A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting, and sorry in advance for flooding your mailboxes, those of you who follow this story, over the next few days. Procrastination will kill me yet... but not until tomorrow.
~Essie
0.o
Sherlock: Crime
January 2nd
January in Florence was rather chilly. Still warmer than London, of course, but Sherlock was glad to be inside the Casa della Lucertola. The owners (a middle-aged man with a weak heart and a gambling addiction and his pretty young wife, who knew about both and was eagerly anticipating the inevitable conclusion) had been taken aback by Sherlock's announcement that their home was about to be plundered by a notorious art thief, and gladly gave him permission to wait in their spacious library to catch Il Fantasma. Sherlock, for once, refrained from pointing out how absurdly thick they were to allow a complete stranger free rein of their house. Had he been Il Fantasma, he wouldn't have even needed to break in.
Now, he sat enshrouded in darkness, slouched in a corner chair with his fingers steepled in front of his chin and his ice-like eyes glinting like a cat's, reflecting the dim glow of a nearly-dead fire, the only light in the room.
He didn't have to wait long.
Before the gold-etched grandfather clock by the door had chimed half-past eleven, there was a scritching sound from the window. Sherlock watched, marginally impressed, as the thief removed a small section of glass from the diamond-paned window, reached a deft hand inside, and flipped the latch. The window swung inward, and a slight, black-clad figure slipped in over the ledge.
Sherlock waited until the lithe thief had crossed the room, intent on a prominently-displayed statuette by a well-known artist. When he stood, he was between the thief and the only escape routes.
"Personally, I prefer oil paintings."
Sherlock's clear, low baritone shattered the dead silence of the room. The thief, inches away from the statuette, whirled around and made as if to lunge past Sherlock.
"Ah, ah, ah…" Sherlock drew a black pistol from his coat pocket and leveled it at the thief. "I rather don't think so."
The slight, black-masked figure hesitated, then slumped—defeated.
"What," Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow, "No gun?"
In one smooth motion, Il Fantasma pulled the mask away, revealing the livid face of a blonde-haired, teen girl. She let loose a string of Italian invectives that Sherlock, impressed, filed away for future use.
"No gun," he agreed. He motioned with his own—John's, actually—at the chair he had just vacated. "Please. Sit." He reached for the light switch and flicked it on, flooding the room with a yellow glow. The thief blinked, sank into the chair, and glared up at him with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, taking in every detail of her appearance. "No…" he mused aloud, a note of disappointment and disgust finding its way into his voice. "No, you're not the Phantom."
"Of course I am not Il Fantasma," the girl exclaimed, fury in her voice. "I am Christiana Biondi. My madre—my mother —is Il Fantasma." There was so much anger in her tone that Sherlock was inclined to believe her. He put John's gun away, clasped his hands behind his back, and regarded the girl, this Christiana Biondi. No more than seventeen, minimal piercings, professional haircut. Nail polish recently done, also professional. Wealthy, then. Speaks good English, slight British accent—time at an English boarding school, I think. So, very wealthy. Expensive clothes, but not good burglary gear; this must be her first time out, or close to it, but she has been trained, hence her ease with the window. More anger than fear, she's not afraid of jail, she's angry at being…betrayed? Yes. Betrayed.
"Your mother sent you tonight." He wasn't asking, but she confirmed his idea.
"Si," she spat.
"Explain," he commanded. "And don't be dull."
She glared at him—honestly, those green eyes could hurt someone—and then tears welled up. She dashed them away with an angry, black-gloved hand.
"She told me it would be easy," she said. "She had to leave town."
"Why."
"I do not know. She told me nothing. Always, she goes off, always with no explaining. Always with Signore M." Cristiana pitched her voice high, as if in a mocking imitation of her mother, "Oh Christiana, oh piccolo Christiana, it is such an easy job. You go in, you take the statuetta, you get out. Ecco: an hour, no more, you have more spending money than ever you dreamed." The girl curled her hands into fists. "She knew. She knew—you are a policeman, no?"
"No, actually." Sherlock latched onto one phrase in the girl's diatribe. "Signore M?"
