Helloooo! Sorry I'm late again, life gets in the way of enjoyment as ever, and I have no other excuse! Thanks for sticking with me. Hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al – that privilege belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss
Their plans to recover John's phone from JJ's café were put on hold the next morning. Sherlocks' face was now an interesting variety of colours – predominantly shades of purple and yellow – and John's limp was joined by a ramrod stiff back that pained him every time he tried to bend, his bruises being equally as interesting in their dark rainbow hues.
It was not however, any consideration of their rather odd looks that had kept them at home. In the first instance it was the problem of John who, having taken himself off to bed found that every bruise and boot mark screamed in protest the next morning when he tried to move. His yelp of surprised pain brought Sherlock running up to his room and as he burst through the bedroom door and skidded to a halt the two men just looked at each other.
For a full second the silence hung between them, and then John said "Your face!"
Sherlock rolled his eye. "Hmm – I know"
Sherlock would later claim that John giggled first, while John blamed Sherlock, saying that making him giggle was not conducive to easing the pain in his back and ribs.
Lestrade provided the second reason for them to stay in the Baker Street flat. He had discovered them a short while later, Sherlock leaning against the wall trying to catch his breath and stifle the grin that threatened to split his face, John lying helplessly in his bed holding his ribs and still giggling like a schoolgirl.
"I…er…are you guys okay?" he looked uncomfortable, standing in John's bedroom. John groaned, Sherlock straightened himself up.
"What do you want, Lestrade?" it was hard to sound haughty when the echoes of the giggles were still there in your voice.
John cleared his throat and took a deep breath, looking pointedly at the manila files in the older man's hand.
"Found some more information Greg?"
Before he could answer Sherlock grasped him by the shoulders and spun him round, pushing him out of the door.
"Downstairs, Lestrade." He glanced at John. "Are you okay or do you need a hand?"
John flushed, Greg paused mid step, curious to hear the answer.
"What? No, Sherlock, thank you. I'm perfectly capable of getting myself out of bed." The flush deepened but Sherlock ignored it, following the police officer out of the room.
"And your earlier shrieks of agony disproved that statement"
"I didn't shriek!" John yelled at the now closed door as he eased himself out of bed.
It was another ten minutes before John joined the two men in the living room. A mug of tea and a plate of toast stood waiting for him on the table beside his chair.
"What've you got?" Lowering himself stiffly into the chair he glanced at the pile of papers balanced precariously across Sherlocks knees. "Looks like a lot more information than we had to start with on the Akaid case"
"I had the full case notes, including everything that happened after you passed the information to them, shipped up from the joint operational team." Greg waved in the direction of the papers "Those are copies. I would have brought the originals, but as they've made two attempts at finding out what you know, I wasn't about to make it third time lucky for them."
Chewing thoughtfully on a piece of toast John reached across and picked up a couple of the report sheets.
"You're leaving these with us?"
"Yeah why?
John's glance slid over to his flatmate.
"Don't know about you Sherlock, but I think a day studying these reports and refreshing our memories of this gang would probably be more productive that if we venture out blindly, trying to track these guys down with little to go on."
To his surprise Sherlock nodded.
"Mycroft has people making enquiries around the local boxing clubs for the ex-boxer, and I've given him descriptions of the other two thugs he brought with him, so we may have more to work with if his people do their jobs properly." On the last words he glared at Lestrade.
"It wasn't my fault that bloke nearly knocked me off my feet as he flew out of the door! I was worried about you Sherlock, although God knows why – I heard that scream and thought they were murdering you!"
"Scream?" John's eyes widened and he stared pointedly at his flatmate. "Really, Sherlock? You?"
"No John, not me" Sherlock looked affronted. He waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "One of them was foolish enough to open the fridge, was it my fault the eyes and tongues frightened him? It was he who screamed Lestrade, not me!"
"Well how was I to know?" Greg could barely speak for laughing at the younger man. "All I heard as I pulled up outside was the scream…"
"Well you should have known…"
"I'm sorry? Your flatmate here was attacked in the street, and less than a week before had been attacked in this very flat, and you're saying I should have known it wasn't you?" Greg shook his head. "And who keeps eyes and tongues in their fridge…..? Yeah, well, let's just say most people keep food in their fridge."
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Theydon Bois was better known for its peaceful old world village charm and its proximity to the ancient and beautiful Epping Forest than for the dark and unsavoury underworld of smuggling, and yet in the heart of this tranquil countryside resided a man who was single-handedly trying to undermine the national economy and increase his already enormous wealth at the expense of the hard-working taxpayers.
Pierce Akaid, now known to his new neighbours as Mr Peter Carson, sat staring pensively out over the well groomed lawn that led down to the edge of the golf course. He wasn't considering his newly acquired membership of the club, or the fact that the local parish council had asked him to attend their monthly Bridge night. His thoughts strayed not to his veneer of respectability, enhanced by his background story of 'old money' looking for a new home. The fawning middle class inhabitants of his chosen locality saw only what they wanted to see, money and status, and that suited him fine.
What suited him less was the way that bloody snooping consulting detective and his little shadow managed to confound all his attempts to find out exactly how much they know about him and his operation. A small frown creased his brow as he mentally reviewed the information brought back to him by the boxer – the detective keeps body parts in his fridge? Surely that's illegal? And the little shadow, the doctor, even as they tried to kick him to death refused to give up any information. Maybe there was no information. The thought struck him that all this had been pointless because there was nothing to find, nothing to learn! His hand reached out for his mobile, and he punched in a familiar number.
It was answered at the third ring.
