HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYBODY! I HOPE 2013 BRINGS YOU HEALTH AND HAPPINESS! JAL XX
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al – that privilege belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss
It looked like an ordinary container lorry, making its way across Europe with its cargo bound for England. The driver was no different from all the other drivers heading towards Rotterdam container terminal, thinking more about how long it would be before he could make his delivery and go home, than about the road ahead.
Swinging his vehicle into through the main entrance gate, he handed the cargo paperwork to the customs official. After a brief check to assure himself that the shipping documents were all in order, the officer directed him to a parking bay where a short time later the container was removed from the trailer, and lifted aboard the Container Ship John Dory. The driver, his job done, swung his vehicle out of the dockyard and headed home. Container BCA1887N, snuggly strapped against a thousand other containers, started on the last leg of its journey to Felixstowe and its final destination, Carson Importers Ltd.
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The Bethnal Green Gym and Boxing Club was surrounded by a mixture of police vehicles and unobtrusive looking black saloon cars. Mycroft's men were there to ensure that no one slipped out unnoticed, while DI Lestrade's team were methodically searching the building.
Into this hive of activity swept the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes. Several officers groaned inwardly as he dashed through the building shouting for Lestrade. Following at a more conservative pace, John wandered through the door, nodding acknowledgement to several of the officers as he passed by, a small smile on his face as he recognised relief that the consulting detective had not arrived alone. The smile faded though as he followed the sound of Sherlock's voice, and found himself in a small room where his friend stood almost nose to nose with Sally Donovan.
"I said, you can't go any further, Freak! This is a police investigation, and you weren't invited!"
"And you idiots wouldn't have even known about this place were it not for my brother..."
Sally glanced past Sherlock, and her face fell.
"That's all we bloody need – Jiminy effing Cricket!"
"Who?" Sherlock glanced behind him and frowned, but John had instantly picked up on the pop culture reference. His face hardened.
"You know, Sally, there are times when I put a lot of effort into preventing Sherlock from being too offensive when he speaks to you, and right now I'm wondering why I bother."
Sherlock grinned delightedly. Sally had the good grace to look chastened.
"Sorry." She mumbled, before turning her face to look up at the younger man. "You still can't go in there."
Being careful not to touch her Sherlock stepped to his right, and as she moved to block him he whipped around to the left, outsmarting her and disappearing though the door she had been guarding. As it slammed shut Sally was left to face the now stern looking doctor.
"And are you going to tell me I can't go in there too?"
With a defiant glare Sally stepped to one side.
"Thank you." John gave her a curt nod, but as he started to move past her she laid a hand on his arm. He stopped and looked at her.
"Do you really do that? Try to stop him being rude, I mean?"
"Think about it. Then think back to how much worse it used to be." John continued past her and into the back room where Sherlock and Greg Lestrade were standing looking down at a third man, seated behind a tatty desk. Neither man acknowledged his entrance, but the man in the chair looked pleadingly at him.
"Who's this then?" John asked
"Micky Harrison, he's the club manager, "Greg said, as if having to repeat himself.
"Ah"
"Yes, that's what I said too! What did Sally want with you?"
"How did…oh never mind" John shook his head. "Has he told you anything yet?"
"Not much, only that he rented out one of the attic storage rooms to Phillips."
"I thought you'd searched all the local clubs?"
"Apparently the door to this room is disguised behind some shelves…"
"We used it for storing cups and medals." A weak voice piped up, and all three investigators looked down at the squirming man. "Not that we won many, but you can't keep silverware on show in an area like this!"
"And Phillips?" Sherlock leaned down until he was face to face with the frightened man. "Was he a friend of yours? We must assume so; why else would you hide him here?"
"No! No you don't understand…."
"Explain then!"
"He knows….knew…. my brother…..they…."
"Oh for goodness sake, stop babbling!"
"Sherlock!" Lestrade snapped, but mention of the younger man's name caused the blood to drain from Harrison's face.
"You're Sherlock Holmes? Oh God….."
"Name mean something to you?" the pitch of Sherlock's voice dropped and he sounded positively menacing as his eyes narrowed, and he stared into frightened brown eyes. "Now, why should that be, I wonder?"
John moved across the cramped space to lean against the wall behind the desk.
"If I were you I'd think carefully about how you answer that" he said softly. Lestrades eyes widened as he looked up at the doctor. John gave a little shake of his head and continued "You've obviously heard of him, maybe you should consider telling him why you reacted like that, and he may consider not taking you apart…"
"T…t…taking me apart?"
