The Photography Club

BBC Sherlock fan-fic | Magicbunni

"Don't be a smartass, Mr. Holmes!" Lewis barked. The huge man gave the door a few good pushes that jerked Sherlock's entire frame. He put his head down and beamed. "Oh wait. I can hear him going away."

"He's getting Scott," Reese stood about three feet off of Holmes, her arms crossed. "Nice work though. I mean, you're so slim. I can't believe you could keep him from bursting in the door. My hero."

"Hardly," Sherlock looked up at her. "Much more and I was going to tag you. Not to mention," he reached across and flicked the lock back and forth, "this lovely British metal I have."

She laughed what had to be her first genuine laugh since she'd arrived. "Oh, classy, Sherlock, you're a real gentleman." She shook her head and walked to where John stood staring at the wall. "You like my TV?"

"It's the wall. Like the entire wall." John said. He didn't dare breathe a word about flirting, or how terrific it was, and how he wouldn't dream of interrupting. Holmes smoothed his jacket as he joined them.

"Ooh. Want one."

"I know," she beamed at him and spread her arms. "Biggest they had on hand. I have these all over the walls back home. And it's hooked up to my sick laptop array. They're water cooled." She walked up to the laptops and patted one gently. Then she looked back at Sherlock. "Want to pit your phone against these puppies?"

"The phone is powered by my brain, both of which appear to be more portable than those things." He touched one on and started trying passwords.

"You have an Admin account."

"Oh," his lips compressed in surprise, "Helpful of you." He glanced at her screen and logged in. The television in front of him lit up and drew his attention. He quickly found the movie on the desktop. The file was hard to miss, it was titled, , which made John chirrup with amusement and take an irritated look from Holmes. Reese couldn't wipe away her smile.

Holmes clicked the .wmv. Once he had, Reese trotted back and threw herself onto a futon. She patted on her right and motioned to John, who joined her.

Looking smart in his suit, Sherlock sat on her left. John wasn't sure what their presences meant to the girl, but she smiled widely when they both settled in with her.

"This is so fun," she kicked her feet a little. "So I'm not going to tell you when."

"I don't need your coaching."

"Yeah? Well their camera sucks. The recording is blurry. Still sure you don't need my help?"

"Watch me."

John wormed back to give them space. He didn't know if it was important to Sherlock that the pair of them somehow find common ground, but they were damn fascinating to watch. Their minds were in constant grapple. And they were striking. It was startling how Reese's colourless irises and her golden-age Hollywood looks worked with Holmes' sophistication. John simply worried he might be inventing the cerebral flirt between them….

"Oh, she's having a rough day," Sherlock motioned at the screen. "Unwanted pregnancy. See how she's put her hand low on her belly. She keeps re-checking her watch."

"She's still in shock." Reese frowned at the screen. "The young scratchy guy over there is so far gone. He's so hung-over."

"Actually, he's strung-out," Sherlock said a bit tightly.

Reese didn't look at him. "I was trying to spare your feelings."

"Don't bother. I don't have any." Sherlock told her.

"Way to screw up my annual good deed, Sherlock." Reese frowned and continued to watch the video closely. At the same time they both cried. "Thief." Sherlock jabbing a hand.

Reese scoffed. "Did you see him pick the bus-guy?"

"Bad thief. I'm sure even John spotted-" Sherlock stopped dead.

John stared at the crowd, trying to see it as Holmes must. No luck. Nothing stood out to him. He'd expected someone carrying a bag, box, or cooler. For God's sake he had a head with him. Of course… Sherlock had gotten an unclaimed one of those from Molly's lab to the Baker Street fridge for one of his experiments.

Sherlock's lips began to pull into a soft smile. "Oh yes…. Easy. Efficient. Purposeful. Still a bit punchy. Still a bit high. Working his gun hand. Head up. Alert. He's aggressive, a bit too much energy."

"Yeah, he's tripping. This guy loves his work." Reese said and then glanced at John. "Say it already. I know you're dying to say it."

"I don't… see him."

Sherlock's head turned next. John felt sure there were very few people in the world they would have done this for, but, without a word, they backed up the video. Reese used her mouse to highlight part of the screen. And she and Sherlock slowly inched the video forward. When the man appeared, Reese followed him with her mouse, the man who was, to John's apprehension, nondescript. This stranger's blurred expression was identical to other blurred expressions, and he wasn't carrying a solitary thing. Nothing about him or his dress was particularly unusual. In fact, he was on screen for only seconds. John felt something inside of him diminish, because Young and the others hadn't seen it either. Meaning he was an ape.