She shrugged. "If I tell you what I know, you will let me go free? You say you are not la polizio…" She looked up at him, canny. "I have stolen nothing, I have done nothing to report. You let me go, and I will tell you all."
Sherlock didn't even pretend to consider. There was no reason for him to turn this girl in. "Deal," he said. "Now. Tell me everything."
John: Punishment
January 2nd
January in Florence was rather chilly. Still warmer than London, of course, but John shivered in his jacket. He was hidden behind a small rock wall across from Casa della Lucertola, watching through the window. He had been there since dark, watching for any sign of movement within the house.
The new burn phone in his pocket vibrated suddenly. John, startled, withdrew the device and stared at it. He'd had the phone for a grand total of one day—he'd bought it from a vendor in a palazzo. Save for one text each to Kevin Stone and Cam Jackson to let them know how to get ahold of him, he hadn't used it. So who could be calling him at such a late hour? Kevin was in Los Angeles, which was—he did the mental math—eight hours behind, so it was only four in the afternoon there. But he didn't know why the man would be calling him, rather than texting.
The phone was still buzzing in his hand. John bit his lip, and answered.
"Kevin?"
"Hardly." The voice on the other end was as cold and sardonic as a lizard's glare. "Hello, John."
"Mycroft." John shrank back against the wall, his eyes darting in every direction. Combat adrenaline kicked in, and he was already plotting the best escape rout and the best bits of cover before Mycroft even said another word.
"Before you do anything rash," the elder Holmes said, "I will assure you that I am nowhere near Italy; nor are any of my agents. I'm not coming after you, John."
Wary, John asked, "Why not?"
"Because, quite frankly, you're not worth it." There was more irritation than anger hidden behind Mycroft's seemingly-bored tone. "To most of the world, you're dead. To Sherlock, you are dead and must remain so to protect him. I haven't spoken to my brother since Chicago, but I've been watching him—and the three of Moriarty's operatives that are on his trail."
Three? John's attention was suddenly caught by a light flipping on inside the house. He tensed—then saw Sherlock's silhouette raise a gun. Returning his concentration to the elder Holmes brother, John got to the point. "Why are you calling me, Mycroft?"
"To warn you."
"Warn me."
"Yes." John could almost see the man's eyes narrow. "You left our protective custody, John. I no longer assume any responsibility for you."
"I…didn't really expect you to." Sherlock was apparently interrogating the thief now. John picked up a handful of pebbles and let them slip back through his fingers one at a time.
"No," Mycroft agreed. "But know this, Doctor John Watson: you are on your own now. Not only will you not be protected if Moriarty's agents come after you, but if you prove to be a danger to my brother I will have my men remove you from the picture." The absolute frigidity in Mycroft's voice was at least seventy degrees colder than John had ever heard it before, and he suppressed a shiver. "Have I made myself clear?"
"Transparently," John said through gritted teeth.
There was a sigh from the other end, as if Mycroft was thawing slightly. "I understand your desire to protect Sherlock," he said. "I honestly do. But you are, to put it bluntly, a loose canon, and I cannot afford to risk my brother's life because your affection leads you to do something imprudent."
"Just so I can be clear," John said, his voice hard, "You basically just said that if it was me or Sherlock, you would take me out. Correct?"
A pause. "Yes."
"Then the thing that bothers me most, Mycroft," John ground out the name as if it were a personal insult, "Is that you don't get it. You don't have to threaten me, or try to—to punish me from afar. If it came down to a choice between me and Sherlock, Sherlock wins out every time."
Mycroft started to say something, but John cut him off.
"After all, that's rather why we're in this mess to begin with."
He snapped the cheap phone shut with a ferocious clack.
Mycroft vastly underestimated him, even after the events in the old mill, when John had blown himself up—or thought he had—to save Sherlock's life. For such a brilliant mind, the elder Holmes was absurdly thick at times. John stuffed the phone back into his pocket and resumed his vigil. At least he knew a bit more now than he had before. There were—bare minimum—three of Moriarty's agents trailing Sherlock. John would have to make even more sure he was never spotted. If he could ID the enemy, that would be a bonus.
Because if Sherlock found out that John was alive, he wouldn't last long. And after that conversation with Mycroft, John was sure about one thing:
Neither would he.