Title: The Case of the Expensive Picture Frame
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: K+ for thematic elements and brief language
Disclaimer: Don't own BBC Sherlock. While I'm fairly certain that Sherlock Holmes in itself is public domain, this particular show is owned by the BBC and created by Moffat and Gatiss, and they're both much better writers than I will ever be. Everything outside the show is mine.
A/N: I feel the need to point out that every time I see Martin Freeman in anything, I shriek his name, point at the screen and then flail wildly for a while. Man, am I going to have a hard time when The Hobbit comes out.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked acerbically. John walked over next to him, less as a show of strength and more making sure he was there to restrain Sherlock from doing anything rash.
Mycroft glided into the flat and settled himself into John's chair, leaning his ever-resent umbrella against it and steepling his fingers. "I am here," he said in his usual measured tone, "To stop you from making a mistake that will get you killed. In other words, I am being a protective older brother."
John could have sworn he heard Sherlock growl deep in his throat.
"This is my case, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, "Stay out of it."
"On the contrary, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, "This was my case first. You have simply blundered into it, and as usual made a mess of everything."
This time Sherlock snarled, and threw himself onto the couch. "How is this your case? I would think that this is too small for you."
Mycroft's face suddenly turned very serious, and he leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. "There is more going on than you realize," he said quietly, "And it is very dangerous. Trust me, Sherlock, for once in your life. Stay out of it."
Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow and Mycroft sighed the weary sigh reserved specifically to older siblings. "I can see I won't convince you," he said, standing and collecting his umbrella, "And I can't give you any more information. But," he stopped at the door and turned around, "if you get yourself killed, I'm not the one who's going to explain it to Mummy."
And with that, he was gone, striding out the door in the dramatic manner that seemed reserved only to Holmeses.
Sherlock raced over to the window and watched for Mycroft's car to have disappeared completely down the street. As soon as he was certain of the absence of his brother, Sherlock turned to John with a huge, over-excited grin on his face.
John sighed, knowing that neither of them would be sleeping for the next few days.
As it turned out, Jerry Davis was nowhere to be found. Sherlock and John checked everywhere, the contacts he had left with them, the hotel he was staying at, everywhere.
"Sherlock," John finally said, after the second day again led to a dead end, "Maybe we should call the police in on this."
Sherlock shot him a dark glare, pacing up and down the flat. "Not likely," he muttered, "They'd just muck it up, tramping about with no regard for subtlety, and meanwhile the other diamond thieves know we're on to them and successfully escape out of the country, never to be heard from again."
"That's a worst case scenario," John protested, but Sherlock ignored him.
"And besides," he continued, talking more to himself than John, "we don't even know if there's been a crime committed. Maybe he got the picture frame back, doesn't want us to know about the diamonds. Maybe Irene Adler got to him first, warned him not to talk to us again."
"Maybe we should go see her again," John interjected, in an attempt to not feel so much like an inanimate object. Of course, the suggestion had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that she was gorgeous. Nothing at all.
Sherlock eyed him like he knew John's line of thought (he probably did), then pursed his lips in thought. "That's an excellent idea, John," he said, "Let's go." And he was bounding out again, before John's mind got the chance to catch up to the fact that Sherlock actually agreed with him.
He eventually got himself together, and dashed after Sherlock, catching him outside just as he was calling a cab.
In the cab they sat in comfortable silence, Sherlock staring out the window deep in thought, and John staring out the window trying to mimic his friend's deep thoughts about the case. When they arrived at the hotel John made to walk directly to the lift, but Sherlock stopped him and pulled him over to the receptionist's desk.
"Excuse me," Sherlock said, his attitude completely changing to an almost normal person, "I'm looking for a friend of mine, Irene Adler. Is she in?"
"Would you like to call up to the room and ask?" the receptionist, a nice, pretty girl in her twenties said politely.
"That would be lovely," Sherlock said with a nauseating grin.
"And what name shall I give her?"
"John Watson," Sherlock said without a trace of remorse, and John failed to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
As the receptionist called up to Irene Adler's room, John tried to convey the phrase 'what the hell are you doing?' with only his eyes, and Sherlock didn't reply, choosing instead to look unbearably smug, as he usually did when he thought he was being brilliant.
The receptionist's voice cut in on their silent conversation as she said, "I'm sorry, she doesn't seem to be in right now. Would you like for me to leave a message?"
"No," Sherlock said, dropping the nice-guy act and striding away, John following after.
"So now what?" John said, choosing to ignore Sherlock's deception and name-appropriation in favor of the bigger picture.
"Do you feel up to some breaking and entering?"
