(A/N) Another chapter for you all. I'm proud of myself for getting it finished. I've had a bad cold all week and haven't felt alright enough to write which sort of sucks because I just started writing the Great Game and it was getting good. Few more days and I should be right as rain and able to get back into it. Thank you for all the reviews and the new followers. It's only going to get better from here. xoxo Melody
Chapter Twenty Three- It's All Fun And Games
"I abhour the dull routine of existence" - Sherlock Holmes"
― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of Four
The cab continued through the traffic on our way to the illustrious office buildings of Vanowen SC which Mycroft was nice enough to give us the address of. Everything was going fine and dandy until the cab driver drove over a pothole in the middle of the road, effectively jarring all three of us. Sherlock crashed into me, my bad hand getting squished into his bony side. I let out a little pained noise and sucked in a sharp breath at the searing pain that ran through my bruised knuckles. I took in a deep breath willing myself not to cry even though the pain was far worse than when I had initially fractured my knuckles. Sherlock quickly looked down at me, his eyes widening slightly as he realized what he had just done. John looked over at me as soon as he had righted himself, having heard my cry of pain and my intake of breath. Seeing my grimace as I clenched my jaw and tried to work through the pain, his eyes immediately roved down to my hand.
"Are you alright?" John asked me and I nodded quickly as I tried to figure out what I could tell him that he would believe. If John knew about my hand, he would put me in a cast again and while I might actually need one now, that was sure as hell not happening to me again. I didn't want another cast. My hand would heal eventually as long as I wore my brace and was careful.
"Cramps," I told John, grimacing a little again as another shot of pain worked its way from my knuckles and through my fingers. John paled a little at that answer. It was the perfect excuse. He wouldn't ask me too much about it because he would be embarrassed by it and that would effectively end that conversation. From the way John was uncomfortably shifting in his seat, I was right.
"Oh, um, I think I have some paracetamol," John said sheepishly as he checked his pockets. Ever the doctor, he pulled out a bottle of pills from his front pocket and handed it over to me. I was about to open it when Sherlock reached forward and grabbed the bottle for me, shaking out four pills and handing them to me.
"That's too many Sherlock," John cut in as Sherlock handed the bottle back to him. "She can only take two." Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed in mild irritation as I watched the two men. At this point, I didn't care. My hand now hurt like a SOB thanks to Sherlock bloody Holmes and I was actually getting some bad cramps. Damn Sherlock for being so bloody right all the time.
"Her tolerance to drugs is a lot higher than the average person given her use of illicit drugs in the past. Also, given her high tolerance for alcohol, four is the equivalent of two for her. If you would like to only give her two though, by all means doctor. Though when she goes on a murderous rampage induced by the hormones coursing through her system, I'm sure she will remember that you only allowed her to take two," Sherlock told him with a quirky smile, continuing with my excuse for my pain. My hand hurt worse now as the pain shot through it in spikes. Maybe I would get Mycroft's doctor to check it out for me later. Sherlock definitely jarred something. He looked down at me, his look convey a message only I would understand. 'Are you okay?'
I glared at him before straightening my expression so John wouldn't get suspicious. 'Do you bloody think so?' I asked him irritably through my expression and I saw him wince slightly. PMS and a lot of pain in my hand on top of cramps did not make me inclined to be nice right now. 'Sorry, it wasn't your fault,' I relented with an apologetic look as I placed my bad hand on his leg as I clenched my good hand around the pills. It wouldn't do to take out my anger on Sherlock. He hadn't tried to hurt me, it was all just bad luck. I looked at John and saluted him before I popped the pills in my mouth and swallowed them, blenching slightly as the pills slowly slid down my throat. Oh yeah, that was lovely. "Sorry, not listening to doctor's orders right now," I told John as he looked at me worriedly. "You'll thank me later," I assured him as I patted him on the shoulder comfortingly. While John was distracted, Sherlock had picked up my hand in his and had carefully checked my knuckles for any further injury. I was ready for the pain this time around and was able to bite my cheek to keep from hissing in pain. Sherlock cradled my hand in both of his as I sat back in my seat with my eyes closed, trying to move pass the pain. We still had a case to work on and I needed to be okay.
While we sat in traffic for the next half hour, Sherlock held my hand, cradling it in his as the drugs finally started taking affect, taking a slight edge off the pain. Thank Gandhi for calculating the dosage I needed. He was right, because of my drug use before, I had a high tolerance for drugs which meant I normally needed a higher dosage. I knew John didn't approve of self-medicating and not listening to FDA guidelines and dosages, but he would seriously thank Sherlock later when I didn't want to strangle him because of the pain. Mycroft had once joked that I got homicidal around "my time of the month", at which point I had promptly asked him what his excuse was for his. Mycroft was terrible when it came to women and their emotions. He actually made Anthea take the week off whenever it was her time of the month and that was the week I never heard from him when it was mine. John being a doctor was far more understanding, if slightly embarrassed, but Sherlock saw the scientific side in it. I wouldn't put it past him to want to experiment to see the effects of hormones on the female brain and different methods that are supposed to ease the symptoms associated with getting your period. Oddly, I would be okay if he wanted to do that. He might actually figure out a way that would help me better than lying on the couch in the fetal position for seven days while I prayed for it all to stop. Right now, I had a plan of forcing John and Sherlock to watch movies with me, just for an excuse to use them as space heaters while I curled up on the couch for a nap. The human body temperature was a great alternative for a hot water bottle. Oh yeah, this was happening when we finished the case.
