Chapter 4: Dirk (alternative title - To Boldly Go)

Sherlock ran his eye down the descriptions of the various players and tried not to admit too loudly in his head that the report was detailed and relevant; this Canadian guy knew what he was doing. Well, not like Sherlock knew what he was doing, "but can't expect miracles, eh, John?" he said aloud, despite that fact that John was still away and would be for some days yet.

He wondered if he could come to a conclusion without visiting the hell-capital of financial London. He didn't fancy a trip out in the cold, and the City had never been his cup of tea, too many cocky bastards in suits - as if Mycroft wasn't already enough.

He might need to see Charles van Vechten briefly; the upperclass twit, Harvey Walsh, was a open book that just needed stamping. The cleaner was obvious too. He'd met her type before, possibly even met her before and a quick eye-ball would confirm that. That decided it, 6.50 am at Donahue, Levin and Levin's - perfectly timed to catch the cleaner and the day workers with as little trouble to him as was possible - not Sherlock's idea of bliss, especially without John by his side interpreting the weirderies of social contact, but doable.

He toyed with the idea of waking Molly, but decided against. She would never make up for his flatmate's levelheaded advice and guidance. Sherlock hadn't liked to admit to himself how much he'd grown to rely on his friend, but it was unavoidable with him being away for so long. His skull had John's patience, but it was a bit exposing talking to it in public places and Yorick liked the cold less than he did.

Mycroft was on the phone for the third time already that week to the Foreign Secretary and still had little to report. He could tell this was getting to them both. The Minister had just asked him if he knew where the tagline, 'this time ... it's personal' originally came from and he was actually Googling while they talked to find out. It bothered him that the consensus seemed to be a Jaws sequel. Not even the original film, but a poor sequel.

He hadn't wanted so much to get back in the field for many, many years, not since the Turkish Monk mission. A whole lifetime away - not his lifetime, he thought ruefully. It was frustrating being stuck there in the office, not able to wring the truth out of those bastards with his bare hands, like the old days ...

Sherlock felt like a stalker as he crept up on the cleaner - but she had it coming. "Hello, Kitty, Fleet Street not paying so well since my resurrection?" He was rewarded by a little jump and a double-take from the startled reporter. If Sherlock knew anything about popular culture, he might have been reminded of some of Cary Grant's most famous roles.

"It's Katie when I'm here," she said in a petulant voice, "And we don't print from Fleet Street anymore, as you well know."

"Fleet Street, Soho, it's all the same to me, you and your nasty snooping ways, prostituting yourself for the latest scoop ..."

Kitty looked mildly amused. "Get to you then, did I, Great Detective?" She snorted derisively and swished her broom around a floor that already looked shiny enough to skate on. "I made a mint out of that Rich Brook story and now I'm getting all the investigative reporting I could ever want. Maybe they still don't believe in the fairy at the top of 221B Baker Street." She grinned at him nastily. "Where's your lap-dog then, Shirley? In the dog house?"

Sherlock ignored her last remark and decided to find out what she knew. "So what's to investigate here then? Hardly your usual gig, Kitty." He pitched his voice at what he hoped would qualify as friendly, basing his ideal on John's dulcet tones. It didn't work quite the way he'd hoped, as a look of suspicion crossed the reporter's face.

"What's that to you?" she said, leaning on the broom now and glaring at him in a less than friendly way.

He thought he'd try a little reveal to see if she reacted. "Well, I would have thought the real story was in Canada," he said, watching her eyes carefully. All he could detect was confusion however, so no help there, other than to rule her out as a useful source.

"What do you mean? What's in Canada?" She looked hungry as only reporters who believe that they are onto a juicy scoop can do.

Sherlock walked away smiling. He'd learnt all he needed to, there was obviously more than one potential story in that high-rise hell. Bankers were big news again since the latest scandal had broken in the City and traders were fair game by association. She was probably working on a general exposé of City practices. No interest to him.

He ignored her entreaties to come back and explain himself and strode out of the open plan office into a corridor with a row of fancy offices. He poked his nose round Harvey Walsh's office. The man was there, asleep on his desk and looked like he'd been there all night. Sherlock stepped past his prone body and moved a couple of papers using a pencil her found on the desk. Hurm, interesting.

Van Vechten's officer was even easier to find, having the corner office with the best views as Sherlock predicted.

