Chapter 2: A Man called Fullmetal
"Grandfather?" John repeated, rereading the contents of the letter once more before narrowing it down to the last sentence. This had been the first he had heard of an extended family member on his mother's side. Like Mary, he thought his mother was an orphan, practically an unknown married to the Watson name but here it was in black and white. He hadn't even heard of family members of the Elric lineage before.
John wasn't sure what to make of this sudden appearance of another relative. He knew he had a couple of cousins on his father's side of the family and plenty of friends that he had made over the years but he hadn't been particularly close to any of them. Like his therapist said. Trust issues. All he had really was his elder sister Harriet and that had been a volatile relationship in itself. For as long as he could remember Harriet was always within an arm's reach of a bottle of some form of alcohol or another.
"A grandfather with a missing limb and penchant for scenting his letters with Giorgio Armani Acqua Di Gio." Sherlock said taking a look over the army doctor's shoulder. John snorted in amusement at how the man did not let slip one single detail. There was a scent of a deep citrus aroma wafting from the envelope. "I do recall that I said you didn't have an extended family or one that you weren't close to when we first met."
"Yeah well, you would be right about that." John said with a sigh. "It just used to be Harry and myself up in Northumberland. Our parents used to travel the world and hardly ever stayed at the family home long enough to spend quality time with us. Then they died just before I started my second year in the service."
"Um… sorry…" Sherlock said looking at a complete loss of whether that was the right thing to say or not. John chuckled that Sherlock was actually trying to be tactful with him for a change. Had it been anyone else he would've just simply think of it as false sympathy but coming from Sherlock, he felt his heart swell in appreciation. No, he was never very close to his parents but he did feel a little regretful that he never will have the chance to. "How did they die?"
"Perished in a house fire. Kind of ironic considering I heard they travelled to all sorts of life threatening places in the world." John replied folding the letter back into the envelope as he thought about the grandfather his mother never told him about. He supposed there was never much chance to since Peter and Winry Watson were frequently out of the country in his younger years. Thinking about it some more, he didn't remember much about them aside from the few scattered meetings during his late teens and they usually spent most of their limited time with Harriet, most likely because of her alcohol addiction.
"Are you going?" Sherlock's question broke him out of his small trip down a rather depressing memory lane. John took one last look at the envelope and tucked it into his pocket, contemplating the new revelation. What his grandfather wanted with him anyway? After a few months he felt he had his life relatively sorted out. Sure there were a few hiccups like the Issac Whitney incident but one visit to the consulting detective and there was a multitude of questions about his life unfolding before him. Blue green eyes bore expectantly at him. Sherlock, at this point, was lying back down with his head resting against the arm of the sofa. The bags under his eyes stuck out more prominently now the 4 day old dark stubble had been shaved off.
"Yes, yes of course." As soon as the words left his lips, the detective jumped back up again and slipped back into his Belstaff. "That doesn't mean that I want you to come with me, Sherlock. This is a personal family matter."
"The letter came to Baker Street, so it has also become my business." Sherlock reasoned pulling out the second evidence bag he had surreptitiously hidden from Lestrade when the DI confronted him.
"Is that from the- why do you always have such a need to steal evidence from a crime scene?" John gasped, appalled at Sherlock's blatant disregard for police protocol.
"Relax, it's irrelevant evidence to their case." He said tucking it back into his coat. "I was going to go take this to Bart's for analysis but I doubt I'd get much out of it. You're mysterious grandfather's request is a lot more compelling."
"It's a request specifically asking for me, Sherlock. He just didn't realise I don't live here anymore." John said pointing at the name on the envelope and highlighting Sherlock's earlier observation.
"Hmm… nope," Sherlock shook his head, his eyes a light with the familiar glee that he had towards an exciting new case. "Edward Elric meant to send it here. It may have said he wanted to meet you, John but he asked for me." With a graceful turn he trotted down the stairs all signs of his exhaustion having evaporated upon hearing the strange words from the piece of paper in John's pocket. With a sigh, John jogged after him and trundled down the stairs. A taxi had slowed down in front of Sherlock by the time John alerted Mrs Hudson that they were leaving again.
"Where does it say that he even mentioned you?" John climbed into the seat next to the man before giving the driver the name of the hotel.
"Oh look again John. You're out of practise." The detective glanced out of the window looking distractedly at some abstract object that no one else could see. It reminded John of his neighbour's cat perched on the top of the fence that separated the two gardens. It was a far off look that almost seemed supernatural except instead of Missy the cat's bored amber eyes, he found himself under the scrutiny of fiery blue green. John swallowed as he pulled out the envelope from his pocket and was firmly reminded about the vow Sherlock had made to him on his wedding. Opening the letter, John read it again, this time searching thoroughly through every curve and crossed 't' to ascertain what it was Sherlock had got out of the message. Then came the oddity of the post script 'I am quite partial to secondary characters.' and it came to him like a bolt out of the blue as his mind refocused on the first letter of the second word of each sentence.