When we finally got to the offices of Vanowen SC, Sherlock helped me from the cab, ducking back inside to pay the cabbie before he cradled my hand in his and led the way inside. Mycroft had texted me that he had had Anthea call ahead for us and let them know that we were coming to meet with them. With the help of Mycroft's name, we would have more of a chance to speak with the CEO of the company rather than a liaison. Mycroft's name literally opened doors into many places. I myself had a card that could get me into a lot of places if needed. Of course, it was only to be used if I was working a case for Mycroft and if I ever used it for anything else I would have the entire wrath of the British government knocking at my door which meant Mycroft. He literally was the most powerful man in the British government save for the queen herself. I had actually met the Queen once, but that was not something I was supposed to tell anyone. Mycroft had been meeting with me in the palace and he had gotten invited to have tea with the Queen. Upon hearing that Mycroft had a "lady friend" with him, the Queen had been all too interested in meeting me. As royal as the Queen was, she was like any other woman who loved a bit of gossip. After having worked closely with Mycroft for so long, she probably had been surprised to learn that he was actually friends with a woman. Mycroft of course had threatened me within an inch of my life not to embarrass him. His fears were unnecessary however. The Queen loved me and the fact that when Mycroft had tried to interrupt my explanation of what I did for a living, relating a particularly gruesome homicide case to her, I had told Mycroft he was being rude and had smacked him upside the head. The Queen loved to see a girl with a bit of fire to her and certainly a woman who showed she was just as strong if not stronger than a man. The Queen was totally amazing, how could you not love a woman ruler who didn't take any shit from anyone?
Sherlock, John, and I checked in with the woman at the front desk of the office who told us that she would alert the CEO of our arrival straight away before she left us to wait in the lobby. Sherlock and I sat next to each other on a small and very uncomfortable couch while John sat across from us in an equally uncomfortable chair. This building was all white, neat, symmetrical, and in one word modern. I didn't like it. I loved the messy, unorganized, mismatched decor of Baker Street. That was one of the reasons why I hated hospitals so much. They were all white and sterile and smelt of disinfectant. Knowing my luck and the way my hand felt, I probably would have to make a trip down to the A&E to get my hand recasted. I was not going to be telling John or Sherlock that now though. We had a case which meant I had to be okay. Sherlock wouldn't take kindly to having to be called away in the middle of a case because I needed to get my hand looked at. Besides, it could wait for now. Sherlock seemed to deduce my line of thought from the look on my face because we promptly started an argument all through looks, John going completely unaware of our argument that carried entirely on through our expressions as he read a magazine.
'You need another cast,' Sherlock told me with a pointed look and I narrowed my eyes at him in a glare.
'No, I don't. I'm fine,' I told him with an annoyed huff as I took my hand back from his and crossed my arms, hiding my bad hand carefully in the folds of my arms.
'No, you're not. Your hand is clearly causing you a lot of pain,' Sherlock shot back with a little smug, satisfied smirk on his face.
'And why do you care?' I quipped back, raising one of my eyebrows.
'With you injured, your usefulness on cases is significantly decreased. You are also more irritable when you are in pain,' Sherlock told me with a quirk of his own eyebrow. I blinked back at him and furrowed my eyebrow, cocking my head to the side as I regarded that answer. I could understand that my usefulness was decreased being injured and I was more irritable because I was in pain, but that didn't seem enough for him to be worried about me, if worried really was what you could call it. If anything, he did at least care that I was in pain. My thoughtful frown turned into a little smirk.
'You actually care and don't deny that you do. Thank you for that by the way. Fine, I'll get it checked out after we solve the case. Gives you incentive to impress me,' I told him with a cheeky smile. He glared at me before shaking his head slightly.
'You are more stubborn than Mycroft,' Sherlock told me with a roll of his eyes and I giggled slightly, causing John to look up from his magazine, eyeing us closely with interest.
'It's a trait of being a woman. Mycroft is just a drama queen,' I told Sherlock with a grin which he returned with a slight smirk as John sighed exasperatedly across from us, capturing our attention. We both turned to him, finding him pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You're doing it again," John said gesturing between the two of us and Sherlock and I shared a look before we both fixed John with a look, each of us raising an eyebrow. "And there you go doing the same expression," John continued. "You do know you do that right?" John asked us and I cocked my head to the side and frowned in confusion.
"What is it exactly that we do?" Sherlock asked him, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands in the prayer position as he watched John. "Do enlighten us John." I snorted at Sherlock and his sarcasm.
"You're doing that thing where you argue through looking at each other and then pull the same expressions. It's creepy," John huffed, crossing his arms in front of him as sniffed. The Watson sniff of exasperation. I wasn't sure if John realized it or not but he had a very expressional face. I had categorized various expressions and what they meant over the last few weeks. There was the nostril flare of anger, the sniff of exasperation, the brow furrow of disapproval, the list sort of went on. It was therefore easy enough to see how Sherlock and I could communicate through facial expressions if I could understand all of that just from one of John's looks. Sherlock and I looked at each other and just shrugged before smirking at John's exclamation of "Dear God!" John sighed heavily before he changed the subject back to the case at hand. "You're sure Jacobs not the one who built the bomb?"
