Another chapter up! Sorry for the wait. Spelling mistakes all mine; don't have a beta. I will be working on my next stories too, so it might be a bit before I update this again. Thanks for all the favorites everyone :)
-Awhoha
Mr. Riley Stockburck was a large man; not large in the sense of weight but in the term of height. He wore a rich suit of pine brown, a white silk shirt and a tie that would rival even the purple flowers that bloomed in spring. His eyes were narrow, always jumping to various sections of the study while his foot bobbed nervously against the floor. A white handkerchief wiped away the beads of sweat forming on his brow. His dark hair was slicked back against the top hat, a gold pocket watch secured in the top left pocket of his breast. Mr. Stockburck spoke in worried tones as he leaned forwards in his seat.
"I appreciate you seeing me, Mr. Holmes. Its tragic what happened to those men; fine men they were," said he. "Why someone would murder them is a mystery, one I wish you to solve. I will you pay you, of course, for your time and efforts."
"Describe these men, leave nothing out." Sherlock examined his nails, the lines of his forehead narrowed in thought. John Watson stood by his side accompanied by Paul Jefferson. Slightly surprised by the abruptness of the detectives tone, the man quickly nodded, once again attending to his brow.
"The four men found yesterday; Mr. Brumblebury, Mr. Schnider, Mr. Deptden and a Mr. Finchley—all worked for my company in the respected positions as head secretaries. The three men; Mr. Brumblebury, Mr. Deptden and Mr. Finchley were married, while Mr. Schnider was due to be engaged. They were respectable gentlemen, all four having considerable degrees. The Bank of England is intended to provide protection against threats to our financial system as well as supporting the economic policies of the British Government. We hire men with such needed requirements as they played a minor role in assisting that these guidelines of the Bank where followed."
"These four men had access to all paramount documentation and information, am I correct? Of course I am. Moving on. Now, the question one must ask is why these four men who played, as you say, a minor role in the system, where murdered in such a fashion. If they were in any way minor, then why be of interest? No- they had a far more important role in this game than that." Sherlock crossed his legs, hand resting his chin.
"Well- I- I do admit that they may have been involved further but-"
"How many tonnes of gold does the Bank of England currently hold in its possession?"
"About three hundred tonnes, but what does that have to do with-?" Mr. Stockburk exclaimed.
"Nothing- curiosity my dear fellow. I will need any evidence associated with the so named deceased to be delivered to this very flat. Mr. Watson and Mr. Jefferson will be delighted to be of assistance in any way they can. Now if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to." Sherlock rose gracefully, snatching his coat and hat before disappearing through the door leaving behind stunned silence.
"What that's it?" the Banker looked up to the Inspector with a horrified expression. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders, his sly eyes glancing to the two men still standing behind Holmes' vacant chair.
"That's Sherlock Holmes for you, filled with his own sense of energetic nature."
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
Once Mr. Stockburk and the Inspector had taken leave, John sank down into the chair, pouring himself a drink. Paul strode to the sill, throwing the window wide open. He leaned forwards, arms crossed over the sill as John watched from over his glass.
"I hate it when he goes off like that."
"What? Holmes? "
"He knows something; why else would he flee?"
"Perhaps. I must say, Dr. Watson. Can I take you in confidence?"
John raised a brow, placing the drink down with a soft clink. The doctor leaned back in his chair, legs crossing as the leuitantent turned about, green eyes serious.
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing is the matter per say, but I would like to ask you about Holmes; you have lived with him for many years."
"Yes," John relented, his voice border lining calm. He didn't like where this was heading.
"What are Holmes outlook on relations?"
"Relations?"
"Romantic of nature. Has he ever had a lover?"
If the drink had still been in the good doctors grasp, the crystal would have shattered into a thousand pieces.
"A lover? Holmes?" John choked out. "No, I have never seen him take interest in any person."
"He spoke of a woman once, 'The woman' he called her. Irene Alder?"
"Yes. No, no. He held no emotion akin to love for her, more of an admirable nature. The only woman to attract his attention, rather outsmarted his person. She has long since left this world."
"Then Sherlock Holmes has no interests in the fairer sex."
"None that I have seen." John felt his stomach drop at the glint in the man's gaze.
"Would it disgust you, Dr. Watson, if I were to pursue Sherlock Holmes? I wish not to trouble you, but merely state my intentions. Sherlock thinks most highly of you; you are his dearest friend."
"You wish to be in-in a romantic relationship with Holmes?" John felt his voice rise, knuckles white against the arms of the chair. His heart screamed in objection, anger brewing into rage.
"This concerns you?" Paul asked, striding forth and placing himself opposite the doctor.
"Holmes- I say Mr. Jefferson. Sherlock Holmes views relations as if it were a deadly serpent. He looks upon such matters with a sneer, loathes every form of society. I do not agree with such actions nor the repercussions that will follow."
