[edited on 2/26/15]
-Clever.
-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC
-Rated: T (currently) for language, suggested violence, and slight adult situations
-TV-based
-Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong to the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I only own the OCs introduced.
[National Antiques Museum; 5:20pm on March 21st]
A group of visitors, all ethnicity and ages, stood around a table where a beautiful Chinese woman sat, giving a tea ceremony demonstration.
"The great artisans say the more the teapot is used the more beautiful it becomes. The pot is seasoned by repeatedly pouring tea over the surface. The deposit left on the clay created this beautiful patina over time. Some pots, the clay has been burnished by tea made over four hundred years ago."
That was the last time tea demonstration for the day. The museum was starting to close, only ten minutes for visitors to leave. The woman stayed where she was, taking her time of cleaning and putting away the delicate clay teapots. She was so engrossed in their care, that she failed to noticed someone was behind her—an awkward but average looking young man who worked along with her at the museum.
"Four hundred years old, they're letting you use it to make yourself a brew." he noted, jesting innocently.
"Some things aren't supposed to sit behind glass, they're made to be touched. To be handled." she told him, glancing back briefly. A soft stricken sigh escaped her, picking one pot up. "These pots need attention. The clay is cracking."
"Well, I can't see how a tiny splash of tea is going to help." the man chuckled.
"Sometimes you have to look hard at something to see its value." replied the woman before picking another one that was more shinier and showing him. "See? This one shines a little brighter."
"I don't suppose.." he began, finally getting to the point of talking to her. "Um, I mean..I don't suppose that you want to have drink? Not tea, obviously. Um, in a pub, with me, tonight. Um..?"
"You wouldn't like me all that much." she kindly warned.
"Can I maybe decide that for myself?"
"..I can't. I'm sorry. Please stop asking." she finished, closing the box holding the teapots and other instruments.
The Chinese woman is later alone in the museum's artifacts storage. It is quiet until the sound of a door lock clicking is heard.
"Is that security?" she called out, receiving no answer. Cautiously, she stepped out of the storage locker and see no one visibly there. "Hello?" A draft stirred the ends of a cloth that was covered a statue..the sheet had not been there when she had arrived. With slow steps, she walked towards it and gently pulled the sheet away when standing before it. Horror lit her face at whatever was there..
[Marketplace; 12:43pm on March 22nd]
A month had passed since moving in with Sherlock Holmes. John was still getting accustom to his lifestyle and behavior. The eccentric never really left the apartment unless investigating, so the shopping was mostly left up to him. But it was easier said than done. At the self-checkout, Watson was taking his time scanning items even with a long line of people behind him. Though the machine was being unreliable and slowly grating on the doctor's nerves with its' annoying computerized voice. He angrily gave up at some point and stormed away, leaving the unpaid food.
[221B; 12:50pm]
At Baker Street, Sherlock was having a battle of his own but a far more deadly kind with an Arabian assassin. But unlike his flatmate, he didn't give up and instead triumphed. Though when Watson returned to flat, evidences of a fight were not seen or thought as he found the other man casually sitting in his armchair with a book.
"You took your time." Sherlock said upon his return.
"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping." John told, looking around the apartment. It seemed a bit different somehow to him.
Holmes looked away from his book. "What? Why not?"
"Because I had a row in the shop with a chip and PIN machine." the doctor informed with annoyance.
"You..you had a row with a machine?" his flatmate repeated, sounding slightly baffled by his statement.
Watson sighed frustratingly, closing his eyes for a second. "Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?"
"Take my card." The genius nodded towards the kitchen then, smirking with amusement. John walked that way but paused, turning back to him to angrily reprimand.
"You could always go yourself, you know, you've been sitting there all morning. You've not even moved since I left." Sherlock briefly thought back to earlier and decided then against proving the other man wrong.
"Oh, dear, trouble in paradise already?" The two men turned. Marisol had strolled in.
"Please. Don't tease about that too." her godfather said blankly, making her laugh.
For the past two weeks, she had visited almost everyday. She was finishing up being an intern to Professor Montgomery and currently was carefully getting her affairs settled upon soon graduating with a Bachelor's degree for writing in the coming spring. So she had some time on her hands. Since John had left their old apartment that the two had lived in since her father's passing, Vallas had moved out and got a more decent and reasonably priced loft in the city close to the college and not too far from Baker Street. But when not at Goldsmiths or being a waitress at a local pub, the young woman enjoyed spending her free time in the company of Watson and Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson. She minded to the cooking and cleaning for the men—mostly Sherlock, for he was an untidy sort. Even with her around, she didn't worry or tend after her godfather too much anymore, seeing that he was back to his old self.