"Sure? No. Reasonably certain? Yes. Scotland Yard can continue to poke and prod him. In the meantime, we can push forward on our new front," Sherlock told him as he got out his phone and started messing with it. I leaned in slightly to Sherlock's side, getting comfortable. I looked up at him innocently as he glared down at me before sticking my tongue out at him. He rolled his eyes at me, something that I was starting to realize was our thing with each other but he didn't shake me off like I thought he was going to and instead just went back to what he was doing on his phone.
"It is a, er, nice front," John said as he looked around the lobby. "Very posh, high end."
"Hm?" Sherlock asked him as he looked up from his phone. "Vanowen Strategic Communications. Public relations consultancy. Founded in 1994 by Harrington School of Business alumna Hector Vanowen. The firm is particularly adept at solving image crises of the corporate variety, making them one-stop shopping for many of the Global 500. Spin doctors of the highest order. And…," Sherlock said as he pointed to the television at the far end of the room which was now running the bomb story. "Former tenants of the midtown offices ravaged by a homemade bomb this morning. They occupied the space until December 2008. Now, if we're right, and the bomb was planted that October, this company or one of its employees may have been the intended target," Sherlock finished as two official-looking business people approached us. Thank Gandhi, if I had to sit on these uncomfortable excuses for furniture any longer my butt was going to fall asleep which would mean that Sherlock would find himself having to carry me. What could I say, I was a woman child. I refused to grow up and act my age.
"Mr. Holmes? Ms. MacKenna?" One of the men asked us as Sherlock and I looked up at them briefly before standing, Sherlock helping me to my feet in a gentlemanly fashion. "Hector Vanowen," The man continued as he shook hands with Sherlock first and then with me before he glanced at his associate. "This is Earl Wheeler, my CFO," He introduced as John came to stand next to the both of us. "We were told you work with the police," He said, his tone going up slightly, as though sceptical or questioning.
"We're their consultants," I explained, cutting into the conversation, just knowing that I shouldn't leave it up to Sherlock to explain who we were. Not that I didn't trust him, but it would be best to not accidently offend the people we needed to get information from. I gestured to John before looking back at Vanowen. "This is Doctor John Watson. He is our consultant," I introduced John who nodded his head slightly at the two men, already in his parade rest.
"So, how can we help you today?" Wheeler asked us getting right down to business.
"Well. You can start by telling us who may have wanted to blow you up in 2008," Sherlock told them, smirking slightly when Vanowen and Wheeler gave him puzzled looks.
"I think we should move this discussion to my office," Vanowen suggested, gesturing for us to follow him. We followed back into a very posh office, though Mycroft's was far more impressive. Wheeler offered me a seat which I took, but Sherlock and John refused their own offered chairs, preferring to stand on either side of my chair. Each of them put a hand on the back of my chair and I raised an eyebrow at the protective gesture. Men, it was a subconscious response. Sherlock and John subconsciously felt slightly intimidated or in competition with the other two men therefore displaying protectiveness towards me, stating their claim to me first. It was rather sweet. "I'm stunned. I… I saw the story on the news this morning. I knew that was our old office space, but… I never would've guessed that that bomb was meant for us," Vanowen told us as soon as he was comfortably seated behind his desk. Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly as he considered this news. It was mildly suspicious.
"So you honestly think it was just sitting there this whole time?" Wheeler asked us questioningly. I was about to answer him, but John got to it first.
"The police think it was tucked into an air vent," John explained to them as I sighed, grateful that Sherlock and John were taking over the conversation as I tried not to concentrate on the pain in my hand.
"If that part of the building's climate control system had never needed repair, and judging by this morning's events it didn't, it could have gone undiscovered indefinitely," Sherlock informed them indifferently
"Okay, but why this morning? Why'd it go off after all this time?" Vanowen asked us with a shake of his head. Sherlock looked down at me, his eyes flickering to mine before he jerked his head slightly in the direction of Vanowen, silently asking for me to give the explanation. My eyes widened slightly, surprised by his request. I would have assumed that he would have just taken over without me. He had been investigating this case more than I was already, something he must have realized.
"Um, well, the bomb was detonated by a pager. In 2008, the company that made that pager had no signal towers within forty-two blocks of your old offices. In the beginning of this year, they erected a new tower a mere three blocks away," I explained as I took out my mobile, opening the app I had gotten off Mycroft and showing it to Wheeler with all of the tower locations indicated on in.
"So the bomb didn't detonate in 2008 because the call couldn't go through," Vanowen stated thoughtfully as he rubbed along his jaw. Hint of stubble. He was running late for work that morning by the look of things. Single, married to his work. He would have to be having started his own company.
"The question is, who built the device, and what may they have had against your company?" Sherlock asked them, continuing with his interrogation of the two men.
"I'm sure that we've made our fair share of enemies along the way, but, um… someone who would build a bomb?" Wheeler asked as he looked to Vanowen for an answer. Oh come on, any company had enemies to be sure, but even they should know which ones would be the most likely to build a bomb and possibly want to take out their company.
"The ELM," Vanowen answered after a beat. Wheeler looked at him and the two exchanged a glance before Vanowen turned back to the three of us. "The Earth Liberty Militia. We got some threatening letters from them in 2008."
