Author's Note: I'd hoped to get us before the Queen in this chapter, but it seemed best to separate that out to the next one. I promise that we'll see Sherlock in white tie and tails soon. In the meantime, enjoy!
Chapter 4.
"Three hours, Sherlock", John whispered.
"Shut up," Sherlock hissed back.
The two men were leaning against a wall defining the opening of an overpass. The area around the corner from them was a miniature tent city, for those residents lucky enough to have tents. The less fortunate made do with shelters formed of boxes, tarps and, in one tenuous-looking instance, mattresses tilted together end-to-end. This wasn't simply space under a bridge. It was an overlooked area of London known as 'The Jungle.'
Similar encampments existed under bridges all over the city. But The Jungle was the oldest of them all, a permanent address for an itinerant population. Turnover was brisk—residents sometimes drifted off to move closer to social services, but most were removed by overdose or death. Even near daybreak, it was a disturbing place.
"What are we doing here?" John asked, shifting uncomfortably in the shadows.
As per his habit, Sherlock didn't give a straight answer. Instead, he issued a command. "Stay here," he barked, then stepped around the corner into the dawning light.
The crowd went on high alert like prey sniffing out a potential predator. John huffed out a sigh of frustration. The Browning tucked into John's waistband evened the odds somewhat in their favor, but that didn't mean that he approved of its use. Walking into place inhabited principally by criminals and junkies was an unnecessary provocation even for Sherlock. John fought the urge to follow him, deciding to wait for further developments.
A bear of a man rose from the ground and moved toward Sherlock, who slowed his pace somewhat but continued walking.
"What the hell do you want?" growled the man.
"Not you," Sherlock said, his posh accent sounding as out of place as a bullhorn.
"Fuck off," the man answered, making his way forward by stepping over nearby blankets. Their owners moved away from the brewing fight. John pulled the Browning out and poised himself for action.
"Cath!" called out Sherlock, ignoring the approaching threat.
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife which gleamed dully in the morning light. John started around the wall to take aim.
"Shezza!" responded a soft female voice. "Jimmy, stop. He's a friend," she said.
The voice belonged to a girl whose head barely reached Jimmy's bicep. The idea that such a wisp of a person could control the man-beast seemed ludicrous. But he stopped his progress toward Sherlock.
"He's a ponce, and he doesn't belong here," the man muttered.
"I know, I know," the girl babbled. "I'll take him away, but leave him be, Jimmy. Please." The girl seemed to understand the danger that Sherlock was in better than he did. Jimmy hesitated, then shook her off.
"Nah," he said. "I'll take care of him." He raised the knife menacingly. Sherlock stood his ground, eyes on the girl rather than the weapon. John was an inch from daylight when Sherlock turned his gaze on Jimmy.
"No," Sherlock said quietly. His back was to John, but the comment was sent his direction. Jimmy's eyes swung to the shadows where John paused then back to Sherlock.
"I'll take care of any of your friends too," he blustered, but something in Sherlock's look caused his voice to waver slightly.
"No," Sherlock said again, this time to Jimmy. His voice was calm, his tone bored. The two men stared at one another across the foot of space dividing them. Cath took the opportunity to capture Jimmy's attention again.
"We're going now, Jimmy," she said, sliding around him to Sherlock, whose sleeve she grabbed. "Come on," she implored, trying fruitlessly to drag Sherlock along.
For a moment, Sherlock didn't budge. Then he looked down at the small girl and nodded. As he turned his back on the still lingering Jimmy, John raised his gun. But the precaution proved unnecessary, as Jimmy simply stood, knife hanging forgotten in his hand. As they approached, John could tell that Sherlock was smiling.
"You moron," he spit out.
Sherlock just shrugged, although Cath was visibly shaking. "You shouldn't have come here," she whimpered through chattering teeth. "It's not safe, you shouldn't have come," she repeated.
Sherlock didn't respond, instead handing her a folded piece of paper.
"I need to know where he worked," he said. The girl unfolded it, revealing a 50 pound note and a scrawled name. 'Christoper Cullen', the paper read.
She shook her head. "I don't know." Sherlock merely stared. "I can't tell you," the girl amended. "They'll come for me."
"You worked with him?" John asked, a few dots connecting in his mind.
Cath started, seeming to just notice his presence. "Yes," she nodded. "But I don't go there anymore. It was creepy and boring and-".