John rubbed his face. They were bloody amazing. "Well, where are the head and hands then?"

"He's removed them from the body already." Sherlock tapped the pause and walked up to show John on screen. "Look at how stiff his elbow is, and this wrist he's loosening up. His hand took a shock from the axe blows. His back is stiff. Do you see, Ree?"

"That's carrying the axe on him through the crowd. It's got to be a huge kick. How bad is it when a gun's not enough anymore?" She gave a shudder and huddled against John. It was the last thing he had expected. Instinctually, he'd dropped his arm around her shoulders. Poor child.

"It's on his back," Sherlock said to the screen. His fingertip traced a faint shape, "Hatchet. He had a drop point for the parts then."

"It's like Sleeping Beauty. You know, Bring me her heart." Ree climbed to her feet and followed her fellow genius.

"Snow White." John looked up suddenly. "That was Snow White."

"Oh?" Reese turned to him curiously.

Sherlock glanced her way, "And it was her lungs and her liver. I take it they didn't read Grimm's to you in Langley."

She did a staggeringly good impression of Young, "There's no time in life for fairy tales, Reese."

Holmes smiled in spite of himself. Even her body language had been a match. She was good.

Reese returned to kneel by her laptop. "Yeah, the guy is sick for reals. Here comes his face again. You ready for it, Sherlock?"

He touched his temples, almost as if blocking out the room, and stared. "Go."

She started the video rolling again, slowed it – John wasn't sure how – and then stopped it as the man half-turned. "Go open the door, John." she said quietly.

He got up, eyes on the screen, and opened the black-papered door. That done, he walked up to stand beside Sherlock. Reese zoomed the screen. "I'm printing it for Lestrade."

"Why?" Sherlock turned her way.

She didn't look up. "Because he brings me lattes, and I don't even have to ask for them."

Holmes' brows pinched together. "He does?"

"And he took me to buy a coat this morning." Reese seemed very serious about this. She walked over and picked up a pale pink faux fur coat with leopard spots. "I was cold. So he took me."

John smiled at her. "It's very you."

Her face lit up, "Thanks!" She laid the coat on the couch and went to the printer.

It was about that time that the CIA arrived. They briefly clotted the door. Reese looked at them curiously. "What's wrong?"

Young said, "Reese, you know you're not to lock Lewis out."

"I didn't." Reese smiled prettily.

"Sherlock," Young sighed; it put a smile on Holmes' face. She turned in his direction. "You're certainly a handful. I really didn't know what we could expect out of a rogue… but your deductions are exceptional. Reese had come to the same conclusions, of course, but she's had the advantage of working this case for months. Impressive."

"Good news. Ree has him on video." Sherlock told Lestrade as the man entered the room. "Let's go get him."

Reese held up the print-out. "You know this loser?"

Lestrade's brows went down. "Friend of yours, Sherlock?" He leaned on the doorframe, utterly unruffled, no matter what the CIA had feared might be going on in here.

"Don't be ridiculous. But I do know of this man. It's just stunning luck that he's in town. He's Russian," Sherlock swept to the laptops and started the browser. He typed so fast and perfectly that it looked like a computer was generating text, rather than a human being. He pulled up a list of wanted criminals and selected one. "This is him." He turned to Ree.

She smiled at him. "You're pretty handy, Sherlock Holmes."

"Thanks," he sighed in satisfaction and looked up at the Cyrillic on screen, which said Аркадий Делов. "Arkadiy Delov has been called the Archangel of Death. He's a very bad man, with a very bad habit. He loves the rush of carrying around the weapons of his trade in public. Suffice it to say, he didn't go through an airport scanner to get here."

Reese ignored a sharply disapproving look from Young when she laughed at this. "He's pretty stupid, this guy. The murder weapon's between his ears. It's always with him. What a moron."

Sherlock pointed at John. "We need to go."

"Sherlock," Lestrade held up his hands. "Wait a second, here. Delov's a really bad bloke, and I can't have you running off on your own like that. I'm going with you. We'll take Donovan."

Calmly, Sherlock turned and said, "I think we should arm my assistant."

"I think we shouldn't." Lestrade said. "We can't have him going about shooting people. He's a civilian, Sherlock."

"He's an ex-soldier and a better shot than anyone here."