"They're an eco-terrorist group, right? They've bombed a few other companies over the years," John said thoughtfully as he furrowed his brow at this new information. An eco-terrorist group? That seemed a little odd.
"What would an eco-terrorist group have against a PR firm?" I asked Vanowen, voicing my confusion. It made no since for eco-terrorist to be interested in a PR firm, unless we were missing something here. I shared a look with Sherlock which relayed that we were thinking the same thing. Something was going on here.
"Our… clients. We work with some of the major energy conglomerates. Occasionally we have to help them smooth over their image after mishaps," Vanowen told us haltingly. John snorted loudly at that and all eyes snapped to the army doctor who looked disbelieving.
"Two hundred million gallons of oil spilling into the Gulf, for example?" John asked them bitingly, referring to the oil spill that had just happened two months ago in America. I remembered reading about it. It didn't really affect us here, but it affected a few companies who worked internationally.
"The ELM sent us seven letters in 2008. I think we have copies of them in our records room. You wanna take a look?" Wheeler asked us, throwing John a dirty look but otherwise ignoring his question.
"We would," Sherlock told him as we all stood. John, Sherlock, and Wheeler all headed off to the exit but I paused to speak with Vanowen for a second.
"Effluvium, fussbudget, Cairo. Nine across, fourteen down, thirty-two down," I told Vanowen as I nodded to his computer screen where a crossword was displayed on his monitor. "I have a sort of thing for puzzles," I told him with a joking smile before I headed off after John and Sherlock.
We waited around for Wheeler who returned with copies of the letters for us before we headed off back to Baker Street. As soon as we got in, I headed to my room and changed into more comfortable clothing, coming back in the living room to find a mug of fresh tea waiting for me on the coffee table. I took up residence on the couch since Sherlock was sitting on his feet in his chair. He seemed to be staking claim to his territory since he hardly sat in his chair these days. I rolled my eyes, it wasn't like I was stealing his chair forever. I sipped at my tea before leaving it off on the coffee table as I curled up under a patchwork quilt that Mrs. Hudson must have left over the back of the couch. I got comfortable, fluffing on of the couch pillows up under my head as I laid back, watching Sherlock as he started to go through the letters. Sherlock got up at one point, making a comment about putting me to use as he gave me over a few of the letters to read through. I snorted at him and just read them from my position on the couch as John settled in with his laptop in his chair. I wasn't sure if I wanted food or not, or if that was just a social construct because it was past noon which was when people normally ate. I decided I could wait for a bit longer.
A bit longer turned into a few hours later. John had long since fallen asleep in his chair as Sherlock and I read through the letters, dissecting every inch of them as we tried to figure out who might be behind the ELM. Thankfully, linguistic was sort of my speciality. Mycroft often took advantage of that fact when a classified document fell into his possession. He trusted me more than anyone else since he knew me and could therefore threaten me more efficiently. I was also good at cryptograms and therefore word puzzles. John woke up just as Sherlock and I were nearly finished reading through all of the letters and had quietly gotten up and gone into the kitchen. I could hear him ordering takeaway for dinner before the sound of the kettle being put on the stove reached my ears. "'You cannot stop this. You can only submit,'" I read, sitting up and wrapping the blanket around me as I pulled my feet up to my chest staring down at the papers. "'Submit, or be destroyed,'" I continued as John walked back into the room carrying three mugs of tea. "Thank you John," I told the shorter man with a smile which he returned before leaving Sherlock's mug next to him on the desk. "That's something the ELM would say. Here…," I said as I got up and shuffled over to Sherlock's chair, tea mug in hand and blanket trailing behind me. John watched me with an amused expression as I settled onto the arm of his chair, showing him the letter. His eye ran down the page as he quickly read it over. "From a forensic-linguistic standpoint, these threats are quite fascinating. For example, I see clues here that would suggest that the ELM was not an organization, per se, but one man, posing as an organization," I showed John, putting down my mug of tea before I shuffled through the letters I had in my hand.
"This phrase, "on your beam ends," it appears in five of the seven threats," Sherlock cut in, looking over at me from the desk, the first time he had moved in over two hours. I frowned at that, cocking my head to the side. I had heard that before.
"I'm certain I've heard the phrase before, I just…," I said as I made a struggling motion with my hands to elaborate what I was thinking. "… can't recall where."
"'On your beam ends?'" John asked me as I got up, draping the blanket over Sherlock's chair as I ran my good hand through my hair, trying to remember where I had heard that phrase. I looked over at John who looked confused and nodded at him.
"Mmm," I hummed in agreement. "It's a nautical idiom which was first documented in Captain Frederick Marryat's 1830 novel The King's Own. It signified a situation of great peril," I explained to John before I looked over to Sherlock, crossing over to the desk and putting a hand on his shoulder as I leaned over him to look down at the letter he was currently reading. "It's strange for such an aberrant phrase to appear so repeatedly," I commented as I straightened up, not aware of how Sherlock turned to look at me now that I had taken my hand off of his shoulder.
I paced the floor as both men watched me with interest. Where had I heard that phrase? It wasn't something I had read, so it had to be something I had heard. Not yesterday so I had to have heard it sometime today. Not at Vanowen SC and not in the cab. Wasn't at the crime scene earlier, so it had to be before that. I had been doing the experiment with Sherlock before that and then John had come in when I was listening to the TVs. That was where I had heard it! Ah process of elimination always worked wonders. Now, what context had I actually heard it in?
