlock's hands.
"I believe she prefers the term, 'Dominatrix,'" Mycroft says.
"Dominatrix," Sherlock repeats, bemused.
"Don't be alarmed," Mycroft says, upper lip curling into a cruel jeer. "It's to do with sex."
"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock snaps.
"How would you know?" Mycroft says, and Sherlock blanches, reeling back a little. Without consciously meaning to, he concedes this battle of wit and will to his elder brother once again, and averts his eyes. Jane tenses next to him, and he tries his best to ignore it. "She provides what you would call — recreational scolding — for those who enjoy that sort of entertainment, and are willing to pay for it."
"Let me guess. This Adler woman has some photos in her possession that feature someone of significance to your employer in some rathercompromising scenarios?" Sherlock asks the equerry.
"You are very quick, Mr. Holmes," the equerry says.
"Hardly a difficult deduction. Who is it then?" Sherlock asks, not really needing a confirmation. (He had a pretty good idea who it was. If this mysterious Woman was out for blood, she would strike where the iron was most hot.)
The equerry balks for a moment. "Like you said…someone of significance to my employer. We prefer not to say anything else at this time."
"You can't tell me anything?" Sherlock implores, just to see the man squirm.
"We can tell you it's a young person," Mycroft intercedes. Sherlock refuses to look at him. "A young female person." (Just as he thought.)
"Ah," Sherlock remarks just as Jane chokes on her tea. "How many photographs?"
"A considerable number," Mycroft says, his voice strained. Sherlock darts a glance in his direction, but it isn't long enough to deduce anything.
"Will you take the case, Mr. Holmes?" the equerry asks hopefully.
"Mm, no. Jane, you might want to put that cup back in its saucer, we're leaving," he says and gets to his feet in one fluid motion. The equerry jumps to his feet as well, and so does Mycroft except with more grace and pompousness. (Arrogant bastard.) "You've got nothing; she's beaten you, innuendo very much implied. Pay her in full, and immediately. Given her masthead, it's time you got with the programme." Sherlock buttons his suit jacket, and starts to usher Jane towards the exit.
The equerry begins to sputter his protests, but before he can give himself a coronary, Mycroft speaks up.
"She doesn't want anything."
Finally, Sherlock does look at his brother, unable to hide the delighted shock that is surely on his face. "What did you say?"
"She got in touch, informed us that the photographs existed but that she would not attempt to use them to extort either money or favour."
"Oh a power play. That is interesting," Sherlock breathes, his mind ticking back to a thought he had dismissed earlier. (Could it be —? Oh yes, very clever.) "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that's what you call a dominatrix. This is getting rather fun, now, isn't it?"
"Sherlock," Jane warns.
"I can tell you one thing I am almost certain of," Sherlock says, addressing the equerry, but observing Jane from his peripheral, "This Ms. Adler, is more than meets the eye. Oh yes, being in two places simultaneously, participating in a lascivious affair with both parties for so long isn't easy. And then there's the fact she was successfully at the heart of numerous political scandals without being defamed herself — I mean, the press should be drooling all over her. I know I don't concern myself with society's gossip, but even I'm not that oblivious."
"What are you talking about?" Jane asks.
"It's obvious isn't it? Especially now with this bloody fantastic ace up her sleeve." He waits to see if anyone (other than Mycroft who is looking particularly smug at the moment) will catch on. They don't of course. "Ms. Adler is in fact, two separate people. I would bet money on that," he tosses his head in the direction of the photos spread out on the table, "being the doppelganger."
"There are two Irene Adlers?" the equerry exclaims, flushing an unattractive shade beetroot.
"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock disdains. "There's only one Irene Adler. But a woman who makes a move as grand scale as this obviously has a lot to lose. She wouldn't dare put her own face out there."
"Brilliant," Jane says, into the stunned silence while the equerry gapes like a dying fish.
"Text me her location; I will be in touch by the end of the day," Sherlock says, swinging on his coat like a matador.
The equerry recovers slightly. "Do you really think you'll have information by then?"
"No. I think I'll have the photographs," he says with a feral grin.
"One can only hope you are a good as you claim, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock scrutinises him, taking up the challenge. Deductions fly at him as if superimposed in the air, (dog lover; public school; horse rider; early riser; left side of bed; keen reader, tea drinker, father – half welsh; non smoker, oh interesting…) and he smirks, already formulating a plan in his head in dealing with the likes of Ms. Adler.
"I need some equipment, of course," Sherlock says.
"Anything you need will be afforded to you. I'll have it sent to —"
"I'll be needing a box of matches," Sherlock says to the equerry, speaking over Mycroft.
"I'm sorry?"