John shook his head. "Sherlock, I don't need a gun for this one. I trust Donovan and Lestrade."

"That's curious," Sherlock said on his way out the door. "I don't."

"Assets have a lot of trust issues," Young said to Lestrade. "It's a fundamental part of their psychology, and has nothing to do with you."

"You'll pardon my saying that's bollocks." Lestrade told her as he passed. "If these guys don't trust us, well, no one's born not trusting other people."

John smothered the grin he felt, turned, and nodded goodbye to Reese. It gave him pause to see the girl so emotionless and still, framed by her blacked-out room. Lewis made himself comfortable in a chair by the door.

Sherlock was well down the hall. In fact, John had to run to catch up with the man. "We lose them in the building. The Homeless Network will know where Delov is." He glanced at John. "I knew it from the moment Reese said 'park'. However, the network will evaporate at the first sign of police."

"You are police." John told him happily.

Sherlock didn't appreciate the reminder, and grimaced, "Yes. I'll need to divest myself of that at first opportunity. What about you? Are you hungry? Should we stop by the house for the Browning?"

"If we're going alone then… yes." John admitted. "And I could really use breakfast."

Sherlock's glance was clever, "Wouldn't want you passing out mid-apprehension."

"Wouldn't want you getting shot," John added a belated, "again."

'Molly. Need the microscope a little longer. -SH' Sherlock wrote on Molly Hooper's blog, sat back, and watched John sprinkle tabasco on his eggs.

Sherlock lifted his curled finger off his lips to say: "Smells wretched." He backed up a page and frowned at the pinkness. Most of her real estate was devoted to frolicking kittens. So fluffy. So insubstantial. In many ways, that was Molly. Why was she so interested in him? Such a handy and inconvenient thing – he couldn't fathom it. He needed her to be. And he wished she wasn't. He hated needing her. He hated her pushing; her entrapments; how her gambits forced his hand. But needed her. He'd come to detest the smell of Molly's Sung perfume. But when he thought about that fact, his mind presented him with the memory of chocolate and black cherries, and he felt a small twinge. A kick of appetite.

John interrupted his devolving thoughts, but then he was good at keeping a man from dwelling. He said, "You ate a whole bottle of tabasco last time you refueled."

"Quite right. It was the only way I could stomach the tins of mushroom," Sherlock told him. When John looked green around the gills, Sherlock felt rewarded. He turned aside and grinned.

And Sarah knocked at the living room door, even though it was open, and then walked into the flat. Sherlock didn't particularly want to see Sarah right then. She waggled her fingers at him, and Sherlock ignored the action. He had busied himself nosing around in Lawrence Waters' cell phone. He eventually closed his hands around it and held it cupped under his chin.

John, however, shoved over to make room for Sarah. She laid a plastic container on the coffee table and tapped it with her fingertips. "Date squares. I know how you love dates."

"Luckily, Sherlock doesn't like dates." John chuckled.

"He eats anything." Sarah told him. "Nice try."

"Would you believe double-entendre?" John asked, "Want some scrambled eggs?" She stood straight and the sun through the windows made a sheen of her hair. Beautiful!

Once she joined him on the couch Sarah picked up some of the bacon and bit into it with a satisfying crunch. It was mouth-watering, really. John had no idea how Holmes could stand going so long without food, and even less notion how he went without companionship. When he looked at Sarah, the idea was too lonesome to imagine.

"I talked to her."

He blinked, "Who?"

"Sofia."

"Oh! Yes, Sofia." There was a cramped bookshop, an empty dorm room, several CIA agents, a girl genius, and a decapitated body between John and Sofia now. "How is she doing?"

"She's sorry. She feels that she overreacted." Sarah lowered her voice some. "You know, I checked and she actually did find him charming. And good-looking. He caused her a terrible bout of butterflies."

"In… the room." Sherlock said lazily. He gave up and looked her way. "What caused the crying?"

"She had a death in the family."

Holmes tucked the phone in his pocket. "Go back to her and tell her she doesn't have to lie."

"Excuse me?" Sarah lowered the bacon strip.

"She made it up," Sherlock said. "There was nothing about her that said 'death in the family'. I mean, look at her. Lively pink cheeks; flushed red mouth; no circling under her eyes; and that hair – massive banana curls. One doesn't spend hours prepping for a date when there's been a death in the family. Even if one isn't effected directly, it's disrespectful. She's lying. Lying is normal. Means she's hiding something embarrassing, frightening, or dangerous. Go back."