"'On your beam ends.' I've got it," I told the boys as I abruptly stopped pacing and turned around to look at the boys who both looked surprised by my exclamation. "I know where I was when I heard it," I explained to the boys as I turned to face the television screens which we still hadn't cleared away from that morning. I pointed to the screen on the far right, staring at it. "That one. That's where I saw it, this morning," I told them as I waved my finger around as I tried to remember. "But what was the context?" I asked, more to myself than to them. I glanced at the other televisions before I closed my eyes, moving my hands around as I pointed to the screens in turn. "Yellow cartoon sponge man, sports news, mouthwash advert… Arctic Blue," I rattled off before John interrupted my train of thought.
"Um, Lexi, what are you doing?" John asked me slightly hesitantly and I snapped my eyes open, looking over to him. He was watching me carefully. At the same time, Sherlock had gotten up from his desk and had come to stand beside me.
"It called the method of loci. It's a mnemonic device which relies on memorized special relationships to establish, catalogue, and recollect memorial content," I explained to John. Seeing his blank expression I sighed heavily before continuing. "If I remember what was on these six screens, I'll remember what was on the seventh," I told John before I closed my eyes again, pointing to the screens in succession, getting back to the point I was at before I was interrupted. "Fat lady, new cookbook, insufferable," I said pointing to one of the screens before pointing to another. "Erectile dysfunction," I recalled pointing to another screen with a slight grimace. "Um, nature program…penguins," I said with a slight grin before pointing to the last screen accusingly. "Which leaves you, you little bugger," I told it, ignoring the looks John was giving me as I screwed up my face in concentration. "Talk show!" I recalled with a triumphant cheer. "The topic was… international whaling laws," I told the boys as I turned and darted past Sherlock, going to his laptop which was open on the desk. "Two guests got into an argument, the episode was old, a few weeks old at least," I continued as Sherlock and John came to stand behind me as I keyed in a search of international whaling laws, clicking on the top result and pulling up the video clip.
"You're not seriously suggesting that cleaning out the Pacific Ocean is a good idea," The man, an Edgar Knowles, asked the other man on the show as we watched the video clip.
"What do you suggest we tell the Japanese worker whose livelihood depends upon this trade?" The other expert Joseph Dyna argue back indignantly.
"Just… you don't get it. One day fifty years from now when you're on your beam ends…," Knowles said and I looked back at John and Sherlock smiling smugly at them. Oh yeah, I was good. "…you'll wish you'd done more when you could have," Knowles finished before I hit the space bar to pause the video.
"It's the same bombast I read in the ELM letters. It's the same hyperbole," Sherlock commented as he looked down at me. "Good work," He told me offhandedly as he collected his phone up off of the desk and moved to the middle of the living room.
"Same weird phrase. You really think it's him?" John asked as and I shrugged at him. I wasn't one hundred percent sure, but it was a good chance that it was him. He spoke the same way as the writer of the letters did and he used the same weird phrase. I didn't think many people would be using that phrase, it was too random to be a coincidence and you never ignored a coincidence unless you were busy at which time you always ignored the coincidence.
"I know a way to find out," Sherlock told John as he fired off a quick text to Lestrade. Lestrade replied shortly after the Chinese takeaway arrived. They had contacted Knowles and he was supposed to come into the Yard in the morning to talk with Lestrade. The case was at a standstill until then which meant we had the rest of the night off.
As I munched on my Lo Mein noodles, I decided that this night was not going to be boring. In the middle of eating I got up and went into my room, looking through my closet before I finally found what I was looking for. I brought my Scrabble game back into the living room, setting the box out on the coffee table as John and Sherlock looked up at me questioningly. I ignored them as I sat down on the floor, my takeaway container in one hand as I used my other hand to pull out the game board and the bag of tiles. I set out three letter holders before looking up at the boys expectantly. I wasn't going to allow them to get out of this. I was officially making today Scrabble day. Sherlock and I stared at each other before I nodded down at the table and looked back up at him. He wordlessly got up and brought a chair from the desk over, sitting on the side of the coffee table. I then turned my gaze to John who still wasn't getting it. When he finally did, he shook his head at me.
"No," John told me firmly and I frowned at his answer, genuinely upset that he didn't want to play with me. "I'm not gonna play with you just so you can humiliate me while I try and contrive…," John continued before I cut him off.
"John, please, I really want you to play with us. No humiliation I promise," I assured him, making sure to put emphasis on the word please. I was not above using my feminine charms to win people over. "It might take my mind off of the cramps," I added as an afterthought, looking towards John expectantly. He took a deep breath, sighing heavily as he pinched the bridge of his nose before he heaved himself out of his chair, likewise bringing a chair over and sitting across from me at the coffee table. I cheered in triumph as I got John to join us.