"Only if you let me in this time." Their eyes met, and they shared a grin.
Irene Adler's room was surprisingly easy to break into, a fact that was soon explained by the complete emptiness of the room.
"You sure this is the right room?" John asked, looking around.
Sherlock scowled, scanning the room with his well-practiced eye. "Of course it is," he said, "But she wouldn't have anything valuable out in plain sight. If the picture frame is here, then it's very well hidden. Unlike your laptop."
"You found it again?" John said in disbelief, "But it was perfectly hidden!"
"It was under a sofa cushion, John, a toddler could have found it."
John muttered meaningless insults under his breath as Sherlock slowly eyed the room. In a sudden startling burst of speed he started searching the room with reckless abandon, checking mattresses, cabinets, under the beds, in the bathrooms…it was when he started unscrewing the light-switch covers that John said, "You don't seriously think a picture frame would fit in there, do you?"
"We must look at all possibilities, John," Sherlock said, "Not everyone is as obvious as you."
"Well, maybe that's what she's counting on," John suggested, already preparing himself for the derision of his friend, "You not expecting her to be obvious."
"Don't be ridiculous, that's-" Sherlock stopped himself, and his eyes widened as his incredible brain raced. "Brilliant!" he cried, and raced into the bathroom.
"Always," John muttered under his breath, amiably traipsing after Sherlock into the bathroom, where the detective had thrown open the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. His face fell when there was nothing there but a slip of paper.
Sherlock picked the piece of paper up, and John tried to peer over his shoulder to see it as well. Since Sherlock was much taller than him, it didn't work out very well, so he waited for Sherlock to finish looking at it.
Sherlock's jaw tightened and he thrust the paper at John as he stalked out of the bathroom. John looked down, and saw that it was a photograph of Adler and someone he didn't know, but looked vaguely familiar, in a…compromising position.
"Read the back," Sherlock called from the room, where it sounded like he was moving things around in a fit of pique (he tended to rearrange furniture when he was upset. One time John came home to find the kitchen table upside down in the middle of the living room, with the sofa and John's chair leaning precariously against the legs).
John turned the photograph over, and saw a note on the back.
My dear Sherlock Holmes, it read,
By the time you read this I will likely be out of the country. I'm sorry I couldn't experience the pleasure of your company one more time, but my employer warned me not to underestimate you. You won't find the picture frame anywhere here- it's safely with me, where you will never find it.
As an apology for that, I leave you the picture inside the frame. I have no need of it anymore. I wish you all the best, though it's certain I will never see you again.
Love, Irene
There was a lipstick kiss next to Adler's name. John walked back into the room, seeing Sherlock sitting on the bed which he had torn the stuffing out of earlier, the detective wearing a thoroughly disgruntled expression.
John was about to say something vaguely comforting, when he glanced down at the photograph again and gave a start of recognition. The man in the photograph was a well-known politician, and a married one at that.
"This is-" John began, but stopped.
Sherlock nodded, still with his unhappy expression.
"But why would she no longer need a blackmail photograph?" John asked, holding it only with his thumb and forefinger, as if it were dirty.
"That all depends," Sherlock said dully, "On who her employer is."
"Moriarty?"
"Maybe."
They stayed there a little longer in thoughtful silence, before Sherlock abruptly stood up. As John shot him a questioning look, Sherlock declared, "It's no use sitting around here. Jerry Davis is still missing."
"Wouldn't he be with Adler?" John asked, coming up to stand by Sherlock.
"Not necessarily," Sherlock said, a little bit of a glint coming back into his eyes as he explained his reasoning. "I have reason to believe he's still in London, and-"
His dissertation was interrupted by his phone ringing. Sherlock pulled it out and glared irritably at it, but when he saw the caller ID his expression quickly changed.
"It's Jerry Davis," he said softly, and answered it, putting the call on speaker phone. "Hello?" he said.
"Mr. Holmes," Jerry Davis' voice gasped. His breath came in ragged pants and his voice was hoarse. "Please help me, I-"
The connection crackled, and they lost part of what he was saying. "- It's all my fault, I'm sorry," Davis was saying, as his voice became audible again.
"Where are you?" Sherlock said, his gaze intense.
"I'm at-" the connection crackled again, and they lost his address. John swore. The connection came back again, "-and he's got a gun, and I think he's going to shoot me, oh god, I never meant it to get this far, I'm sorry, I just wanted some money-"
"Repeat your location," Sherlock said, "We'll help."
"I'm in a church at-oh god no, I'm sorry, I wasn't-"There was the sound of a single gunshot, and the line went dead.
A/N: I regret nothing.