Sarah shook her head, "Sherlock… I'm not sure if you understand this…" John looked in her direction, "but I can't go back to Sofia and accuse her of lying about a death. If there has been one, something like that could cost the friendship. It's not done."

"Interesting," Sherlock said sagaciously. "Well, do it anyway, mostly, because I'm right."

"We have to go."

They all looked up to the voice at the door.

Long, thin Reese, in her fluffy pink coat and mini pig tails, stood in the doorway. "We have to go now." She gawped and added to this, "Oh my God, Sherlock – I love your Hitachi TM3000 SEM! Can I play with it?"

Holmes tucked Lawrence Water's phone away and considered her. But he didn't answer.

Beside John on the couch, Sarah blinked away her alarm. "I bet she says that to all the boys. John, who's this?"

John felt himself go pale. Why Reese's being here should fill him with such dread, he wasn't certain. He had the distinct feeling she was in danger out in the city far from her protectors. "Oh, hell."

Reese's red lips screwed up a moment. "Who was prepping for a date?"

Sherlock's head rose a little. "Where's your minder?"

"Napping." Ree stepped into the room and looked about her curiously. "I wasn't joking. I mean, about the microscope, too, but we have to go, Sherlock. It won't be a half an hour before they figure out I slipped Lewis some of my Ambien. They've got to have the wits to send someone to check here, don't they? Even if they are apes."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Ideally, they'll get here, find you, and take you to the Yard-"

"Sherlock!" her red lips thinned aggressively, "Do you know how hard it is to slip those guys? I don't throw away my stash of sleeping pills for nothing. I'll lose privileges now, until I hit America again, you realize. But I need to go with you."

"You need to find a pattern from the maps I gave you." Sherlock replied.

"Hello. I have my iPad with me, genius. Besides, the array is random. I ran stats. Not significant. Lawrence didn't have rich enough information. However, the little stick figure drawings are interesting. Looks like there are more, but they only come in two varieties. One is always sitting up or rampant; the other always has a little plus sign or cross under the extended front leg." She walked into the room and showed him her iPad's screen. "Two different forces at work here. Oh, and the infinity symbol stands for his CIA contacts in London. The Langley head offices of Think Tank, they use an infinity symbol over the 'i'. He was to check in on this corner here. Lawrence only had to show up in front of the camera and wait for our junk mail to hit his phone. But that night, he missed."

"Two forces," Sherlock's eyes combed the map. His voice was quiet. "Thank you… and you should go back to Scotland Yard now."

She gave a very teenaged guffaw. "Sherlock, I'm not going. I just explained. I need to do this."

"You need to help us look for a professional assassin? Why?" Sherlock asked her. "The odds are excellent that he'll try to kill us."

"CIA think tanks?" Sarah's head turned so suddenly her sunny hair whipped. "A professional assassin? You're doing what, John?"

But John only shook his head and squeezed one of her hands.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "You're 19 years old, Ree. No. You cannot come with me."

"Us."

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed and got to his feet. He thought the better of whatever he'd been about to say and pointed at the door. "Ree, leave here and go back to the Yard. I'll contact you."

"I don't take orders from unaffiliated Assets." Reese circumnavigated him and flopped down on the couch beside Sarah. "You make cookies too. God knows how you managed to spend the last couple of years unattached, Doc, though considering what a hound dog the last guy was, maybe you're gun-shy. Well… unless… open the Tupperware already. Let's have a taste." Ree rubbed her hands together.

Sarah stared at the girl, looked from her to Sherlock's vexed face and back again. Slowly, she reached down and pushed the Tupperware container to Reese. "How did she know that?"

John tapped his fork on the nearly empty plate before him. "This is Reese. She's with the CIA, Sarah. In America, the government runs a program for people like Holmes. She's one of their star pupils. She's the CIA's 'Sherlock' so to speak."

"I don't have a cool job title like Consulting Detective." She took out Holmes' badge, which prompted John to feel about his person and then frown. He extended a hand to her and she placed the leather badge holder on his palm.

Sarah brightened tremendously. "No jokes. You're like Sherlock?"

"Being smart," Reese said around a cheek plump with date squares, "it's not just for boys anymore. There goes my theory you weren't able to cook. Now, if you could talk to him about taking me on this hunt for Delov, Doc Watson?"