"Is Sherlock not a man worth fighting for? Would you not fight to keep your wife, , with everything you possessed?" Paul questioned, his voice a deep bass. John clenched his jaw with tremendous force, the notion to throttle the man sitting before him so intense that it took every ounce of strength he had to remain seated. His venomous thoughts were interrupted as Mrs. Hudson entered, a small bowl of edibles packed high on a silver tray.
"Good morning, Mr. Jefferson, Dr. Watson. Something to nibble on?"
"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I must be off." John stood, throwing on his jacket with haste. He left Paul and Mrs. Hudson to their pleasantries, blood boiling like a hot brand.
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
Sherlock hastily replaced the note inside his breast pocket, tilting the hat across his dark curls. The morning sun shone brightly; the brown eyes wincing in discomfort. Pushing open a heavy glass door, the brass bells chiming quietly, the consulting detective made his way in while straightening the red tie around his throat. He nodded in greeting to the seedy looking man behind the counter, tucking the walking stick under his arm. Tins of tobacco lined the shops walls, the thick heavy scent of cigar smoke clinging to the peeling paint.
"Can I' elp you, sir?" The man inquired as Sherlock tapped a finger over his lips, eyes scanning the vast variety.
"Yes, how kind of you. I'm looking for a particular brand; Colorado Claro—English made."
"White or red label?"
"Both. Grab one straight out of the box if you would be so kind-" Sherlock grinned as the man broke the seal, handing him a slender brown cigar with a red and gold label wrapped around the tip. " Light?"
The taste was rich wood with the flavour of caramel—no maple sugar and the familiar taste of spice. Sherlock let out a blue ring of smoke, savoring the moment of indulgence. An exact match.
"May I be so bold as to ask who your supplier is?" Sherlock spoke from around his smoke, counting out the full price of the purchase.
"Sorry, sir." The man winked, giving Sherlock a toothy grin, "we sell the best and if I was to tell you, it would be against policy."
"What a shame," Sherlock pouted as he slipped in an extra bill, licking his lips slowly. The small man flushed, tiny eyes locked on the generous tip. He glanced around quickly; they were the only two in the shop, and motioned Sherlock closer.
"You didn't 'ear this from me, but we get our supplies from the docks—Timothy and Co. I 'ave a mate back who 'elps; we're the only shop in London to carry this special type of Colorado Claro.""
"How delightful." Sherlock tipped his hat as a few other men entered the shop and left, leaving the man to his new customers. Once back outside, the dark haired detective pulled out the list, crossing off the last name with a smirk. "Delightful indeed."
It was about mid afternoon when Sherlock Holmes crashed into a doctor John Watson as he rounded a corner near the heart of London, knocking both parties to the ground. John, cursing loudly as he brought himself back to his feet, turned towards the offending man. His jaw dropped as he watched his friend dusting himself off, a deep frown marring his handsome features. The consulting detective was dressed fashionably, which was quite shocking in its own. He wore a tight fighting gray overcoat, a maroon vest, a white shirt and a brilliant scarlet tie. He even carried a silver handled walking stick in his left hand.
"Holmes?" John spluttered, reaching out a hand to help the man to his feet.
"Watson," Sherlock huffed as they stood staring at one reached out and pulled the fake beard from Sherlock's face, blue eyes narrowed.
"Whatever are you doing, dressed like that?"
"What ever are you doing out from the flat?"
Remembering the statement that Jefferson had confessed John flushed, removing his hand from Sherlock's jaw. He had been wandering the streets, trying to clear his head, trying to calm his beating heart. His icy blue eyes wandering across his friends face- Sherlock raised a brow, tongue darting out from between his pink lips.
"Never mind that now, Watson. There is something of utmost importance that I need you to- cabbie!" Sherlock flung out an arm, the horses nearly rearing in fright. Without another word the detective sprang into the hansom, dragging John behind him.
"What the Devil is doing on, Holmes!" John grunted out in frustration as Sherlock shifted beside him, shrugging out of his jacket.
"Patience my dear Watson."
"You, talk to me about patience? Here we are sitting in a cab going- oh I don't know- somewhere with you dragging me across London and never bothering to tell me what you were doing this morning; dressed like some-"
"Wealthy banker?"
"Yes, banker. Wait, never mind. Tell me what's going on!"
"Anger."
"What?" John snapped giving Sherlock a glare. Holmes sniffed, eyes dancing.
"You are angry, my dearest Watson. Very visibly angry."
"Oh you just noticed!"
"No, for sometime now."
John flushed crimson at Sherlock who was gazing intently at his person.
"Tell me where we're going."
"Your maddened by something; clearly it isn't me-" Sherlock brushed his hair back, dropping the top hat to the opposite seat. "Mary? She's kicked you out hasn't she. Finally-"
"What? No."