"Hope, explain, let's…." John murmured extracting each word and mentally marking the first letter down. By the time he went through the entirety of it, he realised why Sherlock was so eager to come with him. "Client." he concluded as the words 'Help me SH' stood in big bold letters in his mind. A client who was in trouble. Satisfied that the ex-army doctor was finally on the same page he was, Sherlock leaned in and whispered just out of earshot of the taxi driver.
"Have you got your gun?"
"Do you have to ask that every time?"
"It's in your pocket, right?"
"Yes, it is." John replied with an amused smile creeping up on his lips. He had contemplated that it to be ridiculous taking his gun out of the drawer earlier this morning for what he originally thought was a baby scan and a nice lunch out. It was not worth the risk, and frankly a little irresponsible yet John couldn't help it and he was now glad that he did bring it with him. Nothing made him feel more alive than diving head first towards something potentially dangerous.
The Milestone Hotel gleamed in its grandeur on the main street. Even for someone who was now semi-famous as a result of his internet success about the exploits of the Baker Street detective, the five star establishment made John feel awkward and he had only been in Buckingham Palace only a couple of years ago. Sherlock however, seemed engrossed in the letter he had snuck out of John's pocket, almost as if he were the one visiting a distant relative that he didn't know for the first time. Rather than dwell on the immaculate trims of the décor and how it evidently clashed with his knitted cardigan and jeans, John approached the front desk.
"Excuse me," he began to the receptionist.
"Dr John Watson?" the reception latched on with a smile to dazzle any guest. John blinked a few times then flashed a smile at the woman.
"Yes?"
"Right this way sir, he's been expecting you in the Prince Albert Master Suite." she directed pointing towards the lift. John let out a tremulous breath as they were led towards the room in question.
The door of the Prince Albert suite opened just as they were about to knock and John's senses heightened as he sensed tension in the air. High ceiling to floor windows interspersed on one side, the walls tinted with beige and gold trimming against rich dark furniture. Fresh lilies were arranged neatly on the tables. What drew their attention though was the man sat in a wheelchair by an old fashioned roll top desk befitting of the Victorian design. The man in the chair was relatively small, with pale hair that trailed passed the shoulders and tied back in a loose pony tail.
"Good evening," announced the figure, back turned towards them with the outer edges illuminated what was most likely the glow from a laptop screen. When the figure turned to face them, the laptop closed down, the light of the screen faded to black. John could see the wrinkles of the old man, a well brushed chin curtain beard and sharp gold eyes.
"I got your letter" John announced glancing briefly to his left at Sherlock who was now staring out at the open balcony towards the Kensington Palace Gardens. There was a blanket over the man's form that covered the lower half of his body. Funnily enough, the man dressed quite plainly in contrast to the luxury of the suite. John could almost guess to be something from the local Marks and Spencers.
"John Hamish Watson?" whispered the voice of the person in the wheel chair as if testing the name after a long period of disuse. John swallowed nervously unsure what to say at first. The man appeared old and frail, more than likely over 100 years of age and he didn't really want to end up doing something that resulted in the man he just met go to hospital.
"Um yes... that's right." The old man's right hand lifted up but then held back as if he was afraid that the image before him would shatter and reveal itself to be an illusion. The hand was gloved but there was a hint of metal just above the wrist where the glove ended and the sleeves rose up the arm; a prosthetic. As usual, Sherlock had been right. Even though it was covered, John noticed the stilted movements even though to most people it looked just like any other hand with it covered in a white glove. Guiding the wheel forward, the old man squinted to get a closer look at the army doctor. Most of the curtains of the room were drawn, with the balcony being the only source of light for him but his eyes trailed up and down John's form analysing every inch of him. "You must be Edward Elric." The old man smiled apologetically shifting brief glances in and around the room and Sherlock in turn stepped forward focusing on something that John couldn't quite see but he had sensed since they arrived at the hotel.
"There's not much point in a surprise attack if we are expecting it. You might as well come out now." Sherlock announced. Slowly, they emerged from their hiding places, guns trained on the two men. There were six of them standing a few feet apart from each other.
"We were only expecting the good doctor to be here." the bald leader of the group of mercenaries stepped forward turning his gun on the old man in the wheelchair. "Doesn't matter, you're coming with us. Along with Fullmetal here." John tensed with the familiar rush he felt when he was deployed out into the front line pumped through his body while he assessed the hostage situation. Barely pausing to ponder on the strange word 'Fullmetal' that the mercenary had called Mr Elric by quickly filing it away into the back of his mind. The situation didn't look good for them until Edward, who appeared so frail and frightened earlier, relaxed and rolled his eyes flashing the doctor with a cool smirk. With a lurch, he tipped backwards on the wheelchair and flicked his left leg and smacking a foot into the man's face.
