Chapter 12
The dark hardwood floors were cold against his bare feet and shined with evidence of recent polishing. Even the hallways were ornate, with patterned red wallpaper adorned with a variety of oil paintings from artists that he had never bothered to learn. There was a feeling of coldness, and not of warmth that he suspected other homes had.
Sherlock roamed through the halls, bored out of his mind with nothing to do. Since he had nowhere to be, he stayed in his black silk pajamas more often than not. He left his robe undone to reveal a plain blue shirt. In another world, he would be in his Lit class at the moment; now, due to a set of unfortunate circumstances, he was roaming the halls of hell with nothing with which to occupy himself.
A sound caught his attention in a room off to the left. Sherlock was surprised, seeing how the occupant of that room had officially moved out earlier this year. He tiptoed across the hall to see who was in there.
"Oh, what is that," Sherlock mocked his brother's appearance when he barged into the room unannounced.
Mycroft spun from examining himself in the full-length mirror of his childhood room, surprised to hear Sherlock's voice. He frowned when his younger brother made himself comfortable slouching in one of the window's sitting chairs.
"I know you're doing poorly in school, but surely you've learned by now what an umbrella is," Mycroft replied with a haughty sneer.
Sherlock moaned and left his arm fall off to the side, letting his fingers scrape against the hardwood floors, allowing his body to melt even further into the chair.
"I'm not doing poorly in school," Sherlock argued from across the room.
His older brother lifted a challenging eyebrow, "Oh? It was my understanding you'd been expelled. Again," he finished with a disappointing look and turned back to his mirror to straighten his tie.
"There was a minor incident with the chemistry lab," Sherlock muttered, "But my grades were excellent," he finished loudly, getting up from the chair to stand next to his brother while he fidgeted in front of the mirror. "What is all of this for?" he asked Mycroft, pointing to their reflection in the mirror. The sharp contrast of Sherlock in his loungewear versus Mycroft in a three-piece suit was striking.
"You need a haircut," Mycroft observed, turning his observational skills to his brother's reflection.
"My hair is fine," Sherlock pouted, and subconsciously went to smooth his curls down. "Your hair, however, looks like you took an iron to it."
Mycroft frowned and ran his fingers through his hair to try and give it that extra bit of volume.
"I'm meeting with Uncle Rudy about a possible job opportunity for after I graduate next spring," he told him, focused on straightening his suit and posing with the umbrella.
"Ah," Sherlock over-exaggerated his reaction and shot a smirk to his brother's reflection before turning to exit Mycroft's room.
"What?" Mycroft ground out and spun on his heel.
Sherlock leaned back against the doorframe that led out of his older brother's room and smiled.
"Oh, nothing," Sherlock shrugged off, yet keeping the smug smile glued to his face, only for the purpose of irritating his brother. "I don't know why you're trying so hard," Sherlock muttered. "Uncle Rudy has been grooming you for that position since you started primary school."
"Yes, well, some of us actually care about our appearances," Mycroft told him with a superficial smile.
"Well, given Uncle Rudy's tendencies to cross-dress, I'd say he does, too," Sherlock laughed when he almost got a smile to crack Mycroft's hollow façade.
Mycroft recovered quickly by rolling his eyes at Sherlock, following a stern look.
His older brother let out an annoyed huff before beginning, "Sherlock, someday you will understand the importance of dressing for the part."
"Sherlock, someday you will understand the importance of dressing for the part," Sherlock mimicked back in a high-pitched nasally voice.
Mycroft sighed, "I am only suggesting that someday there will be something important enough to you that will require you to try to put effort into something," his smile dropped ever so slightly, and his eyes bore that same sadness. "It is my only wish that you find whatever that may be."
Whatever that may be.
It is my only wish.
As if he cared about anything more than appearances.
"Get out of my head!" Sherlock banged his hands against his temples before dropping them to clench the bathroom sink in front of him. He closed his eyes at his brother's words. That conversion had only been a little over a year ago. It felt like a lifetime ago, he thought to himself, opening his eyes to look at his reflection in the dingy mirror in front of him. The hunger must be getting to him if he was already hearing Mycroft's voice in his head after only three days.
