Disclaimer: settings and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.
Daylight Robbery
AN – Red Headed League Alert!
It was not long before Sherlock was informed of Molly's death. He had toyed with the idea of appearing terribly upset by the whole thing, but in the end opted for his usual neutral response. After all, they hadn't been the best of friends to start with, and therefore any emotional response on his part would seem quite false. Also, he felt that John should not be dishonoured by pretending that his relationship with Molly had been more than it was.
In the end, he took his cue from John – who reacted to the news with a sad gravitas that was spot on: even better, it was heartfelt. Lestrade seemed to be more comfortable with that sort of reaction, which helped them maintain their cover. The accident had been a nasty one, involving an explosion with intense heat that had destroyed a lot of evidence. Sherlock blamed it on Moriarty with compunction – after all, the consulting criminal had ordered Molly's death. John seemed amused by that, for reasons that Sherlock was uncertain of. He didn't really care to know either – it was one of those human things that didn't really matter. Sherlock had learned that it was alright to let some of John's puzzles alone – he didn't need to know everything at once.
They would have been very bored, had not a man named Jabez Wilson arrived with an odd story about what any person of normal intelligence would have recognised as a con job. Why should anyone, no matter what colour their hair, want to pay to have useless data copied out for hours at a time? And by hand, no less! Wilson's handwriting would have been quite difficult to read, anyway, as the man had a very tight wrist movement which would have lead to a small, cramped script. Sherlock would have left the man to his own devices, had he not owned a business in the City, quite near to the Bank of England.
Sherlock decided that this needed a closer look, and in the interests of efficiency, combined their trip to the City with a visit to Mycroft's tailor. As the man had 'standards' – for which, read was a terrible snob – it was the perfect opportunity to present his Heart with the shopping from Paris. John had a pair of quite good trousers, which he wore when going out on the town, so Sherlock made a point of laying them out while John was in the shower and then proceeded to lay out the first of the cashmere knitted garments in a nice deep red. He waited by the bed for a few minutes and then decided it would be better to wait downstairs.
He was fidgeting in the kitchen when John came downstairs. Sherlock spent a few long minutes watching his Heart in the mirror over the mantelpiece, pleased with the fit of the jumper and the way the colour suited John's complexion. John seemed a little nervous about the way it looked, but Sherlock approved, which was all that mattered.
"You look quite smart, John," Sherlock caught his Heart's hand and smiled, pressing his lips to the knuckles gently in what had become his favourite way to show John affection, "We'll need to get you some better shoes, though, and I've made an appointment to see the family tailor today."
"Sherlock, I can't afford to buy a suit," John frowned, "Or shoes for that matter. I'm unemployed at the moment, remember?"
"You haven't heard back about those three jobs?" Sherlock frowned, "It's been weeks!"
"We've been busy," John replied, "And I've noticed that the traffic cameras have been stalking me lately."
Sherlock scowled ferociously and huffed, pulling John towards their coats. He bundled his Heart into the new coat that he'd also bought in Paris – dark grey with scarlet lining and black trim, falling to mid thigh – then hurried the man down the stairs before he could protest that this wasn't his coat and that Sherlock didn't need to buy him presents.
"Think of them as work expenses," Sherlock instructed as they climbed into the cab, "You're representing our agency in public, so it behoves you to dress well. As I am the one requiring you to upgrade your wardrobe, it makes sense that I shoulder the financial burden."
He beamed at John in a pleased manner and folded his arms, leaning back in the seat while he waited for John to accept his logic. True, it wasn't a foolproof argument, but it would serve for now. Certainly, his John was having a difficult time countering his argument. Sherlock made sure that his smirk was aimed out the window and watched as the buildings and traffic rushed past. He hadn't forgotten that Mycroft was apparently keeping John from gaining decent employment, and took John's distraction as an opportunity to send a quick text – or threat, depending on how pedantic you wanted to be about it.
"Don't threaten your brother," John said without looking over from his own window, "We need his goodwill, remember?"
"He's stopping you from gaining employment!" Sherlock protested righteously, and John looked over, a crooked grin on his face.
"He probably feels that I should be paying attention to you and Moriarty, instead of job interviews and random members of the public," John muttered, "It's ok, Sherlock. I'm not sure that he's wrong in this case. Distractions are dangerous right now – we can't afford to miss a trick. If I had to work, that would put restrictions on my time..."
"True," Sherlock nodded, "However... I am not unaware of your finances, or desire for independence."
"It's the rent mostly," John confessed in a quiet voice, "I've got a bit put by, so I'm ok for the next few months, but the pension will be stopped soon and at the moment, that's my only source of income."
"I can cover the rent for both of us," Sherlock frowned, "It's the least I can do, especially as its Moriarty's money."
They share a grin and the cab pulls up, so Sherlock pays, getting a quiet laugh from John as he does which makes his chest feel warm, and they climb out to stand in front of the Bank.
As with all banks, it was built to impress those walking past – a sort of 'look at me, I'm wealthy' architecture that balances between ostentatious and privileged. Sherlock hated that sort of architecture – things should be plain and functional in his point of view – but he refrained from commenting, contenting himself with a contemptuous sneer.
"Wilson's business is over there," John murmured, looking at the street behind them in the reflection of the glass facade. Sherlock nodded his approval of the covert technique. Wilson's shop front is understated, situated as it is in a narrow side street. If Sherlock remembered his history correctly, the business had once been a pawn shop, one of many in the area. Now, it was an antique store, polished wood and understated signage. It was not obviously close to the Bank, which made it an ideal staging ground for any underhanded purposes.
Sherlock led John on a ramble through the area, engaging him in conversation that would put any eavesdroppers off their scent. John put up with this quite well, allowing Sherlock to monopolise the conversation and generally obeying his unspoken directions to stand in a certain place or look at a certain thing without requiring a lot of prompting. They passed Wilson's shop once, with Sherlock contriving to drop John's phone on the pavement twice in a quite clumsy move that had John glaring at him in annoyance.
"It's got a huge scuff mark on the back and the screen is cracked now," John complained as they walked away, "Honestly, Sherlock, couldn't you be more careful? The damn phone practically bounced!"
"Don't be ridiculous, John, I don't want my phone damaged," Sherlock replied, "I'll replace it if you insist."
"I've got half a mind to do so," John sulked, quite unattractively, "I suppose you had a good reason for using my phone as a football?"
"Of course," Sherlock replied, "Come along, then. We'll stop and get you a replacement on the way to the tailors. Do you want the same model?"
John sighed and stuffed the phone into a pocket, following along. Sherlock took that as a yes and led the way, musing on the engraving he could get for the back of the phone. Obviously he wasn't going to recreate Clara's message to Harry.