[Author's note: Yay! Ficcy update! I'm so nice to you. Especially since
I'm SUPPOSED to be doing my homework. O:-)]
Sherlock Holmes tried to hold his breath, tried not to move a single muscle in his body. It worked pretty well, and his eyes narrowed in an effort to see outside the window. He wanted to hit himself for leaving it open, but there was nothing he could do about it any longer. Mycroft kept a firm grip on his shoulder, in case he did something stupid, but what were the chances of that?
The sound came again, and it was then that Sherlock saw a pale white hand reach out of the inky darkness of the night and push the window open further. Next, a leg, then the entire body of a well-built thug appeared in the room. The man was unmasked, with a slender face he did not bother to keep masked. He knew his job was a simple one; he had planned it perfectly. At least, his boss had.
Without batting an eyelash, the crook strode directly to the desk. He did not seem to care that the box was on the table, in full sight, or that it was open and the contents scattered like stars in the sky. If he did his job well it would not matter. He picked out the other pair of the Persian slipper, which had intrigued Sherlock so much. Cool as ice, the man felt inside it and all around until at last he found that which he had searched for. With a skillful twist he was able to break a seam in the slipper, causing a powdery white substance to fall onto his hand.
The crook was satisfied. A chuckle escaped his lips as he emptied the powder back into its sachet. Tucking both slippers into a hidden pocket, he took the rest of the box too, to make it look like a petty crime. He then took his leave as swiftly as he had arrived, leaving the two brothers in the room, unsure of what to make of the events. Sherlock made his decision and strode to the window, knowing Mycroft would follow without a word, for they say brothers are connected spiritually as well as mentally. That box contained the photo they needed, and the rest of the objects were important to their nanny. Besides, they'd be in a shipload of trouble if she discovered it was missing.
Sherlock slipped out into the darkness and, as if by instinct, followed after the crook, even though it was pitch black all around him. Gradually, faster than he had expected, his eyes adjusted and gathered every ray of light they could find, and focused it on the crook. There was no moon in the sky, but the stars gave enough light. Mycroft fell behind, but they would find each other sooner or later, Sherlock noted. The thrill of the hunt made him keen to capture, it flowed in his very veins. It drove him on through the cold, until he heard a dull thunk. Great. Mycroft had probably run into a tree or something.
But then the boy stopped. He listened. His ears seemed to straighten to their fullest, sharp as pin needles. The thud had come from ahead of him, just to his right. And Mycroft had been behind him the whole time, he was sure of it. Pinpointing the area the muffled sound had come from, Holmes crept closer, his eyes and other senses fully alert. It was like he could see in the dark, as if his eyes could cut through the blanket of shadows like a knife.
At last he came to the robber, who seemed to be lying unconscious on the ground, a few feet away from a large larch tree. Sherlock cocked his head curiously at the crumpled figure, but had no time to gather his thoughts because Mycroft came up from behind him, analyzing the situation immediately.
"See if you can find the stolen objects, Sherlock." He ordered crisply, catching his breath with a huff. The younger brother did so, and handed them to his elder, who examined the Persian Slipper with awe.
"I knew there was something strange about this from the moment I noticed it." He murmured. Mycroft brought a bit of the powder to his lips, tasting just a sample of it and winced. "As I suspected: opium. It seems our long lost relation has more than lifetime souvenirs in that box of hers."
Sherlock, who had not yet mastered the idea of crime and illegality, kept his gaze on the robber, who had not moved at all throughout the whole business. "What should we do with it? We shouldn't just leave him here." The boy's childish innocence worried about leaving somebody outside in the wintertime, but Mycroft asked coldly, "Why not?"
"Well," Sherlock continued intelligently, "he might return again and could do more harm the next time. Either way, he belongs in Scotland Yard." His brother sneered at his suggestion, calling the constables fools and pondering to himself what to do. Sherlock just kept staring at the body. He could've sworn he saw it move.
[Author's note: *monty grins mischievously * I couldn't help adding in the larch thing - monty python! "The Larch. The Larch." Don't forget to review! Who cares if I'm the author? I'm stuck there! SO give me alllll your suggestions: every single one. Unless they're really dumb.]
