Sustain III: Obbligato 9/14

Authors: Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda

See Chapter One for Details

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John woke up, still fully dressed, sunlight streaming through the open door, manky duvet twisted round his feet, when something hit him.

He sat up.

The thing that hit him was actually two things: a shirt and shorts. A uniform in khaki brown.

"I need a look-out," Sherlock said from the doorway. He was already dressed in an identical uniform. John squinted, but he couldn't say it suited Sherlock at all. Something about the cut of the collar made him look like a bit like an ostrich in fancy dress, and the khaki made him look peaky. And no one - no one - with legs as pale as Sherlock's should wear shorts.

"What are we doing?" John stripped off his clothes and pulled on the uniform shirt. The buttons were the wrong way around, for some reason.

"Meeting a delivery van, in ten minutes," Sherlock said.

"Where?"

"Two streets west of here," Sherlock said. "Do hurry."

"Why?" John struggled with the shorts. The were too large in the bum and too small in the waist and zipped and buttoned the wrong way, like the shirt.

"Because we need it."

"It? Wait, is this a woman's unif -"

"The van, obviously." Sherlock frowned. "Don't whinge. These were the only uniforms I could get."

"I'd worked that part out, thanks." John lay back on the bed so he could do up the zip. "The question, again," he grunted, "is why."

"So that we might deliver twelve cases of Cotnari wine and assorted liquors to a uniquely well-secured compound at the edge of Hamilton."

John had known Sherlock long enough not to be surprised. He nodded and pulled on his shoes.

"You did learn to drive in the army, yes?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, of course," John stood. "The Roman's place, yeah? You don't reckon he knows what you look like? He's bound to be watching."

"Were he on the island he no doubt would be," Sherlock said. "But he left Bermuda prior to our arrival. Only lackeys remain. Not too difficult to get past."

"But your dad said -"

"Please don't call him that," Sherlock said sharply.

"Right, fine, Quin and Mycroft both- "

"Are hiding something from me, from us," Sherlock said. "There's a piece of information my brother wants from The Roman, quite badly, and wishes to keep from me, just as badly. And Tarquin Holmes is not to be trusted under the best of circumstances. Never mind that I've no interest in being used as their sniffer dog."

John nodded. "So why are we here?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said with an edge to his voice. "But let's find out, shall we?"

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"Mary?" Phillipa called through the washroom door. She'd been waiting so long she started to suspect Mary had gone to sleep in there.

"Coming," Mary called finally.

The door unlocked with a snick, and there stood Mary, looking bloody awful. Her eyes and nose were red and her face was a blotchy, tear-streaked mess.

Pip winced. "So that's a 'yes'?"

Mary closed her eyes and nodded. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

Pip didn't know what to say. "Don't, don't cry," she finally mustered. "I take it you aren't happy with the news?"

Mary walked past her, sat on the edge of the bed and reached for a tissue. "I'd love" - sob - "another baby," Mary said, and then cried harder. "But I don't know about -" sob "- Sher - Sher - Sher-"

"Sherlock, yes." Pip sat beside her. "The two of you haven't discussed having more children?"

Mary laughed a horrid, desperate laugh and shook her head.

Pip knew it. She hadn't bought the way Sherlock faked playing happy families for a minute, not really, and especially not since she accidentally caught sight of the two of them on the deck the night of the party. Pip knew Sherlock didn't have any self-respect, but poor Mary was smitten and he treated her like a whore. Clichés about leopards and spots and dogs and tricks danced in a merry circle through her head.

"If he doesn't want - this?" Mary sniffled. "We'll have to move house, Eddie and I, we'll have to -"

"You're worried Sherlock will throw you out in the street because he got you pregnant?" Pip asked in amazement.

"No, no, of course not," Mary said. "He wouldn't. But I couldn't - we couldn't - not with him so close -"

"Nonsense. He's lucky to have you, Mary. And he knows it. Even if he doesn't let on, he knows it."

Mary wiped her eyes with her hands and shook her head. "I'm the lucky one. I've no idea what he's getting out of our - our - this."

"Mary," Pip said definitively, "Sherlock is the biggest failure as a human being that I know. I've no idea what you see in him, none whatsoever, but I've a fair idea of what he sees in you."

Mary gave her a skeptical glance.

"You're pretty," Pip said, because it was true, "you're good at your job, you're surprisingly personable for someone who cuts up dead people for a living, you are a wonderful mother, and unlike most people, you actually like Sherlock."

Mary looked like she didn't quite believe her. "But Sherlock is - is -"

"Tall, horse-faced, spoilt, nasty, and annoying? All true," Pip said. "But do you know what I noticed while we were away? While he's still tall and horse-faced, he was a great deal less spoilt, nasty, and annoying than usual. That's down to you, isn't it?"

Mary sniffed and shrugged. "I asked him if he could try to be less, um, abrasive."

"And he did it, Mary. For you. Just because you asked. Do you think you're the only one who's ever asked? You've no idea how phenomenal that is, do you?"

Mary shrugged once more. The tears started again in earnest.

"Oh, Mary. Do you know, for a fact, that he is not going to be happy about this?"