He'd used his first two days back to acclimate to being on his own again. He'd gone back to his old hunting grounds to make himself visible again. He deliberately made sure he was noticed (at a safe distance) by some of the old drug runners—time to start getting his name back to Volkov.
He quickly splashed some water on his face and dried it with a paper towel before exiting the Chinese restaurant's bathroom. The smell of food made his stomach growl loudly, so Sherlock made his way out into the fresh air to get away from the temptation. Just a few months ago, Sherlock had survived on sporadic eating habits. Now, he was frustrated at how he had allowed himself to grow accustomed to regular meals. It would only make it more difficult for him to adapt to life on the street.
Tonight, the night of day three was important. He'd be going back to his old warehouse. Sherlock tightened his grip on his backpack as he navigated the sidewalks of the busy London area. He slipped into an alley and headed to sit behind a dumpster about halfway down the small alley. He opened his pack to give one last inspection. Everything had to go off without a hitch this evening. If Boris or any of Volkov's other meat-headed goons that would be guarding the door didn't believe him, he'd be gone before he even crossed the threshold. What few clothes he had taken were rolled up to cover his utility knife and copy of Anna Karenina. Sherlock thumbed through the pages to ensure everything was in order. He paused when a slip of paper and a couple of £10s fell out towards the back. Sherlock picked up the money to inspect it and then grabbed the note.
Don't blow it all in one go. Get yourself something to eat. Be safe. - Greg
Sherlock read the short note a couple of times, thumbing the paper while he did so. Sherlock smiled at the man's messy scrawl. How was Lestrade able to sneak this in without him noticing? He gave a silent thanks to the police Sergeant before pocketing the money. There was a chip stand between here and the warehouse that he'd stop at to get him something to tide him over. He looked at the note one more time, Lestrade was waiting for him, Lestrade would wait for him, he reminded himself. He neatly folded the note and opened his backpack and felt for the slit he had made in the side, pocketing the note safely inside.
Sherlock exited the alley with a new bounce to his step as he headed towards the chip stand. The late afternoon was just starting to fade into the early evening, thankfully dropping the late July temperatures to more bearable ones. People were getting off their jobs and headed out to go home or to the pub to meet friends, which slowly filled the streets. The line for the chip stand was not too long yet; he only waited five minutes before he was given a fresh basket, steaming hot chips that made his stomach growl in appreciation. He ate each fry slowly, appreciating Lestrade and his thoughtfulness as he made his way to his destination.
Finally, just as the sun set, he arrived at the warehouse. He took his time throwing his chip basket away in the trash to allow a group of skateboarders to pass. Once they rounded the corner, Sherlock slipped through the usual break in the chain-link fence and made his way towards the side door near the building's back. With a deep breath, he gave the typical knock pattern before losing his nerve, and then took a large step back from the door.
This was it—chin up.
The chains bolting the door could be heard coming off, and the door opened, revealing a stunned Boris in the doorframe.
"I heard rumors you'd turned back up," the deep Russian voice was less than enthusiastic. "Pity."
"I missed you too, Boris," Sherlock told him with a false smile. "Now, let me in."
Boris's hand came up and halted Sherlock in the middle of his chest, blocking his entrance into the inside.
"Not so fast, little Shezza," Boris crossed his arms over his chest. "Where have you been?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I got picked up," he told him, trying to sound disappointed with himself.
Boris instantly tensed and bent down to look him in the eye, "You let the police grab you up, boy?"
Sherlock shot him a sarcastic glare, "It's not like I planned for it, obviously," he grumbled. "They made me go to rehab," he pouted, diverting his gaze to his feet, and kicked at nothing on the ground.
"And now, little Shezza wants back," Boris mocked.
Sherlock looked up at the burly Russian with a pleading look.
"Volkov does not take kindly to defection," Boris reminded him.
"Please, Boris," Sherlock pleaded and threw in some slight hand tremors for good measure.
Boris gave him a disapproving frown, "Say pretty please," he smirked.