"And where is it?" Sherlock broke in.
Tears welled in the girl's eyes. Quickly, Sherlock snatched the money from her. He pulled out another 50 pound note, showed it to her, then stuffed both notes back into his pocket. "Clearly, this will be better spent on another source. Now and in the future," he said coldly, turning from her. John made a protesting sound, but Cath spoke again before he could.
"You don't understand. We weren't paid for our work. That was easy. They said that we were paid for our silence. And if we didn't keep that, they'd find a way of ensuring that we never spoke to anyone again." She gulped in air. "They know where I am. And if I move, they'll find me. I can't…" her voice drew out into a whine.
Sherlock shrugged and walked away. John hesitated. "What work were you doing?" he asked.
"It was stupid. Just taking stuff from one bottle and putting it into a bigger one. The hardest part was staying awake. But there was food and it was warm in the garage." Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Sherlock spun back around.
"Garage?" he said, moving well into her personal space. He leaned slightly over her until her back was up against the wall.
"Sherlock," said John warningly.
"You've been in this area for a week. There aren't more than a few garages here," he barked, leaning closer. Cath tried to shrink back but only succeeded in sliding slightly down the wall. "I can find the one on my own, or you can help me and benefit from this," he said, pulling the money into view again.
"Either way, they'll suspect you. Maybe find you. You can stay here and wait or take this and run." Sherlock stepped back, his voice becoming casual. "Your choice, but I need to know now. 10, 9, 8…" he began to count.
"Sherlock," snapped John.
"7, 6, 5…" Sherlock continued.
"Fine!" shouted Cath. She grabbed at the money but Sherlock held it above her head. "4, 3, 2…", the countdown continued.
"On Coker Street, ok?" she said. "Just next to the old Tesco building. There's a room where the work gets done and a place where trucks pull in."
"A loading bay?" asked John. She nodded. "It's abandoned?" Cath nodded again.
"You're a cock, Shezza!" she called out to Sherlock's departing back.
"Come along, John." Sherlock barked, striding along. John sighed and watched as the girl turn and ran, money clasped in her hand. John scurried to catch up before Sherlock reached the road. The mystery of how a cab had appeared in the back of beyond distracted John from the scolding he'd intended for Sherlock's intimidation of the young homeless girl. Still, he managed a "was that necessary?" before Sherlock became lost in his phone.
"If we stop the black market sale of tainted cancer drugs, John, many lives can be saved. That's not worth making a pickpocket a bit uncomfortable?" asked Sherlock innocently.
"Pickpocket?" asked John.
"How do you think I met her?" Sherlock responded, then dropped the subject. "I texted Lestrade, he'll meet us at the garage."
"Uh, no, Sherlock," John leaned forward. "Baker Street," he said to the cabbie.
"Coker Street," Sherlock instructed.
"Make up your minds, mates, it's too early in the morning for a tour around London," the cabbie pled.
"Coker," answered Sherlock.
John held his watch up in front of Sherlock's face. "It's nearly 9 am, Sherlock. You are meeting-" his eyes cut to the cabbie. "A very important person in two hours. Late is not an option. In fact, nothing but you being polished and ready you-know-where at 11 am is even a remote option. Therefore, swanning off to some godforsaken London hole will not be happening. Not today."
"Nonsense. You worry too much. We are merely going to make sure that Lestrade and his band of incompetents don't screw up a perfectly good arrest too badly." Sherlock waved away John's wrist. "Plenty of time to be ready for Mycroft's little show."
John groaned and fell back against his seat. He thought of various options for kidnapping Sherlock and dragging him to Buckingham Palace, but none seemed viable. Yet leaving Sherlock to his own devices wasn't practical. The meeting with the Queen was his one and only chance to escape the otherwise inevitable consequence of murdering a man, however vile he might have been, in cold blood.
Although Sherlock considered Magnussen's passing to be a just result of the man's extortion of people in places high and low throughout Europe, including John, no one had appointed Sherlock judge and juror. It hadn't been his place to mete out the death penalty, legally or morally. No court would hesitate to convict him and his own government had given him a suicide mission in retribution. If he lost the chance at salvation being offered by the highest authority in the land, it wouldn't come again. He'd be dead or imprisoned which, for Sherlock, could be worse.