Mary shook her head. "No. I'm probably just borrowing trouble, aren't I?"

"I'm sure he'll do the right thing," Pip said. And she was sure, too, because she would speak to Mycroft about it, and between them, they would see to it Sherlock made good, whether he wanted to or not. He wasn't going to break either Mary or Violet's heart by bollixing this up.

Mary visibly forced a smile. "I'm sure."

"Now, get yourself dressed and come downstairs before Violet sends a search party up after us." She rose and crossed to the door. "It will all work out in the end, you'll see."

Mary nodded. "I hope you're right."

"I am," Pip said. "I guarantee it."

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"Go round back," the voice from the intercom ordered when gate swung wide.

Sherlock used his practiced bored face to cover the adrenalin that was surging hot and cold through his veins. John looked put out, and Sherlock wasn't quite sure if it was real or not. It didn't matter though, as long as he drove the truck and kept the gun Mycroft had provided handy.

He held his own expression steady, hopping out of the truck and consciously stooping his shoulders as he filed the thug's face for future reference.

"You're new," a lackey in a Manchester United shirt said.

Sherlock grunted and nodded. There were three more hanging about the garden, talking amongst themselves. They looked like Rom and sounded like Chavs.

"Good," said another. "The old one never wanted to get the boxes."

"Or the empties," said Man-U. "It's in the contract, right, you lot are 'sposed to get the boxes and the empties."

Sherlock pushed his shoulders down further, loading the wine and liquor on the handcart. "Nobody said anything to me, mate," he said in a very reasonable approximation of the local accent.

Man-U held the back door open for him. "Don't care if they told ya or not, you got to take 'em, yeah? You'll get the boxes and the empties or we'll be making a call to your boss."

"Cellar's to your right," the other lackey said. "Find it for yourself but don't go no where else. I got a goat on the fire out front."

"Looks like I'm getting the empties up from the cellar, then," Sherlock said. He was sure to speak loudly enough so that John, back in the van, would hear every word through the shirt-button bug.

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Sherlock stood in the cellar making a quick study of the organization of the racks. The Cotnari went in nearest the door. It was cheap, and someone seemed to consume a good deal of it, based on the number of empties. And at least four empty bottles had been used as Molotov cocktails. He doubted anyone else on the island drank that swill.

The other bottles went away easily, stored in order of relative merit.

If all went according to plan, Sherlock would be able to plant a few bugs and be in and out before any of The Roman's lackeys were any wiser. If the lot he'd encountered so far were any indication, it shouldn't be that difficult.

There were security cameras in the cellar, of course, but it was a simple enough matter to 'accidentally' stack boxes so as to block them. Sherlock then pulled out his own phone, prepared to take photos, only to discover his freshly-charged phone had no signal.

No, not simply no signal; the signal was actively being blocked.

Interesting, that. Who blocked microwave signals to a wine cellar? Someone cellaring more than wine, obviously.

He looked around, scrutinizing the walls, the ceiling, the floor-

There. There was a seam in the floor, one that made no sense as anything other than a secret compartment.

He knocked along the edge of it, searching for an echo that would indicate a hidden cavity or chamber.

Instead, someone knocked back. "Help! Help me!" he heard faintly.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his Leatherman, began carefully working the blade around the seam, then prised the trap door open.

He was assailed by the smell of wine, sweat, and urine. "Oh thank God," a woman, presumably the one he had heard, said. "I thought you'd never get -" she squinted at him "- Sherlock?"

Sherlock had to hide his very genuine surprise. "Have we met?" he asked, pulling her from the hole. She was tall and blonde and had been in that chamber a minimum of four days, a maximum of six - he couldn't tell from smell alone. This - she, whoever she was - was not part of his plan at all, and presented any number of complications.

"I suppose that depends," she said, blinking rapidly. "Who sent you?"

It was Sherlock's turn to blink. "Oh," he said, as the puzzle piece snapped into place. "Nikki, I presume?"

"Ah, so Quin, then," she said.

"And if I'd said Mycroft?"

"Gloria Halter. Lori." She waved a hand unsteadily at him. "Nev' mind."

"Well, whoever you are, we're in a hurry. There are surveillance cameras - "

"Don't worry about those cameras," she said. She pointed to the trap door. "That's the access hatch, all the electronics are down there. I disabled them ages ago. The cameras for this area, I put those on a constant loop weeks ago, anyway. If anyone is watching, which, honestly, probably not the case. For an international criminal kingpin, The Roman runs an incredibly shoppy slip." She frowned. "Slippy shop. Sloppy ship."

"Have you, by any chance, been living on wine?" Sherlock asked.

She nodded. "A little bit. I had two PowerBars, too, but those are gone. There was bottled water, too, but I wanted it to last. My phone battery died on the nineteenth -"

He frowned. "It's the twenty-third."

"Oh." She looked very despondent, then brightened. "Well, you're here now, aren't you? I surveilled you, you know."

"You. Surveilled. Me?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

"Electronically," she said, said rubbing her eyes. "Before Mycroft assigned me to Quin. All I did was look at all the camera footage, nothing pervy. Was it a boy or a girl?"