The game quickly got underway and I soon discovered that John and Sherlock were two of the most competitive Scrabble players I had ever met. I wasn't sure if it was worse than the time Anthea and I had gotten Mycroft to play Monopoly with us or not. The game started off reasonably fine, everyone on their best behaviours, until Sherlock placed a very high point word on the board. After that, the real arguments started. The first one occurred over nothing, just John and Sherlock making quips back and forth to each other to try and throw each other off their game when their turn came. It was at this point that I got up, our Chinese food completely forgotten at this point, and went into the kitchen, finding a tumbler in one of the cupboards and reaching up over the fridge to grab my whisky. I brought both of them back to the living room, pouring myself a drink as the two men fought over the game. That was only the beginning of it though. As the game continued, the arguments only got worse and I kept taking more and more shorts of whiskey, turning Scrabble with John and Sherlock into a bit of a drinking game. Every time they started arguing again, it was time for another shot.
"That isn't a word!" John shouted at Sherlock, pointing at the consulting detective. I giggled, by no means of the definition sober. Sherlock pulled a face, getting huffy all over again as John continued. "It's a proper noun, those aren't allowed."
"Well why not?" Sherlock shot back as he crossed his arms. Being the wonderful friend that I am, instead of ending their argument, I pulled out my phone and started recording them. I was so sending this to Lestrade and Mycroft, of course my drunken giggles made a perfect sound track for the entire video.
"Because…because they just aren't" John spluttered before the game continued on. Within five minutes another argument arose. "You're cheating!" John accused Sherlock, pointing at the detective who had just placed the word colour on the board spelt color, the American way.
"No, color is still a word even if it is the American spelling," Sherlock interjected defensively.
"No, that isn't allowed," John argued with him before he turned to look at me. Aw crap, leave me out of this. "Tell him Lexi," John demanded me gesturing to Sherlock who immediately turned and looked at me.
"Yes, do tell me," Sherlock snapped, sitting back in his chair, sulking because he was told he could use the word he wanted to. There was no way in hell I was touching this with a ten foot pole. No good could come out of this because I would have to end up choosing sides. John was technically right if you were following the general rules of Scrabble so I would have to agree with him, but then again John didn't want to be humiliated so anything could go in that case. Either way you looked at it, I was going to end up having the other person pissed at me for not agreeing with them.
"Nuh-uh. I'm not touching that. I am officially Switzerland," I told both boys, slurring slightly, giving the both of them pointed looks as they both looked at me indignantly. Sherlock and John spluttered as they tried to comprehend my answer. If I hadn't known that neither of them had been drinking, I would say they were the drunk ones with the way they were acting.
"You have to!" Sherlock told me tetchily, crossing his arms and looking at me like a petulant child. I couldn't help giggling which only caused his expression to become even more indignant.
"No, I don't. I am not obligated to choose a side," I told them with a nod as I poured myself another shot. John and Sherlock blinked back at me John spluttering as he watched me, neither of them realizing that I was drinking, bless them.
"You do, he's right. You have to choose a side," John told me agreeing with Sherlock. Oh so now they found something to agree on, but only because it would mean that I would tell them who was right. I shook my head at both boys in amusement.
"No I don't. If I choose a side the other person will be mad at me. Therefore, it is permissible for me to play the Switzerland card and stay out of it which is what I am doing sir," I told John with a nod of finality and a drunken snort. Both men stared at each other and then back at me before the argument started all over again until they had finally come to an impasse and the game continued.
"This isn't fair!" Sherlock yelled, sitting back in his chair as he glared at the both of us, throwing his arms in the air in the process before he crossed them in front of him. "All I have is vowels," Sherlock complained after the third time he had to skip his turn because every time he exchanged his tiles, he kept only getting vowels back.
"It's just bad luck," John told him while he grinned smugly, putting a high point word on the board. This lead to another argument which involved Sherlock and John chasing each other around the flat, darting around and jumping over the furniture. It started getting out of hand when Sherlock was murderously chasing John over the back of the couch right behind my head for a comment he had made. At this point, I got up, waiting for them to pass me before I walked back to my room and got my single stick which I had recovered from John. I returned to the living room just as Sherlock caught up with John, putting the sword between the two men getting their attention.
"Sherlock Holmes! John Watson!" I said using their full names as I pointed the sword at them threateningly. "So help me if you two don't go sit I will use this," I said as I swung the sword around slightly. They eyed it before both me seemed to remember both my PMS and the fact that the reason I was hold the sword in my right hand rather than my left was because I had punched a murderer in the face. This was no empty threat. Both men returned to their seats, shooting me petulant looks as they went, and I sat down on the couch this time, the sword balanced across the tops of my knees. One stern look at the both of them had them muttering under their breath irritably as I watched them play.
It was just past three in the morning when the game finally ended due to Mrs. Hudson coming up to the flat to yell at John and Sherlock for carrying on into all hours of the night. When she finally noticed me, I tipped me glass to her before taking my last shot, finally finishing of the last of the bottle of whiskey which had been just under half full when I started. It wasn't nearly as strong as the stuff I used to drink in Ireland, but I felt comfortably relaxed and stopped caring about the actually game which had somehow dissolved into John and Sherlock just arguing nonstop for the last two hours. When the points were finally tallied however after Mrs. Hudson had finally left to go back down stairs, it was found that I had actually won the game. Sherlock and John had complained loudly over that fact, but I ended that argument as I stood up, leaving my glass and the bottle on the floor as I pointed my single stick at them.
