John's jaw drops when the cab pulls up to the address. "Sherlock."
Sherlock opens his wallet and hands the cabbie enough bills to appease his temper. The baby has been fussing into Sherlock's chest the entire time; she's not hungry, but she's apparently done with being moved around when she would rather be sleeping. "Yes, John?" He adjusts her against his chest so she can hide her face in his collar and grab the lapels. It seems to soothe her for the time being.
"Sherlock, this is the Shard."
John is looking at him as if the location is somehow his fault. Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It is."
Tourists mill about under five-quid umbrellas and cheap macs as their various tour guides attempt to rally their groups; the few Londoners, mostly employees of the building or the companies inside, simply ignore the light sprinkling of rain and go about their business. "Sherlock, who the hell are we meeting here?" John demands, fending off an over-attentive American woman from getting too close to Sherlock and the baby with a glare. "Did Mycroft say?"
It wouldn't be a great surprise if the contact turns out to be one of Mycroft's underlings in MI5 or MI6. Any intelligence agency worth its salt maintains a number of proxy businesses—usually in logistics, communications, or law—and jockeys for advertising space and real estate with everyone else. Money and power are the great motivators in the modern world, and what better way to manipulate criminals or hostiles into a mistake than by playing them with rivalries and business competition? No, it really wouldn't be a shock to find MI5 literally watching over London from the glass walls of the Shard.
All the same, it could very well be an independent contact, in which case Sherlock is inclined to be rather suspicious indeed. Though many British and UK-based businesses have recovered since the 2008 recession, very few are back to the point where leasing prestigious real estate (never mind prestigious real estate as expensive as that of the Shard) is anywhere on their agenda. If the contact does prove to be an independent player, he's going to be very, very powerful and may very well refuse to help if it doesn't benefit him or his agenda. Furthermore, Mycroft has recommended them to this contact in order to deal with people known to be associated with a major crime syndicate—though he himself may not participate in criminal activity, it's very unlikely that the man isn't somehow tied to the syndicate as well.
"Sherlock?"
Pulled from his thoughts, Sherlock shakes his head. "I know as much as you do, John." He strides through the lobby doors, head held high, and searches for anyone who looks more like a personal assistant than a tour guide or concierge.
He doesn't have to search long. "Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson, sirs," a silver-haired woman in a tailored tweed suit says as she appears at Sherlock's elbow, opposite John. "This way, please. Alistair is expecting you." The platinum wedding band on her hand glints in the sunlight as she gestures for him to follow her.
Bypassing the queue of tourists waiting to be taken to the observation deck is possibly one of the most satisfying things Sherlock has ever experienced. Even John looks smug; he meets Sherlock's brief gaze and bites back a smile. "If I ever get it in my head that it might be fun to pay thirty quid and queue up for a ride to the top of a chunk of glass and steel, Sherlock..."
"Oh, you can be quite certain that I'll disabuse you of the notion," Sherlock promises gamely. "That is, if the tourists don't do it for me first." This draws a snort from John and a demure little chuckle from the woman in tweed.
The lift stops on the twentieth floor. Smiling, the woman holds out an arm as they emerge from the lift lobby into an open-plan office space full of desks, computers, and clustered screens. "Just this way, gentlemen. Welcome to Landeshaw Communications, by the way—ah, Maryam. Thank you, dear." She accepts a tablet computer and a portfolio of printouts from a young woman in a sleek pantsuit and a turquoise hijab. "One of our most promising network engineers. You wouldn't believe the magic she works."
Sherlock nods and makes the sort of affirmative noise one makes when one is distracted on the phone; John stares around at the computers in amazement. "Are those touchscreens?" he asks, pointing at one of the clusters.
"They are, Doctor Watson, well-spotted. Our network administrators and analysts do most of their work individually, but we find it helps if the administrators, analysts, and engineers are able to meet and collaborate on new projects and proposed changes." Despite his apparent interest, the woman keeps them moving toward an office walled with frosted glass. "Here at Landeshaw, we're very much of the opinion that the job a person was hired for should not prevent them from contributing to other areas in the company. It's rather a waste of talent to do otherwise, don't you think?"
Sherlock makes his noncommittal noise again—they're here to meet one of Mycroft's contacts, not consider an investment—and John just nods, clearly out of his depth.
The door to the glass office opens. "Agatha, you found our guests. Excellent."
"Good god," says John, and Sherlock has to agree. It's like the man has just stepped out of the pages of the latest Paul Stuart catalogue: tan, tall, and powerful, it's like a silver-maned lion has neatly folded itself into the shape of a human man, right down to his immaculate beard and piercing, golden hazel eyes. His deep, rich cobalt blazer drapes perfectly over broad shoulders, a powder-blue button-down collar, and a creamy silver double-breasted waistcoat, and his charcoal trousers are so precisely pressed and creased that Sherlock suspects he could use the fold as a straightedge for drafting. Even his shoes and socks are polished and matched perfectly to the outfit.