Sherlock frowned at Boris and the two locked glances for several moments before Sherlock let out a sigh.
"Pretty, please," he bit out.
Boris smirked at Sherlock's answer and stepped aside to let him in.
"Welcome home, Shezza."
Greg walked into the narcotics floor on Monday morning in a terrible mood and immediately settled in at his desk. He'd gotten little to no sleep, unable to stop thinking of every possible scenario where something could have gone wrong. By the time Monday rolled around, Greg was running strictly on caffeine. The combination made him jittery and difficult to focus, and he hated that feeling. It made him feel out of control, which was the opposite of what he needed to be in right now.
He gathered up a stack of papers on his desk and started rifling through them. It was a list of the various meeting sites that Sherlock had given to them with their typical meeting times. Fingers crossed nothing had changed too drastically, and they'd be able to start compiling the evidence that they would need to lock Volkov and his associates up for a long time. Then, the words of his new mysterious friend began to play in the back of his head.
What if I told you, Sergeant Lestrade, what if I told you that there is more to Volkov than meets the eye.
That was something else he'd need to figure out. What else would come raining down on them when they brought Volkov down?
"Did Sherlock make it out okay?" Inspector Jackson's voice startled him from his thoughts, making Greg jump and drop the stack of papers he was holding.
"Uh, yeah," Greg nodded, trying to shake off his jitters. Quite frankly he was surprised the man was still talking to him after Greg had threatened him last week. "He took off Friday night. If everything goes to plan, he should already be back in his old warehouse, tomorrow at the latest."
"Good, good," Jackson nodded while looking around the narcotics department's bullpen, holding a coffee cup in his hand. "Andrew Ryan was released just a little bit ago," he told Greg casually.
Greg looked up, startled. "Andrew Ryan, the known Volkov associate who wasn't scheduled to be released for another month at the soonest?" he asked for clarification, eyebrows raised in alarm.
Jackson nodded, "One and the same. Apparently, someone pulled some strings and he was able to get out early," he finished with a shrug.
Great, Greg thought sarcastically to himself. Just fantastic. Now, there was one more cog to the wheel that they didn't need.
"Had a fancy town car waiting for him and everything," Jackson revealed, which grabbed Greg's attention.
"A town car?"
"Volkov is known to be a high roller, likes to take care of those closest to him. Anyway, we placed a tracker in the heel of one of his shoes. Hopefully, he won't dump them in the meantime. Maybe we'll get lucky, and he'll head straight to Volkov."
"Yeah, maybe," Greg pretended to agree with the Inspector, but something was nagging at him. A thought in the back of his head that was struggling to make its presence known.
"Well, I'd thought you'd like to know," Jackson told him, taking a sip from his coffee cup. "Let me know if you hear anything from Sherlock," he instructed with a nod to his head before taking off towards his office.
"Will do," Greg told him, hiding his rude hand gesture behind the safety of his cubicle walls, as the man was leaving him.
He waited until the man was locked back in his office before pulling out a stack of papers from his desk drawer that he thought he was done with. Greg rifled through them until he found the small paperclipped pile he was looking for, the Andrew Ryan interview. Something had seemed off about it on his first glance through, although he could never pinpoint exactly what it was at the time. Greg looked at Ryan's mugshot and then scanned through the arresting officer's report. Apparently, Ryan just waltzed up to the undercover officer and offered him an eightball of coke. Not the wisest move for someone supposedly close enough to Volkov to warrant a town car picking you up. Then to be mysteriously released the same week the Yard's narcotics department launched their sting investigation on Volkov, things weren't adding up.
Greg took a sip of his coffee and continued to scan through the rest of Ryan's file. He supposed that it wasn't uncommon to get released early for good behavior; the man only had a month left on his sentence, and apparently had no priors. It might have been just a coincidence.
The universe is rarely so lazy, Sherlock's voice came through his own and was echoed by his new mysterious friend's as well.
Greg drummed his fingers on his desk, trying to make up his mind before slamming the rest of his coffee back. It was time to get some answers.