Sherlock pretended to be busy reading, but he stealthy watched her. That day, she had came in wearing the beige trench coat he was accustom to seeing on her now. Upon removing said coat, a navy floral-patterned v-neck dress was what she wore. The dress was knee-length, exposing her legs that were covered in dark tights that gave the illusion of lace and pink cutout oxfords on her feet. His brows furrowed and he quickly looked away from her body. Lately, the man had developed an odd habit of observing her style of clothing. He instead moved his attention on what she was placing down on the coffee table. It was the normal; the tan leather satchel but there was a new addition—a small open-faced motorcycle helmet with a Hello Kitty design.
"That's a new helmet." he noted aloud, "You must have purchase a motorcycle recently."
"A motorcycle? What do you need one of those for?" John questioned with surprise.
"For both of your information, it's a scooter and it's to drive me places that's what it's for." she replied in a dead tone before pointing an angry finger at Holmes. "And you ruined the surprise."
The man shrugged, returning to his book. "I simply was observing. You were planning on telling John anyway." She bit back replying childishly with, 'That's not the point!'
"What wrong with taking a cab or the Tube?" asked the doctor.
"Nothing, but a guy I know well from Cambridge was selling it and showed me a picture. I fell in love with it at first sight." A happy smile formed, lighting up her pretty face. "It's a Vespa, pastel yellow, been in restoration for a year and it looks brand new. I saw it yesterday and bought it off him today." She picked up the helmet. "He gave me this in addition."
"You spent some of your inheritance on a scooter for how much?"
"About £600."
"600?! Marisol, that is far too much!"
"What? Come on. I'll save alot more money with this than using a cab all the time." the young woman reasoned with crossed arms. "There's still a bunch of cash in my trust fund that Grams left. My only real luxuries have been my laptop, my phone, my apartment, and now the Vespa—all things needed in my life." Her grandmother had died with some money to her name. So in her will, all of it had been given to Marisol on her twenty-first birthday—a total of £100,000. With that sum and the money left by her father, the writer was well off.
Watson raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay! Just be wise about your spending is all I'm saying."
"I am." she stated with an exultant smirk. "So, why were you scolding Sherlock when I came in?"
"I went to the shop, had a row with the chip and PIN machine—"
A delicate brow raised. "Again?"
"This has happened more than once?" queried Holmes, entertained.
"Not the point!" the veteran noted with chafe before finishing, "And I was telling Sherlock that he could have gone and got the shopping since he's been sitting there all morning." He went to the kitchen then, fishing out his flatmate's card from his wallet now.
"Oh, what happened about the case you were offered—" Marisol pondered curiously, glancing to the eccentric for an answer. "The Jaria diamond, wasn't it?"
"Not interested." he stated, indifferent. The book was closed and he briefly glanced down, seeing the sword from the assassin peeking out from under the chair. The heel of his shoe pushed in back out of sight secretively when John turned his back..though, the young woman noticed but said nothing at all; the only evidence of her knowing was the tiny tilt the corner of her lips made. "I sent them a message."
Placing down the wallet, Watson noticed a long scratch on the cluttered wooden table in the kitchen that hadn't been there. He rubbed, thinking it was just a smudge but with no success. A heavy sigh escaped him as he realized not all had been right while he left as his instinct had presumed. The man shook his head and tutted under his breath, giving a quick look at the genius.
"So, what are you doing here? Isn't your lunch break almost over?" John asked his goddaughter then.
"It's Monday, morning class only. But I'm really here—" Vallas stepped closer to Holmes suddenly and took his book. "To get this! Sherlock, I was having a fit looking for it! I was suppose to return it back today along with the others."
His curly brown haired head tilted. "Really? It was today?" The doctor smirked as he watched. Oh, he knew it was. The man just enjoyed irritating the writer for some odd reason. Personally, John thought it was insane, him doing so, since Marisol could be frightening like a war-rage Greek Goddess on a hellbent path when absolutely furious. But it was also funny too and reminded him at times of a comedy act from the genius' calm, heedless demeanor and the young woman's heated, snarky one.
"Yes! Geez! If you want me to get you books from the uni's library," she huffed, "Make sure they're all together when going to be returned."
"I'm gonna go try getting the shopping again..hopefully with more success." John announced; a laugh notable in his voice from their banter.
"I'm leaving too now." his goddaughter sighed, retrieving her satchel and helmet.
"Wait, before you do, I've complied another list of books for you to get." Holmes informed then, nodding to the desk beside him. "It's on the table."
"Oh, goodie." Marisol said dripping with sarcasm while getting said list. She skimmed it with a groan. "You just love torturing me, don't you?"
"Punishment for slapping me." grinned the eccentric. Two weeks had passed and he still wouldn't let it go no matter how much she apologized.