Sherlock Holmes tried to hold his breath, tried not to move a single muscle in his body. It worked pretty well, and his eyes narrowed in an effort to see outside the window. He wanted to hit himself for leaving it open, but there was nothing he could do about it any longer. Mycroft kept a firm grip on his shoulder, in case he did something stupid, but what were the chances of that?
The sound came again, and it was then that Sherlock saw a pale white hand reach out of the inky darkness of the night and push the window open further. Next, a leg, then the entire body of a well-built thug appeared in the room. The man was unmasked, with a slender face he did not bother to keep masked. He knew his job was a simple one; he had planned it perfectly. At least, his boss had.
Without batting an eyelash, the crook strode directly to the desk. He did not seem to care that the box was on the table, in full sight, or that it was open and the contents scattered like stars in the sky. If he did his job well it would not matter. He picked out the other pair of the Persian slipper, which had intrigued Sherlock so much. Cool as ice, the man felt inside it and all around until at last he found that which he had searched for. With a skillful twist he was able to break a seam in the slipper, causing a powdery white substance to fall onto his hand.
The crook was satisfied. A chuckle escaped his lips as he emptied the powder back into its sachet. Tucking both slippers into a hidden pocket, he took the rest of the box too, to make it look like a petty crime. He then took his leave as swiftly as he had arrived, leaving the two brothers in the room, unsure of what to make of the events. Sherlock made his decision and strode to the window, knowing Mycroft would follow without a word, for they say brothers are connected spiritually as well as mentally. That box contained the photo they needed, and the rest of the objects were important to their nanny. Besides, they'd be in a shipload of trouble if she discovered it was missing.
Sherlock slipped out into the darkness and, as if by instinct, followed after the crook, even though it was pitch black all around him. Gradually, faster than he had expected, his eyes adjusted and gathered every ray of light they could find, and focused it on the crook. There was no moon in the sky, but the stars gave enough light. Mycroft fell behind, but they would find each other sooner or later, Sherlock noted. The thrill of the hunt made him keen to capture, it flowed in his very veins. It drove him on through the cold, until he heard a dull thunk. Great. Mycroft had probably run into a tree or something.
But then the boy stopped. He listened. His ears seemed to straighten to their fullest, sharp as pin needles. The thud had come from ahead of him, just to his right. And Mycroft had been behind him the whole time, he was sure of it. Pinpointing the area the muffled sound had come from, Holmes crept closer, his eyes and other senses fully alert. It was like he could see in the dark, as if his eyes could cut through the blanket of shadows like a knife.
At last he came to the robber, who seemed to be lying unconscious on the ground, a few feet away from a large larch tree. Sherlock cocked his head curiously at the crumpled figure, but had no time to gather his thoughts because Mycroft came up from behind him, analyzing the situation immediately.
"See if you can find the stolen objects, Sherlock." He ordered crisply, catching his breath with a huff. The younger brother did so, and handed them to his elder, who examined the Persian Slipper with awe.
"I knew there was something strange about this from the moment I noticed it." He murmured. Mycroft brought a bit of the powder to his lips, tasting just a sample of it and winced. "As I suspected: opium. It seems our long lost relation has more than lifetime souvenirs in that box of hers."
Sherlock, who had not yet mastered the idea of crime and illegality, kept his gaze on the robber, who had not moved at all throughout the whole business. "What should we do with it? We shouldn't just leave him here." The boy's childish innocence worried about leaving somebody outside in the wintertime, but Mycroft asked coldly, "Why not?"
"Well," Sherlock continued intelligently, "he might return again and could do more harm the next time. Either way, he belongs in Scotland Yard." His brother sneered at his suggestion, calling the constables fools and pondering to himself what to do. Sherlock just kept staring at the body. He could've sworn he saw it move.
[Author's note: *monty grins mischievously * I couldn't help adding in the larch thing - monty python! "The Larch. The Larch." Don't forget to review! Who cares if I'm the author? I'm stuck there! SO give me alllll your suggestions: every single one. Unless they're really dumb.]