Sherlock scrunched his face and stretched his back as he woke up disoriented in a small, dank room on top of a tattered mattress. The warehouse, his mind finally supplied once the veil of sleep lifted. He got up from the small, flattened mattress and grimaced at how sore his entire body was, finding himself missing Lestrade's couch all the more. He reached for his backpack and fumbled around until he found Lestrade's note still safely tucked away, taking a moment to read it before storing it back in his pack to stay safely hidden. It was nice to have something physical to remind him that he had something to look forward to. With that thought, he grabbed his pack and headed out of his room in the warehouse. He wasn't sure what time it was exactly, but given that most of the other drug runners were still passed out meant that it was probably reasonably early.
The sound of the garage doors opening on the opposite end of the building grabbed his attention, and he decided to head that way. The building itself was exactly how you would picture a run-down warehouse. Sherlock assumed it had been built during one of the world wars to manufacture something and had fallen into disrepair. Parts to the exterior were brick, while the rest were made from sheet metal that rattled when the wind picked up.
The truck bay had a large nondescript white lorry pull in. Boris and one of the other guards, Nickoli, were waiting patiently with guns at the ready. Sherlock snuck undetected to hide behind a few old crates that had been left behind. He quickly dug into his backpack and pulled out a small handheld camera that he had been able to sneak in and hit record. He stayed quiet while the camera captured the delivery of two crates of Volkov's finest. Sherlock tried to zoom in to get closer to catch everyone's faces.
"Open them," Boris instructed, pointing his gun to the head of the delivery driver.
The driver nodded and pulled out a metal pry bar, cracking open each of the crates to reveal their contents to the two overly muscular goons.
Nickoli inspected each crate thoroughly, checking to make sure they were not being shorted, and nodded back to Boris, who then dismissed the driver with a sharp nod.
The whole interaction took less than fifteen minutes. Sherlock waited until the lorry exited the warehouse before shutting off the camera. Boris and Nickoli were racking the crates up on a dolly to store them in their safe-guarded locked room. He didn't have much time before they would be making their way out of the room. Sherlock crept off back the way he came, hoping to avoid the two brutes just yet. He opened up the camera again and began filming the other runners' living conditions that lived here. At this location, there were only ten to twelve, including himself. Most were currently passed out from drugs, hunger, and exhaustion wherever they could find a place. A few were still in the throws of whatever trip they were on. Sherlock remembered his time here all too well. Coherent enough to be ashamed by your actions, but not enough to be able to stop the cycle from repeating itself. He shut the camera off once he felt like he got enough footage of the inside for the time being. Part of him felt guilty for the invasion of privacy against the other occupants. Having had been in their positions before, he only hoped that they would have the opportunity to seek out help once this was over.
There were a couple of new faces, but mostly they were all the same. Sherlock felt sorry for them all, especially knowing that most of them would not get any relief until Volkov was arrested, and his drug ring dismantled. He remembered what it was like to be stuck in the never-ending downwards spiral. At first, it seems like a no-brainer when you are offered a cut of the cash or a cut of the product. Money equaled food, clothes, necessities. Only the call to keep the product usually won out—every time.
Sherlock planned to not let that happen to him this time. He had so much waiting for him after this was over. Lestrade, a home, a future that he had given up on before running away to London. Lestrade had already done so much to help him, and he missed the security the other man provided for him. The comfort that he had someone who didn't care about his past, who saw through that and saw Sherlock for who he was, and even then still didn't run screaming. Sherlock smiled at that thought.
The deep Russian voices of Boris and Nickoli came into his earshot, and he looked around for a spot to stash his camera for now. It wouldn't help the cause at all to be caught this soon. He spotted a crack in the wall and settled for that for the time being, and used various items and trash that were around to cover the hole up.
"Ah, little Shezza," Boris' voice snarked, having spotted him after he had righted himself.
Sherlock paused and threw a glare back to the two goons.
"Now, now, is that how you look at your old friends?" Boris questioned him, shaking his head.
Nickoli came up behind him and looped an arm around his neck before dropping him to the floor and then dragging Sherlock along behind him.