"I'd slap you again," she glared, "If it weren't for what I feared you'd do to me next. I'll get your stupid books but next time, go yourself, you hermit. And you're watching Daisy for me since I have to take a cab now to carry all this."
"Daisy?" the two men repeated with non-hidden mirth.
"My Vespa, and yes, I named it." the young woman said snippy before striding out. "Don't judge me."
An hour later, a tired Watson returned again with several heavy grocery bags this time. He would have been back sooner if he had cash on him to take a bus or cab. Instead, the doctor walked, deciding possibly at first that he needed the exercise. Sherlock, now sat at the desk; John's laptop open in front of him. An email from someone he knew was what he was contemplatively reading.
"Don't worry about me, I can manage." John said sardonic, wobbling into the kitchen to put the food down. He looked at Holmes. "..Is that my computer?"
"Of course."
"What?!"
"Mine was in the bedroom." Sherlock stated, typing away.
"What? And you couldn't be bothered to get up?" exclaimed his flatmate, incredulous. "It's password protected."
"In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours," Clear blues looked at him briefly. "Not exactly Fort Knox."
"Right. Thank you." The doctor took back his laptop and went to sit down. The genius said nothing; just steeple his hands in thought. Meanwhile, John looked over the bills that were past due on the small lamp table by the red chair.
"Need to get a job." he remarked.
"Oh, dull." drawled the eccentric in comment.
"Listen, um.." began the veteran, "..if you'd be able to lend me some..Sherlock, are you listening?" Before he could reply, a clambering came from the stairway along with a strings of profanity. John stood and hurried to the door, seeing Marisol struggling with a large stack of books in her arms.
"Let me get those." he said, scurrying to her side to take them.
"Yes, please do." she said wearily, walking pass him when he did and collapsing unladylike on the couch. Her eyes closed for a moment. When they opened again, a bottle of water was offered to her..by Sherlock.
She took the drink, surprised. "Oh..thanks."
"..Thank you for getting my books." he replied softly, if not shyly. Dark brown eyes blinked, amazed even more. He headed for the door and stated, "I need to go to the bank." The veteran and young woman stared after him, off-guard for a second. Marisol perked up and stood with her water bottle still in hand with a knowledgeable grin.
"He's got another interesting case."
[Shad Sanderson; 1:48pm]
"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank.." John trailed as the three strolled into a busy lobby..but an investment and stock trading one. A high-class place from the tall glass structure and its' obvious modernism and business dressed people walking about. They took an escalator to get to the front desk; Sherlock all the while observing every chaotic movement and objects around.
"This feels more like a hotel than a bank if you ask me." muttered the young woman, looking around. When arriving at the desk, all Sherlock had to do was tell his name and they were shortly escorted to the office of Sebastian, the current chairman in the International Trading Department. He was a posh man but overly confident in attitude that made him haughty.
"Sherlock Holmes." he said upon meeting in his office.
"Sebastian." the genius greeted formally, shaking hands. Even the man's handshake was obnoxious.
"Hiya, buddy. How long—eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"
"Yes. These are my friends, John Watson and Marisol Vallas."
Sebastian looked, surprised by what he addressed them. "Friends?"
"Colleague." Watson corrected, shaking hands with him.
"Right." the trader noted; that seeming more understandable. Either noticed the change in Holmes' demeanor except Marisol. She saw that what her godfather said upset him; not thinking he would correct being called his friend but he would say nothing about it being the man he was. She briefly reminded herself to later scold John for that remark.
So when it was her turn to shake hands with Sebastian, she stated kindly, "I'm really the only true friend here." He may grated her nerves at times but she wasn't ashamed to consider him a friend. She didn't have many so when she called you one, you were that to her for life unless otherwise.
"And a pretty friend he's got too." Sebastian chuckled. She gave a smile filled with mock-flattery. He went to his desk. "Grab a pew. Do you need anything, coffee, water?" They all denied any refreshments before seating. Sherlock looked to Vallas briefly and she gave a wink which made him smirk, cheering him up. The doctor and genius sat in the chairs across Sebastian while the writer stood behind them.
"So you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot." noted Holmes.
"Well, so?" the trader shrugged indifferently.
"Flying all the way around the world twice in a month."
Sebastian scoffed with a laugh. "Right. You're doing that thing. We were at uni together, and this guy here had a trick he used to do. He could look at you and tell you your whole life story."
"It's not a trick." Sherlock uttered.
"Yes, we've seen him do it." Watson informed, glancing at his flatmate.
"Put the wind up everybody, we hated it." Sebastian told. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night." Marisol steeled herself from snapping at the man for calling her friend a freak. She now immediately hated him, putting him top of the list along with Sally Donovan.
"I simply observed." he stated calmly, all but peeved.