"Or your cigarette lighter. Either one will do."
"I don't smoke," the equerry says.
"I know you don't. But your employer does," Sherlock says, baring his teeth slightly.
The equerry starts, lips pursing together, before reaching into his breast pocket to retrieve a silver lighter. "We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes," he says with a bit of warning colouring his tone.
Sherlock winks. "I'm not the Commonwealth."
"And that's about as modest as he gets," Jane says.
Sherlock turns on his heel, confident that she is right behind him. He throws a negligent hand in the air with his usual panache. "Lat'ers!"
"Honestly," Jane exasperates.
...
In the taxi on the way back to Baker Street, Jane sits stiffly next to him, the tension rolling off her in waves. Sherlock fidgets next to her, trying not to let his nervousness show. He knows what she's thinking, of course he does. Mycroft and his big mouth, and his ridiculous insinuations. The question is there, hovering in the corners of her mouth, the tightness in her shoulders. She should just ask already and get it over with. Sherlock's mouth twists in a bitter grimace, and his stomach feels slick with unease in anticipation of the inevitable conversation.
In his line of work, it was his job to know what motivated people, and the carnal desires of the flesh were simply another form of modus operandias far as he was concerned.
Sex; the release of endorphins and oxytocin stimulating a chemical high that consumed people's thoughts, and under the right set of grizzly circumstances, drove them to commit unspeakable acts. Of course he was familiar with this process, despite what Mycroft implied. He needed to be in order to understand what made people do what they did. He wouldn't be able to call himself a decent scientist, otherwise. However, what forays he did have in his youth were hazy, fumbled affairs at best. It was easy to come to the conclusion that he could do without the whole ordeal, and label himself as being above such pedestrian urges deeming that sex was not worth the short-lived euphoria those chemicals provided. Besides, if he ever did desire that particular gratification, there was always cocaine that garnered similar results that were just as effective.
At least, that was what he told himself.
If Sherlock Holmes was ever a man who was honest with himself, he would admit that the real reason he abstained was due to the fact it was absolutely terrifying. The sheer vulnerability that came with physical intimacy was unsettling in the most extreme simply because he was in his absolute basest form; no more intelligent than a wild animal, subsumed by the demands of his transport. It also became nigh impossible to hide behind any façade he may have made for himself, the intensity all encompassing until it shattered his carefully constructed walls. Because in the throes of something that frenzied, that consuming, his partners always saw him for what he really was; a sociopath. A Freak. And in the end, it was this that he feared; the look in their eyes that he saw so frequently staring back at him from mirrors and panes of glass. A confirmation born of hatred and disgust.
But Sherlock Holmes is rarely honest with himself.
"So…" Jane starts, and Sherlock closes his eyes. (Here it was then.) "About all that in there," she says gesturing vaguely behind her as if the Palace was still retreating in the distance.
"Yes?" Sherlock says tersely. He's suddenly livid with her. This was Jane. She was supposed to be the exception to the rule of all things dull and ordinary. Why, why did she insist on debasing herself as a common gossip? Was it really that important?
"Girlfriend, huh?" she says.
Sherlock's anger derails so suddenly, it leaves him blinking against the vacuum of vitriolic words he had waiting at the ready. He has to scramble, rewinding the reel in his mind to figure out what she's talking about.
'And Mr. Holmes the younger. I will confess, I thought you'd be taller.'
'I take the precaution of a good coat and a short girlfriend.'
Of course — of course — this is the salient detail she chooses to focus on. Oh, Jane. Oh, simple, wonderful Jane. He chuckles to himself, and the chuckles turn into a true, full-bodied laugh born out of sheer relief more than anything.
"Is that really so ridiculous?" Jane says mock-offended, a hand over her heart. She giggles alongside him, until they are both breathless and leaning into each other for support.
"No. It's not," Sherlock says a moment later, quieting a little as he properly thinks over the turn of events.
"Hm," Jane says, a smile still on her lips as she turns to look out the window. She doesn't say anything more, however, and for this he is grateful.
Instead, she takes his hand in hers, the action alone speaking louder than words ever could, and he squeezes her fingers back so strongly it must be uncomfortable for her, but she doesn't make a move to pull away.
After a moment, she suddenly turns to him, realisation sparking in her tone. "Hey. How did you know about the smoking?"
"The evidence was right under your nose, Jane. As ever, you see but do not observe."
"Observe what?" she says.
Sherlock merely laughs his dark laugh, the weight of the crystal ashtray securely hidden against his breast.
"Observe what?" she repeats, tugging his hand.
He smirks, refusing to say anything much to her annoyance. She would simply have to wait for Christmas for her illicit Palace souvenir. Afterall, two could play at that game.