"Perhaps you've lost a bet-"
"Just stop." John seethed, grabbing hold of Sherlock's distracting necktie. "No, I did not lose a bet; Mary did not kick me out. I've been wondering throughout London trying to clear my head because I've just had a lovely chat with your flatmate!"
"Jefferson? What's the old goat done now?"
"Your old goat has just declared his intentions for you!" John gripped Sherlock tighter, unconsciously pulling the man closer. The doctor could smell the wood like scent of cigars on his friends attire, could see every detail in the brown eyes; eyes flecked with gold.
"Intentions?" Sherlock felt his voice crack slightly, John was so close. He could smell the cologne, feel the strength in those hands, feel the heat.
"He wishes to court you!" John felt himself shout, saw Sherlock's eyes widen slightly. John was breathing heavily allowing the pent up storm to release. The hansom swung about but neither men seemed to care for the cobbled streets, their eyes locked together; one in rage one in confusion.
"My dear Watson, you must be mistaken-"
"He means to bed you, Holmes!"
Sherlock blinked up at the doctor, mouth slightly parted. John looked down at those lips, at those sinfully inviting lips and felt his blood boil. He imagined Jefferson leaning down and claiming his friends mouth and felt the rage rekindle in his chest.
"Did you not hear me?" John whispered too angered to shout. Why was Holmes remaining silent?
"He could be an adequate lover," Sherlock joked, letting a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was lost on the thunderous expression that crossed Watson's guise. Sherlock swallowed as Watson dragged him closer, their faces inches apart.
"You think this is funny, don't you?" John stated calmly. Sherlock shivered; it was the serenity of his tone that worried the detective. Whenever John flew into a rage he was perfectly civil; the utter gentlemen before he lashed out like the soldier that he was. "Do you not understand the repercussions that would occur if you were to- to sleep with another man? To go against the proper order?"
"I do not care what society thinks, Watson." Sherlock hummed reaching for John's hands, trying to pry the steely grip from his throat. Sherlock was thinking, his mind whirling like a tornado; would he, John Hamish Watson, forever abandon the detective if his affections where known? Would he be repulsed as he was now? Would he look upon him with cold eyes filled with disgust?
"No. No you don't which is why I am telling you-" John was saying, blue eyes like the sky freed from the rain clouds.
"Who I choose to sleep with is none of your concern, old fellow." Sherlock hissed, heart racing. "You have committed yourself to a petty woman-winnowed yourself from my side and yet here you sit lecturing me of what I can and cannot do."
John thinned his lips gazing into Sherlock's face now flushed with colour. The detective was breathing rapidly, his nose flaring. His white throat, now exposed due to slack, was trembling. Without warning the carriage stopped, the driver shouting out the arrived destination.
"My business is but my own," Sherlock snapped as he tore himself from Watson's grasp. "It is of no concern to you. I present a choice: follow me now or retreat home. If you choose to pursue, we shall forget about our little disagreement. If you return do not trouble yourself further with this case."
Without another word Sherlock pushed open the door, leaving John sitting shocked in the leather seat, his hands feeling utterly empty.
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
Sherlock stood beside the water like a board, back stiff and straight. He hide the faint smile while he counted the sound of footsteps against the loose stone as John Watson made way to his side. Sherlock glanced at the man, whose face was expressionless; a face so beautiful it would have seemed to have been carved out of some Greek myth.
"What we discussed-"
"It is of little importance."
"No. No its not—as your friend I will not have people thinking you are some fluff."
"Why should they care about the man I desire or what we engage in our spare moments of freedom?" Sherlock countered, tired that the doctor was pressing the matter. "They all think I'm lost: delirious, unglued, batty. So why should this matter at all?"
Silence followed as they both watched the ships glide across the waves, the cries of sea birds screeching overhead.
"You desire a man?" John asked, his heart readying itself to stop. Recalling the detective remarking on the trivial female heart and their boring and utterly insignificant affections, it became clear that Sherlock Holmes truly did not fancy women. John gripped his cane as Sherlock shot him a glance, neither accepting nor denying the question. A new plague of questions aimed themselves into the heart of the good doctor: who was he?; was it Jefferson?; did Holmes love him? The last question sickened John to the pit of his gut.
"See there?" Sherlock abruptly cried pointing towards a large pier which housed a large warehouse. John took a deep breath as if to rid himself of the evil thoughts running though his thoughts. He accepted the spyglass that the man offered him, looking ahead to what had caught Sherlock's attention.
"It's a warehouse, Holmes." John raised a brow, clearing out his throat. "Men moving boxes-"
"Not just any boxes; crates filled with cigars. None other than Colorado Claro. Fancy getting your hands dirty then, old boy?" Sherlock grinned, all thoughts of argument vanished from his mind. John smirked and nodded, both men tucking their canes under their arms. Their fine shoes slid through the sand and rough stones as the good doctor whistled a tune under his breathe, Sherlock rolling his dark eyes.
"Something a little more adventurous Watson, don't be so repetitious."