Distracted, Sherlock, John and Edward made quick work of the thugs that attempted to kidnap them. Fluid like a rehearsed dance, Sherlock had grabbed one of the remaining five whilst their leader was writhing on the floor, used him as a shield then slamming a hand into the man's carotid artery while Edward slammed the wheelchair against another two. John aimed low grabbing one arm and twisted it kicking the back of the leg, allowing John the momentum to throw the thug into the last man in the room. Disarmed and lying in a pile, John pulled out his own Sig from his pocket and trained it on them while Sherlock interrogated the men.
"Who sent you after John?" the bald man remained silent until Edward was by his side with a cane in his hand and jabbed hard against the man's collar bone. The dull snap was drowned by the mercenary's screams.
"Don't make me break the other one, boyo." the elderly man seethed quietly, his eyes now a dark and molten colour implicating his fiery rage. There was no doubt to John that Edward Elric was a dangerous man even at this age. He couldn't imagine what he might have been when he was in his prime. When the man still refused to give the information Edward moved the cane towards the other side.
"It's Magnussen. MAGNUSSEN!" The mercenary gasped out finally before being struck across the temple and he flopped to one side. It was not hard to figure out about Edward's background as his military stance and cold veteran stare. John didn't even want to think about the cost of the repairs but with each passing moment, he kept discovering intriguing things about the man with the metal arm. Edward looked nonplussed, not about the room but about the answer he got from the bald mercenary who lay unconscious on the floor.
"Charles Augustus Magnussen eh?"
"I have no idea who that is." John said keeping his still keeping his gun pointing at the group. The soldier in him was not taking any chances even as he reflected on the name in his mind.
"He's the owner of several newspaper conglomerates with a special interest in extortion and manipulation particularly in politics." Sherlock sneered at name. Out of all the criminals that he had had to deal with, there were few people that turned his stomach as Magnusson. Even his brother, Mycroft was under the man's thumb. However, Sherlock had not heard of activity from the CEO for five years so he wondered why the man had resurfaced now and what he could possibly want with an old amputee and a former army doctor. "Known to be the Napoleon of blackmail."
"He's also dead." Edward added glaring at some imaginary puzzle that no one could see. It was a familiar sight to John which he had only ever saw in Sherlock when engrossed in a case. With intense focus and a complete disregard for the rules of the world around them, it almost seemed surreal to now see such an expression in stereo. John smirked as both men fell silence, staring intently yet not at the anything in particular. John had decided to dub it 'diving' when Sherlock explained the concept of going into his mind palace.
"How do you know that?" he asked after they both resurfaced from their quick wanderings around their mental archives.
"I witnessed it." Edward's face knitted into a frown.
"Maybe he faked it. I know it's not the first time that I've known people to do that." John looked pointedly at his best friend. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably at the implication but John sent him a reassuring smile. Edward however seemed too preoccupied in his thoughts to have noticed the silent communication he shared with Sherlock.
"Perhaps…" There was a pained expression in the old man's face followed by frustration as the solution he was looking for still eluded him. When he finally gave up on his current train of thought, he knelt down by the unconscious bodies. With frightening ease, he ripped and quickly formed makeshift ropes to tie the group up before using the seemingly useless prosthetic arm earlier to pick up each man and threw them in the connecting bathroom. The thugs had to have been at least 150lbs but it seemed the old man didn't even look fazed as he tossed them around like they were just a bunch of large cushions. Each man made a painful sounding groan as they piled on top of each other in the immensely large mahogany bathroom. A flash of cold grey looked peaked out from underneath the man's right sleeve. Metal. Fullmetal. That was what the man had called Edward Elric earlier. It sounded like a code name, cold and gritty and appealed to John's secret love for spies and espionage. "Apologies John, my boy, this wasn't the kind of introduction that I had in mind."
Edward gave him a wry smile. The hair was grey from his age but John could tell that the old man before him may have once had rich golden hair along with strikingly gold eyes. Perhaps it was the years spent with Sherlock that John honed his skills at reading people but there was something otherworldly about Edward Elric. Aside from his keen intelligence coupled with a century's worth of wisdom through the years of war and strife, John could see there was something beyond that. Edward looked exhausted and emotionally drained. His body sagged as soon as he irritably slammed the door of the bathroom and John felt a pang of sympathy for the old man but also a sense of disbelief in the inhuman display of strength.
"So… we're just going to leave them in there and not call the police?" John asked incredulously.
"I have people who will handle them later. For now, let's talk."