Sherlock blinked, but he wasn't surprised, not really. He knew Mycroft kept watch on his doings. Still, it was something else to be confronted by the fact so baldly. His brother assigned someone to go through hours of CCTV footage of him getting in and out of cabs, carrying rubbish out to the bins, God knew what else. Of course, she would have seen Molly coming and going from his flat, watched her belly grow.

"Boy," he said cautiously.

"You didn't name him after Quin, did you?"

"Not a chance in Hell."

"Good." She nodded. "Because your father? He's a shit."

"Agreed." Sherlock began scanning the area again. Maybe there was something -

"It's not down here," she said.

"What's not down here?"

"The ledger of myth and legend." She tried to smooth her hair with her fingers, but it was a lost cause. "There's nothing here but booze. You'd think from the time The Roman spends down here that there's some great secret lurking, but no, all he cares about is his bloody liquor."

"I see." Sherlock said. He had no idea what ledger she was talking about, but there was not point letting on.

"That was the mistake I made. I thought 'he spends so much time down here must have something hidden.' But no, nothing but bottle after bottle after bottle. Then I heard a noise and thought I was so clever to slip through the trap door. It wouldn't open from the inside, though. Something was wedged or broken or something, I don't know. I've never been so happy to see anyone in my life as I am to see you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Glad to be of service," he said dryly, and considered her words. Obviously, she believed he'd been sent by Mycroft or Quin, specifically to find her. Which was very far from the truth. But he might be able to use her confusion to his advantage. "He doesn't care about anything but his liquor, you say, but which is his favorite?"

"Scotch. The Macallan 25," she said, and pointed. "Uses gloves to handle it, sets it beside him, sometimes, when he's on his computer. Says it's his good luck charm."

Sherlock looked. There, on the far wall, in a green and white presentation box, was very normal looking bottle of Macallan. He peered at the box, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, opened the box and examined the bottle.

Nothing obvious. Nothing but a tiny smear where no smear should have been. At least, at first glance, it looked like a smear. He pulled the magnifier from his pocket.

"Did you find something?" she asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes. His heart almost stopped beating for a moment. It wasn't a label at all. Someone had used a TexToPix program to make numbers the size of grains of salt disappear into what looked to be the label of a bottle of twenty five year old scotch. The ledger she'd mentioned. A ledger Mycroft would no doubt be very happy to get his annoying, fat fingers on. All the leverage Sherlock would need. Now all he had to do was get the Scotch and the girl out in one piece.

He put another bottle of Macallan that he'd unpacked not a quarter of an hour before in place of the 'lucky charm' bottle and replaced the cover.

"Probably nothing important," he lied. "Let's take it with us anyway, shall we?"

"How are you going to get me out of here?" she asked. "They probably think I ran off. It'll look suspicious if I just walk out with you."

"Yes, it will." Sherlock pulled a roll of gaffer tape he'd thought to bring along from his pocket and ripped off a length.

"What're you going to do with that?" she asked.

"Save your life," Sherlock told her, and put the tape over her mouth.

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It didn't surprise John when Sherlock turned to him as they drove from the compound and said, "Royal Palms, and quickly." It did surprise him when Sherlock wheeled a handcart stacked with boxes up to the Palms' service lift and straight to Mycroft's room, though. It surprised him even more when Sherlock pulled off the top box, which had its bottom flaps open and wedged into the box below it, to reveal a woman bound hand and foot with tape. She smelled a bit like one of Sherlock's informants.

"Look what I found," Sherlock said, by way of greeting. "I've your lost toy, Old Man." He said it loud enough to be heard in the adjoining room as he cut the tape binding Nikki's feet. "And I believe I've found something that will interest you, too," he told Mycroft.

"Good God, Nikki, darling, were you abducted?" Quin said. He took her by the shoulders, looked her up and down. "That's a relief, darling. I thought you'd left me. I was crushed." He led her to the edge of the bed, and began very carefully pulling the tape from her mouth.

"Spare us the theatrics," Sherlock said. "She's not really your girlfriend, she's Mycroft's plant, obviously. She thought she might earn herself a promotion by getting her hands on The Roman's much sought-after ledger. Instead, she inadvertently trapped herself in her prey's wine cellar for most of a week."

Quin rolled his eyes. "Of course I knew she was working for your brother, you dolt," he said as he held her close. "That makes my feelings no less genuine."

The girl blinked, rubbing at the places on her skin where the tape had been. "I want to shower. May I shower?"

"I would consider it a personal favor," Mycroft said, nose wrinkled.

The woman padded out of the room quietly, Quin following close behind.

"I managed to drop a few bugs on my way out," Sherlock said. He tossed John an earpiece.

"Where did you pick these up?" John asked.

"Kinder Egg," Sherlock said, archly. "There's a desk in there. I need you to write down everything you hear, regardless of how trivial it might seem. It's being recorded, but I don't want to waste time hoping someone in Mycroft's office will notice something important."

"Can do," John said, relieved at having a task. He pulled the hotel pad out of the desk drawer, sat down, and attempted to tune out the sounds in the rest of the suite.

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End 9/14