"I think he's right." John told her. "Reese, it's very dangerous. You're inexperienced. We'd have more of a job having to worry about your safety."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock put his hands on his hips and stared down at Reese. She glanced over him and then looked at Sarah.

"Seriously, I heard it on the way up to the flat. Who is Miss Banana Curls?"

"Not your business." Sherlock said coldly.

Ree stood up, planted a boot on the coffee table and stepped over the top of it to face Sherlock. Her temper was frayed. "Quit doing that! I know you were raised 'in the wild' or whatever, but you seem ignorant of exactly how few of us there are out there. If we're not each other's business, we're really screwed. I've been in contact with 13 people good enough, I'm reasonably sure, that they could have stood in and picked that guy out of seconds of blurry video. That's it. By the way, trying to send me back to Scotland Yard kind of negates the idea we're not one another's business."

Of all the things Sherlock might have said – rude or reasonable – he blinked down at Reese and chose, "Only thirteen?" His tone had changed. That drew John's attention at once.

"You're not the oldest of us either." Reese told him. She opened her arms. "Just tell me?"

"Sofia Rothingham. Why are you asking?" Sherlock cocked his head.

Ree heaved a sigh at him. "Way to waste all that genetic potential, scout. Her name isn't on the list of 13, and she's not in the American group." She circled him to drink in Holmes' environment.

"My God," he said coldly, forced to turn to follow her movements in the flat. "The CIA has made you take leave of your senses. Or is a master race their next plan for your team? Soon they'll try grafting. Be okay with that?"

"Look, I've been around our kind my whole life, so maybe I'm not the one who's taken leave of her senses," Ree laughed and returned to her scrutiny of the room, but her focus landed squarely on Sherlock, as if that end had ever been in doubt. "We wake up in the morning in jigsaw-world, these traits and actions and oddities, and multiple dozens of other mad, fun, screwed-up things everywhere. The apes never see them. Even if you point them out, some apes just can't. New things, everything, is a collection of symbols and infinite codes to our type. You and I were born with the tarnhelm, lets us be whatever we want, and makes us invisible when we need to be – we can do that." She swung a finger up to his temple, almost gun-like, "This brain is a born codebreaker. It's like breathing. You don't turn off breathing and live, stupid. So, given all that, what does Sofia do?"

His voice was quiet. "She's an artist."

"Oh Christ," Ree tipped her head back and laughed. "You're such a romantic, Holmes. So naïve: running around free; slumming with your doctor friends; trying to connect with the apes. But will you think about it? This girl, she could never lie to you. She could never hide from you, not anything. The more you'd care for her, the more you'd cage her, and she's an artist. They do badly in cages. Your attention would be keener than any razor blade, and you couldn't turn it off. But to me, it's normal. To your own kind, you're sane. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let you run off and get hacked up like Lawrence Waters. No way. I'll be there. I'll be your backup."

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the girl before him. His expression was, by now, unreadable. It was possibly his most polished technique; over on the couch, John was transfixed, but Sherlock betrayed nothing.

"You're not changing my mind." he said.

Her tone was level. "Will you just trust me?"

"You're a clannish, a cheat, and a thief."

"And so are you."

She snatched the coat out of his hand and held it fast. He couldn't leave without it, and, therefore, without her. "Imagine a world where you don't have to explain every… single… thing, every time?"

"I can't."

"Then forget the apes. Trust me. I can handle myself, and if things go horribly wrong I'll be your backup, even if it's just to pull the fire alarm." She stared up at him.

John chewed his almost forgotten eggs, perfunctorily, as he watched. The tension in the air was numbing. The two were like opposite sides of the same tuning fork.

"This is preposterous." Sherlock told her. But he was calm when he took his coat back.

"Okay, and I'll go sit in the cab with Sarah if it comes down to that…. But, Sherlock, try to understand, I knew Lawrence for months. He used to just send me texts like 'Good morning' and 'How's it going'. I've never had texts like that. No one gives a crap how it's going. I really want to get who did this," she turned and carefully glanced through curtains at the street below, before adding, "but not at the cost of your life."

"Then you agree to listen to my every word and obey without question," Sherlock said.

Reese shut her eyes and tried to ignore the indignity lighting up her cheeks. "I do. I guess that'll have to happen. It's settled," she turned toward Sarah. "And you'll stay in the cab. With a First Aid kit. Better safe than sorry, right?"

Continued in Part 7.