ABRIELLE'S POV:
After a rather intriguing ride to Trafalgar square where Sherlock had taken to staring at me like some creep, we had finally made it to the exact place I needed us to be. The National Gallery. See I needed advice, and the only way to get that advice was to ask for some help, and that was exactly what I was going to do. Unlike Sherlock, I wasn't some stubborn toddler that refused help. Nopity nope, if and when I needed advice I'd ask for it. However, there was only a limited amount of people I could ask, let alone trust enough to ask them. And with a job like mine, it's quite hard to find people you can trust, which narrows it down to only a few people that I could ever ask for advice for. Unfortunately, two of those people were walking with me and they knew nothing about art, and the other person was Mycroft. Someone I couldn't dare ask for advice from whilst in the presence of his little brother, or John for that matter. That only left me with one solid choice. And that choice was Razmond.
"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John. From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment." I heard Sherlock explain to John behind me, as I lead them to the place I knew Raz would be. Sherlock wasn't wrong, everything was run with the code, why he was trying to explain it to my brother right this second was a different story.
"Yes, okay, but …" I heard John stutter, not understanding the concept at all.
"... John, it's all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it." I explained, trying to dumb it down as simply as I possibly could as if it were second nature. I was used to it by now after all the years spent living with the guy after all. He never understood anything complex. But then again, that was the beauty in my brother. He was so simple, so beautifully plain that no one ever saw the most complex thing about him. He understood. Yes, sure, he didn't understand the Pythagorean theorem or anything sciency like that. Instead, he understood the human heart, and that was perhaps the most complex thing in the world. He understood emotions and feelings more so than I could ever believe. And, he knew how to control it.
"Where are we headed?" John asked me, snapping me out of my thoughts as his eyes burned into the back of my head. I knew he was curious as to why I had made us all come all the way out here without telling them. Obviously, I had forgotten.
"I need to ask for some advice," I said, cringing as I waited for one of the two to obviously explode in surprise.
"What?! Sorry?!" John asked, both he and Sherlock undoubtedly sharing some secret look of disbelief behind my back.
"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again." I stated, walking down a few stairs that I knew would lead me to the back of the Gallery.
"You need advice?" John questioned. Of course, I need bloody advice, is that so frigging hard to understand! I didn't understand something so I'm asking for help, it's not rocket science!
"On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert. I sadly failed that class." I explained with a grimace. Okay so when I say I failed it, I failed a portion of it. I could smuggle a painting, tell fakes from reals, and I could forge a painting like nobody's business. But when it comes to identifying paint … well, I couldn't tell professional paint apart from watercolor. I was horrible at that portion. However, there was one person that was a master at identifying paint. So good in fact that he had passed the first day we had taken the class. Razmond. My friend, my partner, and the one person that I can trust other than Mycroft. Raz, the man so good with paint that it was basically his life. And the man that was currently pretending to be a teenage graffiti artist in the back alley of an art museum. The irony, huh.
"Part of a new exhibition." I heard him say as we got closer, the image of a police officer with a pig snout being tagged with the name Raz coming into focus. Oh, Razzy. Still on the graffiti case after so long. See, Raz had gotten his case of a lifetime. The case of the missing art. He had been searching for months trying to find out who had been stealing paintings from the National Gallery. Yet, he's found nothing. All he's found was the joy of painting on public buildings without getting into trouble for it. And apparently, getting so into character that he begins to draw hate graffiti aimed at police officers.
"I call it Urban Bloodlust Frenzy." He commented, chuckling at his own little joke.
"Catchy."
"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner." He said, still spraying the wall with his government issued spray paint. That's right, government issued. The government gave him a bag of spray paint, some grungy teenager clothes that look beat up and they had told him to go paint some buildings or else. I'm not even kidding.
"Can we do this while I'm workin'?" I heard Raz ask, looking over at Sherlock and John as if uneasy by their presence.