"Alistair Landeshaw," the man rumbles, flashing perfectly straight, white teeth in a smile, "and you've met my magnificent Agatha. You must be Mr Holmes and Captain Watson. I was in the Armed Forces myself, you know. 30 Commando, back when we were still mucking about in Russia. Ruddy wonder we're still tangled up in all that mess, wouldn't you say?"
John nods, a bit dazed, and clasps the offered hand (Sherlock notes that he is wearing a well-polished platinum band to match the one on Agatha's hand); from the way his lips quirk up and his jaw tightens briefly, Landeshaw's grip is quite firm. "It's the Great Game on a bigger board, Mr Landeshaw; when aren't we tangled up in it?"
The baby startles as Landeshaw tosses his head back and gives a great laugh. "So it is, so it is!" he guffaws as he gives a somewhat alarmed John a sound thump on the back. "Well met, Captain, Mr Holmes. Do have a seat, the kettle's just boiled and I have this glorious orange spice I brought back from Babol, and—ah! Who is this?" He stands again as soon as John is seated and leans in to inspect the baby. The baby looks at him for a moment, then turns her head to fist little hands in Sherlock's shirt and complain into his neck.
"My daughter," John replies quickly, saving Sherlock the trouble. "Her mum's, er, not well, and..."
Landeshaw waggles a finger at the baby and chuckles. "If by 'not well' you mean 'cleaning up after a lot of bloody imbeciles', then she certainly is." He pats the baby's hand twice and straightens up, completely ignoring John's clenched jaw and white knuckles. "Cut her head off and she'll still find a way to kill you and make a profit doing it. Genius, she is, simply genius." Settling back into the white leather cushions of his office chair, Landeshaw props his ankles atop his desk and accepts the tablet and portfolio from Agatha in exchange for a kiss over her fingers. After a moment to flip through the printouts and eye the screen on the tablet, he glances up at Sherlock and John. "Ixion, then, is it?"
Sherlock nods tersely. "For whatever reason, my brother believes you may be able to assist, Mr Shawland." Lifting a hand to his lips and raising his eyebrows in a mockery of embarrassment, he chuckles. "I'm so sorry, did I say that? Mr Landeshaw."
The smile that unfurls on Landeshaw's face doesn't reach his eyes. "Oh, so you did meet Melanie. Lovely girl, isn't she? Agatha picked her personally for the job. You do have a way with such things, my dear." At that, Landeshaw's smile does reach his eyes, but only for a moment, and only when Agatha gently, possessively rests her hand atop his shoulder. "I can't say I expected McConn to be so crass, but I'd be a liar if I said I was surprised by it. Certainly made the decision to label him expendable an easier one, though I suspect we would have been better off if we'd arranged an accident for the little bastard sooner. No doubt Melanie would have jumped at the chance, but Jim found him entertaining; God only knows why. Wretched sot."
Sherlock and John exchange an incredulous look. Is no one really who they say they are?
"Touché, Mr Landeshaw," Sherlock sighs. There's no point in continuing a fight when your own blade has been turned against you.
Landeshaw merely gives his not-quite-a-smile again and lowers his feet to the floor. "As I am told you so love to say: obviously, Mr Holmes." He laughs and sits back in his chair. "Such a shame, really. Mary seemed to think you quite clever." At John's flinch and scowl, Landeshaw laughs again. "Oh, dear—is Miss Mary Watson a sore subject, Captain?"
It's as if John ages twenty years in mere seconds; pale and drawn, he clenches his jaw and closes his eyes. At the same time, Agatha pointedly removes her hand from her husband's shoulder and steps away.
Sherlock meets the unmoored Landeshaw's gaze with a brumal one of his own. "I doubt that I need to tell you what happened to the last man who made that mistake," he snarls, letting his voice drop to its quietest, most menacing register.
The beginning of a smug chuckle starts to leave Landeshaw's chest. "Oh? Going to shoot me in the head, then, just like Charlie?" He turns back to invite Agatha to share in mocking Sherlock, but the only thing she shares with him is a look of such disgusted disappointment that he actually pales and shrinks down in his chair a bit. "Right, then." Gathering the tablet and the portfolio, Landeshaw fumbles a slim pair of spectacles from the inner pocket of his blazer and clumsily settles them atop his nose. "Let me, ah, go over the facts."
The silence that falls over the office is anything but. How can it be, when Sherlock can hear John's too-controlled exhalations and the rustling hush of his shaking left hand against his jeans? He wants to shake his head, to dislodge John's sounds and everything he can deduce from them (exhaustion, humiliation, pain, so much pain)—he needs the clarity and objectivity, now more than ever before. At the same time, though, he can't ignore the sounds and their implications. He cannot leave John to his pain again, not after the vows he made, but... how does one dress a wound one cannot even see, much less comprehend?
John's soft 'no, thank you' pulls Sherlock from his thoughts. He watches as Agatha gracefully accepts his refusal, returning the Persian teacup and saucer to a tray beside the kettle on a side table. Agatha shoots her husband a warning glare when he appears to be about to speak to John; chastised, the man subsides and returns to his reading.
John offers Sherlock a wan smile when their eyes meet and shakes his head subtly: I'm fine, the gesture says. Don't bother.