"See, now you hurt Nickoli's feelings when you left," Boris told Sherlock, clearly unsympathetic at the sight of the teen's reddening face from being drug at such an awkward angle. "None of his other punching bags talk back to him in Russian."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Отпусти меня," Sherlock spat, having difficulty breathing through Nickoli's tight grip around his throat.
Nickoli chuckled, dropping Sherlock with a pat to his head. Sherlock fell onto his backside, unable to turn to brace himself on all fours, coughing once he was finally freed before bringing himself back up to a standing position.
"Boris thinks you sung for the police, told them everything," Nickoli told him with a point towards Boris and then turned back towards the small side room by the door where they had ended up. "I told him that you were far too obnoxious for anyone to take you seriously," he finished, cracking open a bottle of water, and leveling a severe look at Sherlock.
"Let's just say that the rehab facility they sent me to won't be missing my smart mouth. I doubt they'll even file a missing person report," Sherlock confirmed.
"That better be the case, Shezza," Boris threatened, bending down to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Because if I find out you've gone and done something-"
"I haven't," Sherlock interrupted the Russian and stared him back down.
"Good," Boris replied, condescendingly patting his cheek. Nickoli nodded his head in agreement. "We're sending you back out with Jerry this afternoon," Boris started up again. "You'll be with him the rest of the week to get you back into the swing of things."
"We phoned Volkov to let him know his precious favorite child had finally returned home," Nickoli started up sarcastically when Boris finished. "He'll send a town car for you on Saturday to take you to his place for a reunion dinner," he finished with another sip from his water bottle.
Sherlock nodded. That was good. He didn't expect to be invited to Volkov's place so soon. That would give him the rest of this week to continue gathering evidence of the warehouse and find a way to pass it off to Lestrade before the weekend.
Volkov would be a whole different challenge. He was smart, unlike the two goons in front of him. Hopefully, he'd be able to continue the charade with Volkov.
Either way, he was one step closer to going back home.
Greg spent two whole days searching for Andrew Ryan, only to turn up empty-handed. Maybe even less than empty-handed. None of the Andrew Ryans in the system matched the mugshot to this guy, the address and phone numbers he'd given were all bogus. Even the number he used to call for legal help had been disconnected. Now, he knew that Volkov was wealthy and powerful, with maybe someone even more wealthy and powerful pulling his strings. Still, given all of that, it took a whole lot of effort to just magic someone into existence. However, there was one person that came to mind that possibly had that ability.
As if anticipating the perfect entrance, a sleek town car pulled up, and the same chauffeur that had driven him here from the Yard last week got out to let out his new friend.
Greg stood up from where he had sat on the Diogenes Club's white stone ledge, where he'd been waiting for his new friend with the umbrella to arrive.
The man raised a surprised eyebrow after noticing him, tucked his umbrella up under his arm, and made his way to meet Greg at the small patio's top.
"Sergeant Lestrade, what can I do for you on this fine day?" the stranger-not-so-stranger greeted.
"Andrew Ryan," Greg started, plainly. "Who is he?"
The man gave a small shrug, "While I'm flattered you think I am omniscient in my knowledge of every person in the city, I assure you that is not the case."
"Come off it!" Greg yelled at the man in front of him, clearly startling him over his outburst. "Sorry," Greg apologized to the man in the suit. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yell, I've just been so stressed over everything. Now, I've got some mysterious person that just appeared out of nowhere to worry about, too," he explained, shaking his head. "I didn't mean to take it out on you."
The man didn't reply, but instead reached into the inside pocket of his suit and produced a cigarette package, offering one to Greg.
"Thanks," Greg replied, slightly confused over the gesture, and after taking the lighter from the man, he inhaled his first cigarette in years.
The other man did the same with his own cigarette, and the two stood on the stoop of the Club in silence for a moment.
"Have you heard from Sherlock?" Umbrella Boy asked him, breaking the silence.
Greg shook his head, "No, but surveillance caught him yesterday with someone doing a deal at a park on the city's outskirts. We looked at the pattern of places he gave us and will hopefully find him at the next stop this evening," Greg told him. "If the pattern holds, I'll be part of the undercover crew Friday."
