CHAPTER VII:

WHAT WE ROCK

You see that thin man sitting at the opposite side of the table? All Johnny Boy needed to know about life was retained within the four walls of the Italian restaurant. He noticed that one of his personalities was seduced by the illusions of grandeur. A great but mysterious man, all packed in a thin and pale six-foot-tall body. An attractive implication towards glamour and wealth. A subtle suggestion that that man and what comes with him was his and only his. And that, my dear friends, was a lie. John's Watson's other personality tried to draw his attention to the flip side of the discussion. Written in boring, bold black and white, was the statement that that man, the famous consulting accountant and financial manager Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, trying to kill him. And that, my dear friends, was the truth. Oh, that posh tall man, with dark curls, white skin, grey eyes and sharp cheekbones was a beautiful call to death and our dear thief, John Watson, best known as Johnny Boy, was addicted to the sweet and delightful look of this man. It was a fucking game that had started sweet and had ended bitter. And it also had started bitter and had ended sweet.

Because Johnny Watson, head of the top gang in London, wanted Sherlock Holmes. He wanted the consulting accountant's body, his lips, his skin, and he wanted to feel those long and pale hands on his body as well.

And my dears, you'll have to wait and see. Because I can't tell you what happened. I can't tell you the end.

You'll have to follow the acts.

And see.

That's what John saw when he came in the now-familiar Italian restaurant. This time it was filled with people, but also this time, Sherlock Holmes was sitting at the usual table, alone. The thief knew his bruised eye and his limp were perfect to make the consulting accountant talk more than the few words they always exchanged. And he held hopes the posh pup, as he liked to call him, would notice him.

"Bruised eye, fake limp. No Luis Vuitton this time. Are you all right?" asked the detective, not looking at the blonde man limping in front of him.

"That is a rhetorical question, I hope. I'll have a water, please, thank you," answered Watson when he sat down in front of the taller man and one young man approached him to ask for his order. Then he placed the bag beside Holmes's legs and sighed tiredly.

"So you don't wanna know what happened?" asked Johnny Boy as soon as he realised Holmes wasn't going to say a word. Somehow, the thief needed to be asked, to be inquired by his new business associate. He hated those silent moments between them. He wanted to know what the accountant liked, how he liked it and if he could be the one to give it to him.

"I know what happened."


The Wild Bunch got a dark,very large and heavy truck to do the job. And Harry's plans were simple but perfect. The gang was ready. There wasn't any room for mistakes, so during the weekend after the party and before the new seven million Euros, the whole gang studied the procedure.

Harry Watson, John's right hand, managed to conceive a plan as simply as the alphabet but also complicated just in case something happened. And thank God for her brain, because there was a big mistake.

Johnny Boy's sister was the driver, and in a truck, she was supposed to crash and tear the car with the Heavies apart and leave them unconscious. The two men in the gang, Anderson and John, would run to the crashed car and take the money. Sally was escorting Harry, also being the one in touch with Greg Lestrade. The corrupt DI of the New Scotland Yard was the one in charge of the CCTV cameras and he was informing the gang about the police movements around them.

And if they followed the plan, everything would turn out beautifully. No one was going to end up hurt, or killed.

But they had ignored the Heavies.

So they had to make a small change of plans, in the middle of the gunfire.


"I see you ordered already," said the blonde thief when the waitress placed a cup of tea in front of the consulting accountant. Soon, the dark-haired man put a cigarette into his mouth while with his right hand he took a lighter form his pocket. He sucked the white and firm body of the cigarette and exhaled a big cloud of smoke seductively, causing nice things to John's lower part. Watson's blue eyes followed the cigarette till it was out the young man's mouth and it made him crazy.

"You were late. I told you not to, and shouldn't you have taken precautions?" he asked John easily and carelessly. He never made eye contact with the thief until he felt his chest rise and his pulse quickened.

"Precautions? Did you see that? What happened? God."

Johnny Boy sighed and shook his head, breaking that little eye contact they were sharing.

"Well, it's your job, isn't it? I know what happened because I saw it. I was at the Bank. I supervised the Heavies when they filled the bags with the money. And I saw the car crash, the sister is a very good driver, isn't she? I think you should get rid of that rat faced man Anderson, though."

Sherlock Holmes looked into those blue eyes. John's pupils were dilated. His bruised eye looked good and he also liked that limp. Even if it was faked.

My dear friends, the truth is that Sherlock Holmes saw all the action from one of the Bank's window, while Molly was on her knees in front of him.


Harry stepped on the accelerator and turned the wheel to the left side, making the end of the truck crash against the car with the Irish heavies inside. John and Anderson got down the truck and ran to the broken down car with iron scissors. They were right, because the heavies had the bags with the money chained to their wrists.