"Go on, enlighten me." his old uni colleague requested, finding his deducing to be a fun little game. "Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world, you're quite right. How could you tell?" The eccentric went to speak but he continued on, "Are you going to tell me there's a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"
"No, I—"
"Is it the mud on my shoes?"
The genius stared for a moment then stated, "I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me." Vallas raised a questioning brow while Watson had a curious expression.
Sebastian laughed before getting to the reason for their visit. "I'm glad you could make it over, we've had a break-in." He lead them out of his office then to show where the break-in occurred. "Sir William's office—the bank's former chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."
"What did they steal?" asked the doctor.
"Nothing." he was told, "Just left a little message." Using an access card, Sebastian showed them into the room where a wall and a painting of the former chairman were used for two strange symbols spray-painted yellow. The trio stared at the graffiti message. The case was indeed interesting so far. The group returned to the trader's office to watch the security video of the phenomenon.
"Sixty seconds apart." he informed them of how much video feed was missing. Before that time, the office was normal and after the graffiti was there as shown. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around and left within a minute."
"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock questioned.
"Well, that's where this gets really interesting." Back down at the front desk in the lobby, a floor plan of the trading room. "Every door that opens in this bank, it gets locked right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."
"That door didn't open last night?" Holmes figured what his old uni colleague really wanted to know.
"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you—five figures." A check was removed from Sebastian's inner coat pocket. "This is an advance. Tell me how he got in. There's a bigger one on its way."
"I don't need an incentive, Sebastian." the genius remarked smoothly, walking away to get to work. Marisol smirked and followed after him, leaving John and said man alone together.
"He's, er.." John cleared his throat. "..he's kidding you, obviously. Shall I look after that for him? Thanks." He took it and read the large sum written out. It made him take a deep breath and sigh of relief—the past due bills would be taken care of most definitely.
[Sir William Shad's Office; 2:10pm]
The shuttering sound of a photo being taken was all that were heard in the room—Sherlock using his Blackberry's camera to store the symbols for future research. Marisol leaned on the door frame, staring intently at the message while biting her lower lip thoughtfully. The genius had finished taking photos and was slowly turning about the room, pausing when spying the young woman's posture.
"..You've seen these before, haven't you?"
"Yeah, they seem familiar.." she replied, walking further inside for close examination. "But I can't remember where. It'll come to me eventually though. Always does at the last minute."
"That's not much help." he deadpanned, continuing his observing of the room.
"I never say it would be." the young woman responded in an equally dead tone. Clear blue eyes rolled and then discovered an openable window that was camouflaged and obscured by the open shades. Sherlock looked from it to the doorway and back again before striding to the window. Drawing the blinds, he opened the glass panel, stepping outside onto the ledge. There was a pointed domed structure seen directly across from the office and down below, the roofs of two building along with Shad Anderson's towering one.
The writer came over, peeking her head out for a second. "No way. What you're thinking is like something from a spy movie, it's insane that what it is."
"But not impossible." the genius contradicted, returning inside. Now she watched him office as he moved around the cubicles and ducked down before popping back up. Vallas held back laughter as she thought he resembled an animal popping up out of its' hole and looking for any nearby danger. The workers of Shad Anderson were staring at him also, but with curious and perplexed expressions. The genius certainly was an odd sight to behold. The purpose of his silly movement was to see where in the area some of the message could be clearly seen by someone. He hit his mark when seeing the vandalized painting by someone's office. Observing the nameplate, it read Edward Van Coon, Hong Kong Desk Head. He took the name and returned to the office, saying to the young woman.
"Time to go find John."
The trio regrouped at the front desk. "..Two trips around the world this month." John noted suddenly, "You didn't ask his secretary, you said that just to irritate him." Sherlock smiled. "How did you know?"
"Did you see his watch?"
"His watch?"
"The time was right, but the date was wrong." Holmes explained, "Said two days ago. Crossed the date line twice and he didn't alter it."
"Within a month?" Marisol raised a brow. "How did you get that?"
"New Breitling. Only came out this February."
"Okay. So do you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?" Watson asked as they rode the escalator down to the downstairs lobby.
"Got everything I need to know already, thanks." the genius told, "That graffiti was a message. Someone at the bank, working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and.."
"They'll lead us to the person who sent it?" finished the other man, understanding.
"Obvious."
"Well, there's 300 people up there, who was it meant for?"
"Pillars?"
"What?" John and Marisol said together.
"Pillars and the screens." Holmes clarified for them, "Very few places you could see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course, the message was left at 11:34 last night. That tells us a lot."
"Does it?" the doctor noted as they left the bank.
"Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for somebody who came in at midnight." Sherlock removed the nameplate from his pocket, showing his acquaintances. "Not many Van Coons in the phone book."
-TBC-
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