"Are you sure that's wise?" The man asked.
"It's the plan," Greg replied, put off by the other man's question. "I'm supposed to gauge the kid once a week, make sure he's keeping it together," he informed him, but the words felt hollow, and he frowned. "Although, the kid is probably holding it together better than I am," he said bitterly, and put what was left of his cigarette out. When the man offered him another one, he eagerly accepted.
"You care for Sherlock," the man stated, staring at him with half of his first cigarette left dangling between his fingers.
Greg chuckled, "What gave it away?" he asked the man sarcastically.
The man seemed to be turning something over in his mind, and Greg focused on enjoying his cig and let the other man think.
"You don't have to worry about Andrew Ryan," the man finally supplied, stomping out his cigarette.
"Why?" Greg asked sharply. "What's he like, some top-secret undercover agent of the Umbrella Squad?" he laughed at his own joke.
The man looked at Greg as if he had just eaten something sour. "Or, MI6," the man replied, leveling a dissatisfied look at Greg.
Greg let his cigarette drop from his fingers and gaped at the other man. "What? Are you serious?" he replied, surprised before recovering enough to stomp out his forgotten cigarette.
"The agent that you have come to know as Andrew Ryan was originally sent in to gain the confidence of Volkov. His mission was diverted when he uncovered a possible link between Volkov and the police," the man was staring at him with a severe expression on his face, and Greg gulped nervously, feeling like this was something he shouldn't be hearing. "He had himself arrested to get what information he could from the inside," the man carried on. "I had him released when Sherlock succeeded in being able to be accepted at his old hang-out."
"Wait, a link between Volkov and the police? Like someone inside the Yard is working for him?" Greg was floored. He'd been working with the narcotics team for weeks, he couldn't pinpoint a single person that might be working for Volkov.
"Best to stay vigilant," came the man's vague answer.
"Right," Greg started but didn't know where to take it from there. "So, the town car was yours?"
"I'll leave you some mystery. It'd be a shame if I had to explain everything to you," he smiled at Greg.
Prat, Greg thought. "So you had him go back to Volkov now? To what? Help Sherlock? Protect him somehow?"
The man's only reply was by lifting an eyebrow at him.
"You care for Sherlock," Greg stated to him, finally realizing that maybe having this strange man as a backup wasn't the worst thing that could happen.
"What gave it away?" the man parroted his own words back to him, causing Greg to smile.
"Alright, do I at least get to know your name?"
The man smiled, "That will be up to Sherlock," the man told him, reaching back into his suit jacket, but this time producing a card.
Greg stared at it curiously. It was a rather plain card—cream in color with typed black lettering that read MH with a phone number under it.
"In case you need me." Greg nodded and tucked the card into his wallet. "Now, if you'll excuse me," the man told Greg and indicated towards the door.
"Right, thanks for the information, and the smoke," Greg added as an afterthought.
"Anytime, Sergeant," the man told him with a nod before turning back into the building.
Greg turned back to head towards his own car, feeling marginally better that they had someone on the inside to help keep an eye on Sherlock. Actually, that was a huge relief. The only other person Greg would want to guard the kid if it couldn't be him would be an MI6 operative.
Maybe, just maybe, Greg thought, this would go their way after all.
Greg let the newspaper he had been reading fall to his lap as he lit up another cigarette. It was a beautiful sunny day; the weather was still warm but starting to cool down with the promise of Autumn right around the corner. Greg had only been at this particular park bench for the last thirty minutes; taking a long drags from his cigarette, he glanced around the park. It officially made one whole week since he'd last seen or heard from Sherlock. Of course, it'd only taken five of those days for Greg to take up smoking again. He'd tried to kick the habit multiple times, mostly at Hannah's demands, but it always reappeared during stressful times. No kind of stress like sending your kid back into the arms of one of the most dangerous drug lords in London's history, he thought while taking another long drag from his cigarette. It was either smoking or drinking… at least the nicotine didn't dull his senses as scotch did. There wasn't time for dulled senses or responses, not when Sherlock's life was on the line.