"Of course Raz. Sherlock, show him the pictures." I said, snapping my eyes to Sherlock as he got out his phone. He showed Raz, and as if he simply hated the idea of multitasking like a teenager that had changed his mind Raz had thrown the can of paint he had been using at John. John stared at me, his eyes full of bewilderment as I watched his eyes look back and forth between me and Raz as if he couldn't quite believe that we knew each other. I mean to me I know he's a nice, clean cut guy that never got into anything bad. But to onlookers that didn't quite know Raz's story, or didn't quite know that he wasn't actually a graffiti artist, it looked like I was hanging out with all the wrong kinds of people. And to be honest, John had every reason to look this confused. I mean, here he was in the back alley of a national art gallery watching as his sister talked to what looked to be a graffiti artist and acting all buddy buddy with said guy. He was allowed to be bewildered.
"Know the author?" Sherlock questioned, as Raz began to scroll through the pictures on the phone, looking closely at the details as I watched his head turn. He knew I was looking for what paint it was, nothing more, and that was exactly what he would tell me. I didn't need him to solve the whole case like Sherlock was urging him to, though he probably could. No, I just needed the paint type.
"Recognise the paint. It's like Michigan; hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc." He explained, giving me a smile. He knew I couldn't tell the difference. Ugh! It was so annoying when I didn't know something. Okay, if it was zinc that meant that the person who bought it was anything but middle class because the paint was one of the most expensive. So, why the hell would they be trying to threaten someone at a bank? They couldn't want more money if they were already rich, and they had already killed two separate people. So what did they want?
"Do you recognize the symbols?" I asked him, his glinting eyes telling me that he was curious. No doubt he wanted to help. He always loved trying to solve something that I didn't understand, it was just the way our partnering worked. I would solve what he didn't get, and he solved the stuff that was so complex that I didn't even understand. It's how it's always been. The thing is, he didn't have background on the case. He didn't know that two people had been killed over it, or that we knew it was a warning. He just saw the pictures of the paint, which is certainly not much to go off of. And, it wasn't like I could just tell him, it could not only blow his cover but it could potentially make John and Sherlock suspicious, they were already on my trail as it was. I did not need them more suspicious. This being said, there was no way in hell Raz would know anything.
"Not even sure it's a proper language." He said squinting at the pictures, confirming my hypothesis correct. He knew nothing like I thought.
"Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them." I heard Sherlock speak up, causing me to mentally eye roll. Is this guy serious! Raz clearly didn't know anything! If he did he would have said something so I could solve the case. It wasn't like he didn't want me to solve it, he actually was trying to help. But there Sherlock goes again, being an absolute arse to everyone and anyone he can get his hands on. Stupid, despicable man.
"What, and this is all you've got to go on? It's hardly much, now, is it?" Raz sassed, looking at Sherlock with an untrustworthy glare.
"Are you gonna help us or not?" Sherlock asked in an annoyed tone, looking Raz up and down as if expecting him to help. I didn't need him to. And he was very, very busy trying to catch an art thief as it was, so I didn't really want to add more to his plate. But I knew that he was going to help me no matter what. It's just his personality, he was too kind to say no, even if Sherlock the arse was yelling at him.
"I'll ask around. How do I know I can trust these two. How do I know you aren't Awol, Bree?" He said, looking me in the eyes. Oh Raz. He knew all about my situation, and when I show up with two strangers he thinks I'm awol. I mean … technically I am awol because I've not yet completed the very simple mission I was arranged. And I simply refuse to. I just can't. Not to him, not to Sherlock. I just liked him too much to do that do him, even if I was literally going against the British government to keep Sherlock safe. So … technically, I was awol in a way.
"Mikey sent me Raz, I promise I'm not Awol," I stated, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. It was our code. It meant to trust, and it meant that we were telling the truth. Which, it kind of was because Mycroft did know I've been solving this case with Sherlock.
"I trust you. Just be careful." Raz explained, kissing me on my cheek as well. I felt horrible, I was bending the truth and lying to one of the very select people I trust. I just felt so guilty. I nodded my head, too upset to speak. Raz looked concerned as if he knew something was wrong, yet before he could say anything about it a police officer down the alley had yelled at us, running up to us and we had split up Raz running down towards the park and Sherlock and me towards Baker Street. He knew. Raz must know I was lying to him, why else would he have looked so concerned. Oh god. He's going to tell Mycroft I'm awol. I'm doomed, I'm never going to see my brother ever again. They're going to lock me up for treason. And it was all Sherlock's bloody fault. I had fallen in love with the mission. I had fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes. And now, I'd never get to see him ever again all because of it.