"Oi, I'll have none of that. Now shake hands and then I want the both of you to get to bed," I told them, my Irish accent becoming very thick as my words slurred slightly. They gave me questioning looks before looking at each other and glaring. "Now!" I ordered them and they both grumbled before complying with my request. "Now, that wasn't so hard was it now?" I asked them with a grin as they shot murderous looks my way. "Since that is sorted, get yer arses to bed," I told them, nudging them on with my single stick in front of me, making sure that Sherlock headed into his room and John up the stairs. As both men walked they grumbled to each other mostly about me and my interfering. I stared at them, arms crossed and single stick at the ready until they parted ways, Sherlock going onto his room and slamming the door before a few minutes later the sound of John's door closing loudly reached my ears from the bottom of the stairs. "I love you both too!" I shouted cheerfully to the both of them before I retreated into my own room and preceded to fall down onto my bed, pulling my quilt over my head before I fell asleep in my clothes.
I woke up to the bright late morning light filtering through my curtains and onto my face. I groaned loudly, pulling myself up as I blinked at the dust motes swirling around my face. I got out of bed, instantly retracting my feet back up under the quilt as soon as my bare feet hit cold floor. I grumbled as I forced myself out of bed, darting over to my dresser and pulling out a pair of thick wool socks which I had stolen from Sherlock and slipping them onto my feet. I sighed in content and wiggled my toes before shuffling out into the living room, the evidence of last night's Scrabble game still out on the coffee table. Neither Sherlock nor John were awake so I quick went about picking up all the evidence from last night's duel and put my tumbler in the sink, throwing out the whiskey bottle on my way into the kitchen. I leaned against the counter, a huge grin erupting over my face as I recalled the night before. I made my way back into the living room, finding my phone which had somehow made its way between the couch cushions. I had no more than three texts. Apparently, I had sent them the video of the night before.
Received at 1:33AM
From: Emperor of Cake
What have you done.-MH
I grinned at that text before moving on to the next one which happened to be from Lestrade and had come through early that morning.
Received at 7:28 AM
From: Lestrade
Is this what you do at night? Are you drunk? I'm not sure if I actually want to know.
The last text was from Anthea and made me grin more than Mycroft's had.
Received 9:42 AM
From: Anthea
You'll be happy to know that I have a professional video of this with multiple angles thanks so some footage from inside the flat. Don't tell Sherlock, it would make a perfect birthday gift.
I deleted all three texts before shoving my phone in my back pocket. It was almost eleven and we would have to all head off to the Yard soon. I decided to make the boys breakfast, knowing that all would be forgiven, at least on John's end, if I fed them. I started making John's favourite full English breakfast as I put some toast in the toaster. I had found out that Sherlock rather enjoyed toast with butter and jam on it and if I made it for him, he would eat it. Therefore, I made it for him every morning. As long as I left the toast with him, I would leave and come back to find the plate empty. I set the kettle on just as the sound of creaking reached my ears, signalling that John had woken up. He padded into the kitchen a second later, looked at me, opened his mouth, closed it again, and then just turned around and padded into the living room wordlessly. I let out a peal of laughter as I fixed John a cup of tea before bringing it over to him.
"Morning John," I told him cheerfully and he looked up at me sheepishly as he remembered the events of the night before. "Don't worry I've seen worse," I assured him as he took a sip of his tea before raising an eyebrow at me questioningly. "Mycroft is more competitive than Sherlock if that can be believed," I told the army doctor, patting him on the arm before I flitted back into the kitchen, finishing off John's breakfast and Sherlock's toast.
When I came back into the living room, the consulting detective was sitting poised in his chair and I wondered how he was able to slip past me in the kitchen. He looked up at me as I entered the room and I grinned at him as he stared back at me blankly. I handed John off his plate and flatware before handing Sherlock his toast, stealing the top slice as I set down his tea and moved over to perch on the arm of the couch as I ate the stolen toast and drank my tea. Sherlock gave me a look that a child might if someone stole some of their food. I stuck my tongue out at him in response as I took a big bite of my toast just because I could. My phone thrilled its text alert and I fished it out of my pocket, holding my toast between my teeth so I would have a hand to work with. The text was from Lestrade.
Received at 11:32
From: Lestrade
If you three would like to head down to the Yard, Edgar Knowles just got here.
Sent at 11:33
From: Lexi MacKenna
Heading out in a few. ETA twenty minutes. Get the button he pressed on the lift to get up to homicide and send it down for fingerprint analysis of the prints found at the other bomb site. I need that report.
I shot Lestrade the quick response before hopping off of the arm of the couch, biting down on my toast and quickly polishing it off as I took my tea mug with me, phone in hand. "Lestrade needs us down at the Yard. Edgar Knowles just got there. I told him we'll be down there in twenty. Traffic is good so we have about five minutes each to get ready," I told the boys with a nod before I hurried off to my room, grabbing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt which had two chemistry flasks on it, one with a grumpy face on it and the other with an annoyed face and the line "You're overeating." The shirt had been a gag gift for my birthday from Lestrade and I felt it was appropriate after what I decided to name The Great Scrabble Scrimmage. I pulled on my clothes, running a quick hand through my hair before pulling it up into a messy knot. I checked my look in the small mirror I had. Dang, even with messy hair I was still killing it. I entered back into the living room to find John and Sherlock already ready in fresh clothes, waiting by the door for me. Sherlock held up my coat for me and helped me slide it on before he slung my scarf around my neck. I pulled it on properly before following the two men out of the flat. Thankfully we were able to make it outside and to the curb without getting the attention of Mrs. Hudson who would no doubt scold us more later when we got home for waking her up in the middle of the night. Our ride down to the Yard was spent in silence, none of us knowing what to say after the events of last night. When we got to the Yard, we made it up to the homicide division where Lestrade was already waiting for us with a large grin on his face.