Laughter to his right caught his attention, and he smiled when he saw a father and his young son kicking a ball back and forth to each other. He could remember playing football with his dad in the park until he was old enough to join some beginner leagues. Football had always been a nice escape for him, especially after his mum had left them and things were just too much. Maybe he'd take Sherlock to a match once all this nonsense got sorted out. He snorted, imagining the kid at a game. Maybe Sherlock would surprise him.
What was becoming more and more surprising to Greg was how quickly Sherlock had wormed his way into his affections. In the two and a half months that he had known Sherlock, the kid had become his. The first time he had that thought was three weeks ago when Jackson had unexpectedly shown up at Springhill and made everything flip upside down. Since then, that seed had taken root and was slowly growing every day. Hell, last night, he even tried to research adoption before becoming so anxious that he went through half a pack of cigarettes before going to bed.
Movement from across the park grabbed his attention, and Greg found himself breathing a sigh of relief when a shock of familiar dark hair came into view. He took another drag of his cigarette before picking his paper back up again. He kept peering over the top to keep an eye on Sherlock. The kid was with someone else, but they appeared to be getting along easily. They both had backpacks and were waiting for someone. Greg watched as a pair of undercover officers jogged past the kid before signaling to another group pretending to have a picnic to take a couple of pictures. Finally, Sherlock and his friend were approached by a man that appeared to be in his mid-twenties, dressed very preppy. College kid, Greg assumed as he watched the transaction between the two. The whole thing was captured by the undercover officers and was over quickly, letting Greg breathe a sigh of relief.
He took a victory sip out of his travel cup of tea before lighting up one last cigarette. He'd have to report back to the Yard soon, but he needed to watch the unruly mop of dark hair exit the park before heading back. Greg just needed that extra reassurance that the last time he saw the kid, he'd know Sherlock was okay. What he wouldn't give to say to hell with it all and grab the kid and take off, out of London, maybe even out of England. Surely none of this was worth Sherlock's safety. Not Volkov, not even the person pulling Volkov's strings. Something told Greg that Sherlock would be less than thrilled with his plan, but a man could dream.
Greg allowed the paper to fall and let out a long exhale of smoke as the kid and his friend left the park and headed left. According to Sherlock's intelligence reports, their meet up locations changed every ten days, so it never seemed that they were at one particular spot every week at the same time. At least they figured out one of the park schedules, and hopefully, the other locations would fall into place. Greg stood up from his spot on the bench and headed out of the park, trying to mentally fortify himself for a possible ten days before knowing if Sherlock was alive or not. This month would most definitely turn what dark brown hair he had left grey.
"Those things will kill you," a voice called out from a nearby alley, stopping Greg before he made it to his car.
Greg let out a surprised huff and squashed what was left of his cigarette butt on the ground, turning his head to the right to look down the alley, spying a familiar teen who was lurking in the shadows. He turned the rest of the way to meet Sherlock.
"They're still mildly better than what you're peddling," Greg pointed out, unable to keep from smiling at the younger man's presence.
Sherlock shrugged and looked down at his feet. It hadn't taken much time for the kid to start to lose weight, and the sight of that combined with the dark circles under his eyes and ratted, baggy clothes made Greg's heart twinge in his chest.
"I haven't, you know…" Sherlock trailed off, still staring at his feet.
Greg frowned, "Haven't?"
Sherlock looked up with a face that was mixed between mildly irritated and mildly embarrassed. "I haven't indulged in any of my previous habits," he informed him nervously.
Greg didn't bother stopping the smile that spread across his face. "Good," he told the kid proudly, grinning even more when Sherlock smiled at his praise. "You doing okay? You look thin. Let me get some money together for you," Greg started digging through his wallet for some cash.
"I'm maintaining," Sherlock started, and thanked him when he passed over a couple of twenties. "It has been going easier than I had expected. Volkov wants to meet Saturday," he trailed off, uncertain as to how Greg would respond.