Van Vechten wasn't there though. Sherlock felt slightly put out, the man should be there to fit the profile of man pretending to be ingratiating. But then again he could be brown-nosing in some bigwig's office, but who ...

Sherlock turned on his heels and headed back through the open plan office, dodging past the jobbing reporter who was now half perched on the desk making eyes at a rather good looking computer nerd. She didn't seem to notice him as he sped past.

Van Vechten was at a water cooler having a hissing contest with a lanky youth who looked like he was getting the upper hand over the older man. Sherlock cast his eyes over the pair from a distance and made his assessment. Easier than he'd thought, he'd be back to his favourite chair for elevenses. He texted a still-absent John to put the kettle on as he hailed a taxi.

Tea with Molly and her new beau hadn't been quite what Sherlock had had in mind - where was John? - but it would at least kill several birds with one stone - American loons if he wasn't too much mistaken.

"Would you like cream in your tea, Sure-lock?"

"I'd rather split an infinitive to be frank," Sherlock said acidly glowering from under his unruly curls.

"He means no," Molly said straight-faced when she saw Dirk's look of good natured confusion.

She glanced at Dirk's giant Star Trek badge with the famous catch phrase of the show emblazoned across it, in what the makers must have considered to be futuristic typeface. She liked he was a Trekky, showed a spark of a sense of humour. That was the only culture gap that bothered her. She was never sure if her attempts at humour were taken too seriously. Either his sense of humour was really dry ... or he didn't have one.

"What were you doing at Donahue, Levin and Levin's this morning and in what capacity do you know Kitty Riley, Dirk?"

Dirk looked slightly bemused. "Well, Sure-lock, I work there. Analyst, don't you know. But I don't know any Kitty - what you say? O'Riley?"

"So you're an analyst? In the City? Donahue, Levin and Levin's? How long for exactly, Dirk?" Sherlock was at his acid best, or worst from Molly's point of view. "And, what sort of name is Dirk anyway?"

Dirk showed all his teeth when he beamed like that; he had surprisingly pointy canines. "Well, I've been in your capital nearly three weeks now, Sure-lock. As for the name, my mom was a fan of the movies, you know? Loved your Dirk Boggard. Wonderful actor - not so sure she'd have been so thrilled that he turned out to be a 'bender' as you limeys would say. Lovely woman, not known for her tolerance."

"And your rather unusual accent? Can't quite place-"

"Oh, I've been around. Born in Luisiana, moved to Miami when I was seven, most of my formative years, if you know what I'm saying, spent in New Jersey ..."

Dirk was being unusually tolerant of Sherlock's rudeness. He looked neither offended nor puzzled and Molly wonder why he was still being so nice and before she knew it she spoke aloud. Only one husky word came out of her mouth, however, "Why?"

"Why did we move to New Jersey, honey?" he looked truly puzzled for the first time.

Molly swallowed hard. "No, why are you letting Sherlock talk to you like that? Why aren't you telling him to piss off? Most people do you know." Molly knew why she had tolerated Sherlock's rudest previously and she wondered whether Dirk had similar reasons. He wouldn't be the first of her boyfriends to be more interested in her friend than her.

Dirk smiled again. "That's ok, honey. He's just looking out for you. To be honest, I'm grateful." Dirk, squeezed her hand and she felt slightly reassured.

Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong with the oh so charming Dirk, but something was amiss. Molly didn't do ordinary. She made huge - colossally huge - mistakes where it came to what she laughingly called her love life in her sickeningly romantic blog. And wasn't it a little, teeny, tiny bit of a stonking-great coincidence that it just so happened that he was working in the very company that Sherlock was investigating? Hurm, Dirk?

When they'd gone, Sherlock's text to Paul laPorte was short and to the point.

Forget cleaner - love lorn reporter, hence spotless 7th floor;
Concentrate on son of van Vechten - in debt to eyeballs & computer genius. SH

'Boring!' he thought. 'Now where's John with my tea?'

NOTES:

Fleet Street used to be where the English newspapers had their printing-presses until the 80s;
Soho used to be the red-light district of London, tends to move around a bit these days, but I hear Kings Cross can be profitable at night ...
Brown nosing - toadying, sucking up, ingratiating one's self to those of higher status;
To boldly go! - catch phrase of the original Star Trek series and most famous popular example of the split infinitive;
For any other obscure references and Britishisms, please PM me.