"So, how's the head?" Lestrade asked me, still grinning away as he lead us back towards the conference room where we would be giving our interrogation. I fixed him with an unamused look which only made him smile wider.
"It's fine, thank you," I told him sarcastically and rolled his eyes at me before pushing the door open. In fact, it was generally fine. I only had a slight headache. Sherlock strode inside, John following him before Lestrade shook his head and I followed after the boys, ready to reel them in if they started causing trouble.
Sherlock and I took seats across from Knowles, John preferring to stand as Lestrade leaned up against a cabinet near the door. Lestrade explained to Knowles why he had called him in and laid it all out on the table for him about what we were basically accusing him of doing. Knowles had been looking at me funnily since I had sat down, staring at my shirt than back up at me. Sherlock stared in the man in his typical creepy fashion that meant he was deducing every little fact about him such as his relationship with friends, family, others, what he might have had for breakfast that day, what his profession was, basically anything and everything.
"I'm confused, Detective. You're accusing me of being some sort of eco-terrorist?" Knowles asked us playing the defensive card. Good front, but it wasn't going to work with us.
"Our special consultants think your speech pattern is a match for these letters," Lestrade told Knowles as he pushed off of the cabinet and walked forward, taking a seat at the end of the table before he gestured to the letters which were spread out in front of Knowles.
"For the last time, I've never seen these letters before. I don't know anything about the ELM, and I certainly didn't build any bombs!" Knowles yelled at us, repeating what he had been for the last few minutes as Lestrade had tried to slip him up and get him to give something away.
"Lie, lie, and lie," Sherlock said with a little smirk as he folded his hands in the prayer position and looked at Knowles.
"You still haven't said, who the hell are you people?" Knowles asked us angrily as he looked between John, Sherlock, and I.
"I am the woman with the button," I told Knowles as I pulled an evidence bag from the inside of my jacket and waved it in front of Knowles face with a grin on my own. Knowles looked slightly taken aback by this. "This is from the lift down the hall. You pushed it to get to this floor. I had Detective Inspector Lestrade remove it and send it to the Department's Latent Print Unit. It has your fingerprint on it, you see?" I explained to Knowles as I set it down on the table in front of him, still grinning madly. "Which means that it has a great deal in common with a component from a bomb the ELM detonated at a lumber mill in Newbridge in 2005," I told him as Lestrade pulled a paper with two enlarged fingerprints on it from the file and showed them to Knowles. "Button, bomb. Button, bomb," I showed Knowles as I pointed between the fingerprints which were identical. "The similarities are quite striking, wouldn't you agree?" I asked him and he shook his head as his only response. "I'm not going to beat around the bush because I like to get right to the point. You built the ELM bombs, Mr. Knowles. And you wrote those letters. It's too bad you didn't go back for the one you left at Vanowen SC when you realized it was defective. Maybe you wouldn't be facing two murder charges today. Surly you should have realized that someone like Sherlock and I would come around and put all the pieces of the puzzle together," I told him, seeing Sherlock's lips quirk up slightly into a smirk as I pointed this fact out to Knowles.
Knowles looked at the table, considering for a long moment. "I bombed that lumber mill," Knowles agreed and I nodded, already knowing this information. He could deny it all he wanted to, Lestrade was already set to arrest him, knowing we were right. "And I wrote these letters to Vanowen SC. But you know what I didn't do?" He told us as he gestured to the letters. "Follow up on them," He finished. Lestrade sighed disbelievingly and leaned forward, resting his head in his hand. "In 2008 I'd successfully detonated nitrate-based bombs at five different companies. I was established, and… I was taken very seriously. Vanowen SC was one of several dozen businesses I threatened but never bombed." Unfortunately, he was telling the truth and I could tell that Sherlock saw the same thing I did as well. He had threatened him, but he wasn't the one that planted the bomb at what used to be Vanowen SC. We were back at square one in terms of finding the bomber, but we had found one eco terrorist so that was at least something.
"Why am I not surprised that you'd take credit for every bombing except the one that killed two people?' Lestrade scoffed before he stood. "Well, whether you claimed it or not, you are still under arrest," Lestrade told Knowles before turning to Sherlock and me. "We'll get you the analysis of the bomb later today," Lestrade told us after he had gotten Knowles into handcuffs.
"Will do," I told Lestrade with a nod as the three of us left before him. "How do you want to continue with this?" I asked Sherlock as we left the Yard to hail a cab back to Baker Street, to continue with our investigation now that we had to start back from the drawing board.
"How do you feel about experimenting?" Sherlock asked me as we got into the back of a cab. I grinned at him as John groaned loudly and pinched the bridge pf his nose as we head off through London back to the flat.
"I'll get the fire extinguisher!" I told Sherlock cheerfully, giggling as his deep baritone chuckle mixed with my laughter. The cabbie looked back at us, looking slightly scare which only made me laugh harder. Lexi MacKenna and her Baker Street boys, solving crimes, fighting over Scrabble, and making a name for ourselves amongst the criminal class. It was all in the days work of a consulting detective.