"Yeah?"
"William."
"Mr Akaid…"
"Carson! Remember to call me Mr Carson, William, if you wish to continue working for me. Now William, we may have to change tactics a little. Are you still watching Holmes and his little friend?"
"The doctor's home and neither of them have moved from the flat since he got back. Some posh girlfriend brought him home, left soon after. I think that friend of theirs from the Yard called to see them, he was leaving just as my guy turned up, early this morning."
"Just a visit?"
"Think so…" there was a pause. "He wasn't in a squad car…"
"Means nothing. Keep watching, let me know what they do but do nothing until I tell you – understood?"
"Yes Mr Ak….Mr Carson."
Abruptly the line went dead, and Akaid returned to his contemplation of the garden. He had his first consignment of the new goods arriving in Felixstowe within the week; he needed to be sure he was not on the police radar. He woke his mobile up for a second time, and punched in another even more familiar number, a harsh expression settling over his face.
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Dusk was settling over the east end of London as a small wiry figure slipped out of the back entrance of a run-down boxing club and made his way down the darkening streets to his favourite pub. As he turned a corner there was a large black car waiting for him, a well-dressed man standing quietly beside it. The ex-boxer slowed to a halt, swallowed, and turned to retrace his steps. A second man stepped out of the shadows behind him.
"William Phillips?"
Bill Phillips looked from one to the other, nodding.
"Get in the car, Mr Phillips"
He considered his options. Nothing looked particularly good at the moment – they were both taller than him, well-built and if the bulges in their suit jackets were anything to go by, they were both armed. He tried for nonchalance, shrugging and stepping towards the door being held open for him. One man got in beside him, the other into the driving seat. As they drove he watched the changing scenery.
"Where are we going?"
Silence.
Phillips glanced at the door handle, wondering what his chances were of jumping out as the car sped along. He felt the heat of his back-seat companions' gaze and turned around to look at him. The silent man shook his head, his eyes flicking to the door lock. Phillips looked too – automatic locks. He sighed inwardly and slumped back against the leather seat.
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A tap on the door heralded the appearance of Mrs Hudson, and both men looked up as she walked into the living room. Her sharp birdlike eyes took in the papers strewn across the floor and on every conceivable surface. Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by police reports, while John was lying face down on the couch, reading the HM Revenue and Customs papers and trying to make connections with the known European gangs.
Looking at the expectant expressions on the faces of her tenants she put a hand into her cardigan pocket.
"I've just been to see Mrs Turner." She announced. "And on my way back I was almost knocked off my feet by a scruffy young man! Dirty he was, smelled a bit too!"
Both men waited, knowing there would be more to her story.
"When I got back into my flat, I found this in my pocket." And she pulled a tatty, folded piece of paper from her pocket and held it towards the man on the floor. "It's addressed 'To Mr Holmes', so I thought I'd better bring it straight up." As Sherlock leapt to his feet to snatch the message from her hand she looked down, frowning at John.
"John, dear, is it good for you to lay and read in that awkward position?"
John smiled fondly back at her. "Probably not Mrs H, but it's easier on my back at the moment."
"Oh you poor dear! Would you like some arnica to rub on it, I'm sure Sherlock…."
"No!" both men spoke together, John in alarm, Sherlock on a choked laugh.
"Sorry Mrs Hudson, it's just….well I don't think arnica would touch the bruising," John cheeks were reddened and he looked a bit flustered "and….." he glanced helplessly at his flatmate who stared back and grinned, as if waiting to see how the doctor would get out of this highly amusing situation. John frowned. He would get Sherlock back for the unholy glee he could see shining in his eye! He swallowed, "and I'm not sure my back could actually stand having anything rubbed into it at the moment. Maybe though Sherlock would like some for his face?"
"Oh! Is it wise to put it on such delicate skin?" Mrs Hudson was, of course, referring to the delicate skin around Sherlock's eye, but John gave a shout of laughter as the younger man spluttered indignantly.
"My skin is not delicate!"
John put his head down as if studying the papers in front of him.
"Like a baby's bottom." He said softly.
Mrs Hudson tittered.
It was Sherlock's turn to flush as he opened the grubby note.
"He was a redhead, the youth that ran into you." It was a statement, not a question. Mrs Hudson nodded. "That will be all Mrs Hudson."
"Sherlock!"
"No, that's alright John dear, it's not as if I take any notice of him anyway. Do you boys want a cuppa?"
Sherlock ignored the question, but John accepted gratefully. As she bustled away to the kitchen he eased himself up off the couch and picked his way across to where Sherlock was scanning the note.
"Frankie – one of the Network."
"News?"
"Only that there is no news, John. No-one knows the ex-boxer, he doesn't frequent any of the areas known best to Frankie or his friends. Another dead end."
John shrugged, then winced as the muscles in his back complained. "Maybe Mycroft will have more luck?"
Sherlock nodded. "Maybe."
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The Limehouse Cut, on the Lea Navigation Canal was not really a popular area for holidaymakers and tourists, so Sarah Meechin found it the ideal place to live on her narrowboat, and make her craft gifts. She had a loose contract with a stall out at Camden Lock, and it was a pleasant and easy cycle ride from home to make her deliveries.
Sarah had left a bit later than usual for her return journey that night, so it was dark when she unlocked the door to her boat. As she ducked into the cabin she thought she heard a splash, and she popped back up to see what had happened. It was hardly pitch black, but she could see nothing, and the only sounds to be heard were the ducks and drakes settling down for the evening. Shaking her head she continued into her kitchen diner, locking her doors and closing out the outside world.