Greg tried his best to remain calm on the outside, for Sherlock's sake, but on the inside, he had gone cold. This was it, if Sherlock could pull off planting the listening devices he'd been sent with, they'd be one step in the clear.
"And you'll be safe? You'll be stealthy about this and not get caught?" he just needed to hear the kid reassure him one more time.
"More stealthy than your undercover brigade at the park," Sherlock threw back with an eye roll.
"Oi! You wouldn't have had any idea about them if you hadn't had spent all of last week trapped in meetings with them," Greg argued back, pointing at the kid.
Sherlock started chuckling at him, and Greg returned the eye roll. "Arse," he shook his head, realizing that the kid was trying to get him worked up. "I don't need any more lip from you, not if you want a say about where we end up moving, and where you go to school."
"Is the school thing really all that necessary?" Sherlock tried to argue vaguely, but Greg gave him his best not-gonna-happen look. "Fine," agreed dramatically.
They shared a look, each knowing that it was time to leave, but neither quite ready to say those words.
"I miss you, kid," Greg told him the truth. The last week without Sherlock there to argue with had only highlighted a part in his life that he didn't realize he was missing.
"I miss your chicken parm," Sherlock told him with a smile.
Greg chuckled, muttering "Arse," under his breath for good measure. "Stick to the plan, and this will all be over soon," he promised.
Sherlock nodded and tightened his grip on his backpack. "Saturday at five o'clock, Trafalgar Square," he said almost too quickly for Greg to pick up.
"What happens then?"
"Volkov is sending a town car for me. But I was thinking of showing up early, just in case you were going to be in that area," Sherlock shrugged, trying to suggest casually.
"Sherlock," Greg started hesitantly. "I don't know if that is a good idea. We shouldn't even be doing this," he waved his hands back and forth between them. "I can't put you in any more unnecessary danger than you're already in."
"We can be cautious! There are places that even the CC cameras can't pick up," Sherlock started arguing, but Greg held up his hands to stop him.
"This wasn't part of the plan, kid," Greg was just as upset about his decision. "You said you would stick to the plan, that you wouldn't go swanning off, remember?" he pleaded with the kid to not make this any harder than it had to be.
Sherlock deflated at that, and it took everything in Greg not to grab him and fall back on his leaving the country plan.
"We've made it a week, yeah?" Greg tried to stay positive. "And you know, now that you mention it, I might have some business that would mean I'd be driving through your area on Saturday," he finished with a shrug of his shoulders, causing Sherlock to give him a small smile.
Sherlock's smile didn't stay for long, and soon he was ducking his head again. Greg waited to hear the kid out, trying to give him time to come up with the words he needed to say.
"I-It's just that-" Sherlock kept starting and stopping, trying to work through the thought on his own. "Nevermind," he gave up with a sigh.
"Sherlock-"
"No, really. It's just a bit of sentiment is all," he interrupted Greg. "I should go. I have another meet up that I'll need to catch the tube for if I'm to make it on time."
"Right... Go, go," Greg shoed him and stood off to the alley's side to let Sherlock pass. "Be careful, yeah?"
Sherlock paused and gave him a brief hug, resting his chin on Greg's shoulder, and Greg responded to the hug quickly. He was surprised to find that the kid was turning out to be pretty affectionate. The hug didn't last long and Sherlock broke it off quickly, giving Greg a small smile.
"Always," Sherlock told him with a wink and took off.
"Arse," Greg shook his head and went to pull out another cigarette to last him on his walk back to the Yard, frowning when instead of finding the anticipated packet of smokes, he felt something hard and plastic, and something else he couldn't identify. He could have sworn he had half a pa- Sherlock. Oh, that kid would be the end of him for sure. When he pulled out the contents of his jacket pocket, he was surprised to find a videocassette and a bag of a white substance that Greg assumed to be coke. Atta boy, he thought, pocketing the evidence. He patted down his pockets one more time to make sure that the kid hadn't moved his smokes somewhere else and sighed when he came up empty-handed. Greg took a minute to compose himself before taking a deep, steadying breath and took off back towards the Yard.