"Cut the chains!" shouted Johnny while he took both bags with his hands. They had to climb onto the broken-down car to get the bags filled with money when the heavies, far from being knocked out, tried to hit the head of the gang.

"I can't do it!" Anderson and his clumsy hands gave one of the heavies, the biggest, enough time to get off the crashed car. They had lucky when the rat faced member of the Wild Bunch cut off the chains and both men ran to a car Harry had settled the day before in case they needed a faster transportation. Lestrade was on the phone with Sally and giving them the proper directions they needed to scape from the police officers around the are of the Bank.

"Change of plans! Plan B! Plan B! Police officers on the A route had been warned!" shouted Greg from his office in the Yard, while his dark eyes were scanning the CCTV cameras. Thanks to destiny, the corrupt DI worked on the criminal and murder division. He wouldn't be involved unless someone got hurt, or worst, killed.

When John and Andy. A. Anderson got inside the car, Harry was ready to drive off the scene before things could get worst when the smallest of the two Irish heavies jumped over the car. "Get us off these bloody bastards!" shouted John when Harry lost control over the car and they smashed against a shop.

It was time to make a little show-off. And the Wild Bunch showed their power.

The whole gang had to change plans again.

"Abandon the group and run! Plan C and change your routes!" shouted Harry as soon as the hit one of the Heavies who had been punching her brother. But things got even worst when one of them appeared with a machine gun John had only seen in Afghanistan.

"Fuck off!" yelled Anderson to the crown of people outside the crashed shop when they tried to change routes and escape with the money. Nothing of this was going as planned and the Wild Bunch had to improvise, something most of them hated but it was vital to get out of this hell alive and have a nice share of the money. So the planner of the jobs ran with one bag to the south while John carried the other bag filled with money to the opposite route. It was one of two; the Heavies could go and chase either of them or they could chase both. And Harry had more chances since the biggest one of the Irish was behind her, and she quickly lost him on the way.

The one who had troubles was Johnny Boy. The slim and thin Irish Heavy was behind his steps and it was hard to take the designed route when you know you're running just a feet away from someone who can kill you with his own bare hands.

The blonde thief ran and ran through the streets till he got himself inside a little neighborhood with an old tunnel. His short legs were hurting and he had to play his last card. Because his life was on stakes.

Watson hit the Heavy with a big piece of wood and escaped before she could see the Irish hit man was still conscious.

"Need a lift?"

"Took your time to pick me up," said the blonde man as soon as he saw his sister parking a stolen car. She winked at him, showing her bruised cheek and her bleeding nose. They were tired. Their plans had failed, but they were alive. Very alive, in fact, and well enough to enjoy their shares and laugh at the Heavies' faces.


"I didn't realise," said Holmes, clearly not worried about the dangerous situation the Watson's and their gang had to go through. After all the mess and the failed plan, Lestrade was called to investigate the case of the missing seven million Euros after the car crash on the shop killed a man. Anderson and Sally had managed to escape and stay safe. But the ones who really sweated were Harry and John.

"Realise? You didn't realise that they had guns? Big, long, dangerous machine guns with war criminals attached to the trigger? You know what, darling? I'm just gonna leave this laundry bag here under the table for you, okay? Fucking hell."

John was fucked up. He knew he was fucked up. The money was good, it had always been good. But the pain in his eye or in his leg was nothing compared to Holmes's coldness. He wasn't waiting for consoling words or a pat on his shoulder. But the consulting accountant saw everything. And there he was, enjoying a chocolate dessert he might throw up later, and looking at people and deducing things about them.

"Watch your words, John," warned Sherlock Holmes with a cold glare at the thief who stood up from his chair, getting ready to leave.

"Goodbye, Mister Holmes. You're way too dangerous for me."

That was the last words spoken between these two men. Johnny Boy left the restaurant in silence. Lestrade was waiting for him outside in his car.

"Did I overdo it with the limp?"

"No, the limp was good. He's a wild one. He likes you, Johnny."

"Piss off, Greg. Where's Harry?" asked John with a pinch of worry on his voice.

"Had a meeting with the lawyer, you know, the freak's wife. It looks like she got her the files."

"And now we're gonna know who the fucking informer is."

The real Rocknrolla knows when his songs are the new hit. He also knows when he needs to be alive and when he needs to be dead. He knows how to speak and where he can walk. He knows who he can trust. And the real Rocknrolla knows who betrays him. He has no fears. He is flawless. Because he knows what he is, what he does, what he wants and what he rocks.

Because the real Rocknrolla rocks the world.


PLEASE REVIEW?