Sherlock purses his lips and makes a mental note to call Angelo with a commission for the finest meal he can produce and to locate and procure one of John's ridiculous Bond films as soon as they've gotten the information they need from Landeshaw. He will bother exactly as much as John deserves. It's his responsibility, after all, what with the vow he made.
Papers rustle and flap as Landeshaw sets them down on his desk. "Who mentioned Ivan Moroz to you, Mr Holmes?" he asks, looking at Sherlock over the frames of his spectacles. "We keep the Russian branch at arm's length on good days, you see, as they do to us; very, very few in either branch are privy to the knowledge that we are, in fact, part of the same syndicate. Other than Mary, Mycroft Holmes, Agatha, and myself, there are perhaps fifteen who would know the name and only three who would know why it's important."
John gives a little grunt of recollection and looks to Sherlock. "The phone call." At Sherlock's nod, he continues. "One of the men M... she killed was on his phone with one of his coworkers when he was shot. You called him."
"He claimed Orson had been on the brink of some sort of deal with Russian oil interests and gave the name Ivan Moroz as a place to start," Sherlock supplies.
Landeshaw glances back at Agatha, who shakes her head once with a steely, thin-lipped expression. "Samuel Orson had no such deal," she says. "We, however, do."
Oh.
If there's no connection to be drawn between the Russian and European branches of the syndicate without crucial inner-circle knowledge, why would someone bother drawing Sherlock's attention (and thus police attention) to the Russians unless... "You're the European underboss, aren't you?" he breathes. Agatha's nod confirms it. "This isn't a power play. It's removing obstacles.
"You operate as a communications company, but in reality you specialise in surveillance and security, focussing specifically on overseeing and enforcing the European operations of the syndicate." Yet again, Agatha nods. "Connecting you to any dealings with the Russians in today's political climate through a high-profile shooting would splash you all over the media and put you on the back foot indefinitely, regardless of the deal's nature, and would cut Mary off from in-syndicate information and protection."
Landeshaw frowns. "We've had record profits across the board since Mary took over. Why in God's name would someone jeopardize that?"
"Loyalty," says Agatha, softly. "It was profit that drew us to Jim's syndicate, dear, but for others, it was Jim." She turns to Sherlock, grim. "Who told you about Ivan Moroz, Mr Holmes?"
"Frederick Riesch," he says.
Agatha nods. "He's your Ixion. He is the president of the investment firm where Orson and McConn worked, but he has a degree in Greek literature and mythology." The expression she turns on her husband this time is one of wary but growing satisfaction. "I have been waiting for this for quite some time, haven't I, dear?" she asks, cupping his face with one hand.
Landeshaw nods and leans into the touch. "You have."
With all the somber, chill grace of an angel of death, she gathers up the folio of papers and the tablet computer from her husband's desk and hands. "Show our guests out, Alistair, and then join me in my office." She pauses in the doorway. "Bring your cane."
All the way back to the lifts, Alistair Landeshaw is silent.
John lets out a long, shaky breath once the lift doors have shut. "I am almost completely certain that she's going to beat him."
Sherlock nods. "I suspect you're right."
For a moment, the two of them just stand there and try not to laugh.
"It was productive, at least."
After a check on the baby (asleep) and the time (fifteen minutes before she'll want a feeding), Sherlock nods and closes his eyes. "Frederick Riesch." Opening them, he sighs. "I should have realised it earlier, but I'm fairly certain he knew who I was. What a credulous fool I am, John!"
To Sherlock's surprise, John slides an arm around his waist and squeezes once in addition to giving his usual, dismissive little sniff. "Enough of that. You're not credulous and you're not a fool; you were on a mobile phone in a shitty little deli."
Sherlock is not credulous, not a fool, and he's standing in a lift with John Watson pressed all along his side and with an arm wrapped around his waist. "I, er. That's true."
"And hey, think of it this way—at least I don't cane you every time you're a massive berk."
Low, wicked chuckles escape Sherlock before he can leash them; he's still trying to stifle them when the lift dings, John steps away, and the doors open. "You're horrible," he says to John, and devolves into childish laughter again when John tosses him a cheeky wink. "Absolutely horrible."
John's reply is lost as they pass through a chattering crowd of tourists leaving one of the observation deck lifts. Sherlock does his best to catch up, but the blathering imbeciles only seem to move at once pace and in as tight a cluster as possible. When he tries to slide past, citing the baby at his chest as his need for haste, he's merely jostled and ignored. Fuming but stuck, Sherlock follows John's silver-ash-blond hair as best he can.
It's terribly strange, though. No matter how he tries to follow, the farther away John seems to get, lost in a sea of bobbing heads and parted hair and shoulders. He begins to feel dizzy, watching the waves of humans, the way they bob and weave and roll, and
then John is there, thank God, hello John, yes,
he is holding John's beautiful daughter, with his eyes, Sherlock loves John's eyes
yes you can take her, John, he says, but then
where are you going, John, don't go, something
isn't right
WHEW. Bit late with this again, sorry, but hopefully it's up to snuff. Let me know if you spot any errors or Americanisms. Thank you so much for reading! -Z