John couldn't let him take that risk. While Sherlock busied himself with his phone, John texted furiously on his own.
The cab pulled into Coker Street and, per Sherlock's instructions, stopped a block from the garage. A BMW assigned to Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector Lestrade was parked just ahead and several Armed Response Vehicles idled around the corner.
"Excellent," murmured Sherlock. He exited the cab, leaving John to pay as usual. When he was half a block from Lestrade's car, three uniformed officers rushed up. One grabbed Sherlock by the arm, while another placed his hand over his mouth. The third produced handcuffs.
Lestrade and Sargent Sally Donovan stepped out of the BMW. He waved to John, while she marched up to Sherlock, smiling broadly.
"We got a call that our favorite psychopath might be carrying an illegal gun to a crime scene," Donovan said happily. To say that no love was lost between Sherlock and Sally would be a gross understatement. Getting to arrest him was her idea of a prize for withstanding his frequent jibes against her character and skills.
As she spoke, two of the ARVs shot past and a third appeared from the end of the at the end of the street, blocking egress from the loading bay of the garage. Officers climbed out of them and charged into the building. Lestrade nodded to Donovan then moved off to follow them.
Sherlock struggled until he'd thrown off the hand over his mouth. "I'm a sociopath," he snarled. "And what the hell?" He stopped short as one of the officers pulled a Browning gun from the pocket of his coat. Sherlock stared at it, then slowly turned his head back toward John.
John shrugged. "One and a half hours," he said cheerily.
A short time later, an incandescently angry Sherlock was pacing around a jail cell. He'd exhausted his supply of curse words in English and had moved on to German. The guttural consonants made his swearing sound even more threatening as the cell door slid open.
John gazed impassively at his furious friend. He held up the morning suit and cummerbund.
"Ready?" he asked.
"I'll give you ready," growled Sherlock, launching himself at John. Being several inches shorter finally proved to be an advantage as John ducked the incoming punch with ease.
"Don't be a child," John's chiding was cut off as a second punch connected with his gut. With an oomph, he staggered back. Sherlock came at him again and John swung up, connecting hard with Sherlock's nose. Blood poured and Sherlock charged. John grappled with him as Lestrade and another officer pushed into the cell.
"Ladies, ladies, enough!" said Lestrade. "Cut it out or I'll make sure you both spend the night in here." The other officer pulled the battling men apart. Lestrade eyed Sherlock, who was becoming soaked from chin to chest in blood.
"Shit, John," Lestrade said wonderingly. "Not that he probably didn't deserve that, but couldn't you have waited?"
"Wasn't my choice. The git made me do it." John muttered, a bit appalled himself at the damage to Sherlock's face. Sherlock hissed like a mad cat and struggled to free himself.
"Stop!" roared Lestrade. His voice echoed around the tiled room and Sherlock finally stopped moving. "You," Lestrade said, gesturing to John. "His bloody brother is out there making everyone crazy. Go handle him." He turned to Sherlock. "And you—put the damn clothes on and get out of here before I decide to charge you."
"With what?" sputtered Sherlock. "You know that gun wasn't mine." Lestrade wasn't in the loop on the killing of Charles Magnussen, which was highly fortunate at the moment.
"Any charge I can think of—and I have one hell of an imagination." Lestrade grabbed the suit from John and held it out to Sherlock. "We'll get a towel in here and you'll be cleaned up and ready in ten minutes or, so help me God, you'll regret it."
John stepped around Lestrade and Sherlock grabbed the clothes, turning his back on them all.
As the car carrying them pulled up to Buckingham Palace, Mycroft stared at his younger brother in horror. Bruising was starting to form around his nose and his eyes. A small amount of dried blood rested on his chin. As Mycroft extended a handkerchief to wipe it away, the car hit a bump. Mycroft's hand grazed Sherlock's nose and John looked up from his hands just in time to see a drop of blood slowly drip from it. He and Mycroft watched as the drop fell onto Sherlock's white shirt. Mycroft moaned.
"Sherlock, I'm so sorry," began John, but Sherlock leapt from the car as soon as it came to a halt. He stomped toward the gates, brushing past a startled Anthea and Janine, who had been waiting for his arrival.
"Jaysus, Sherlock," said Janine in shock at his appearance. She looked to John, who simply shook his head. The group formed a grim parade into the Palace. Fifteen minutes to showtime.