Sherlock looked down at him and raised an elegant eyebrow. "Are you thinking that the good Detective Inspector will stop me? No, don't look at him" this was said as the frightened man tried to look away, "look at me. Your…..friend…..stabbed Dr Watson on his first visit to our flat, on his second he tried to rearrange my face…."
As Sherlock spoke Lestrade found himself staring at John, John stared calmly back, his expression carefully neutral. This was a side of Holmes and Watson he'd not seen before – and he found himself wondering how many times they had slipped into this method of information gathering.
"…now your friend is dead. Believe it or not, that was not of my doing, but I can make you wish you were right there with him!"
"M…..my brother, he's in the Scrubs, he got himself nicked, see, working for some bloke importing fake designer stuff…."
"Akaid!" Sherlock hissed, not quite under his breath.
"Anyway, Bill was one of the team, but he wasn't there when….well, when the others got caught. He came to me then, asked for somewhere to stay." Drawing a shaky breath he continued "he promised if I helped him, he'd bring down the bastard that got my brother arrested…."
His voice trailed off, and he looked up at the consulting detective, but Sherlock had straightened up and was looking at John.
"Terry Harrison!" They spoke in unison.
"Lestrade, I need to have a look round Phillips' room. Then," he glanced back at the manager, who was now holding his head in his hands, his elbows on the desk, his whole demeanour one of resignation, "John and I will be paying Harrison a visit."
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An integral part of staying safe has always been knowing how to cover your tracks – or in this case, knowing how not to make those tracks in the first place.
Peter Carson waited in the restaurant area of the Woodman's Inn in Epping Forest, seated at a discreet table for two, a small black briefcase on the floor beside the table. Despite the bright sunny day he had chosen a particularly shadowed corner where he and his guest were unlikely to be interrupted.
His guest arrived just as Carson was finishing his first drink, and they shook hands before sitting again and perusing the menu. Once meals and drinks were ordered, the smuggler sat back in his chair and looked at his companion.
"I understand you solved that little waste disposal problem we had in London recently, Matthieson."
Matthieson nodded, crossing one leg over the other and almost fastidiously straightening the knife-sharp crease in his trousers.
"The new contract ensured a thorough clean up." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone, placing it on the table beside him. Pausing while the waitress delivered their drinks and assured them there food order would be with them shortly, Matthieson watched as she walked away before saying "Have we news of the new arrival?"
"Baby's due any day now," Carson responded with a smile, "in fact I can hardly contain my excitement." His relaxed posture was at odd with his words, but to anyone listening there was nothing out of the ordinary in their conversation.
Their meal was served in due course, and the conversation turned to business, the state of the stock exchange in particular, and the state of the nation in general. The two men gave the overall impression of being no more that friends and colleagues sharing a business lunch.
When, almost two hours later, they parted company, Carson picked up the phone from the table and placed it in his suit jacket pocket, rising to his feet and shaking Matthieson warmly by the hand. Matthieson rose too, and picking up the briefcase made his way out of the restaurant and into a waiting black saloon car.
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The cab pulled up outside the red and white brick towered façade of Wormwood Scrubs Prison, and Sherlock leapt out, leaving John to pay the fare and follow him into the imposing Victorian building.
Mycroft, when applied to by the good doctor, had smoothed the way for them (much to Sherlock's chagrin, however John had refused to attempt to 'fake' their way in to a prison – Baskerville had been enough for one lifetime!) and the prison governor was waiting for them.
After a brief interview, at which they were advised that John wouldn't be allowed to take his walking stick into the main building, they found themselves being led down echoing corridors by a senior prison officer towards the visitors' area of A wing. As they walked John leaned slightly towards Sherlock and spoke in low tones.
"They have an Intense Drug Treatment wing here."
"Your point being?" Sherlock's voice was equally quiet.
"No point really, just your brother happened to mention it to me when I asked him for help getting in here."
"He would! I told you asking for his help was a mistake."
John grinned. "And you really think that the 'beaten up' look would have made it through the security area unchallenged?"
Sherlock huffed but remained quiet.
The visitor area was a large room with twenty or so tables which, during normal visiting times would have been filled with prisoners and their loved ones. Today just one man sat, bewildered, at a table in the middle of the room, staring at the door.
Terry Harrison looked up as the door at the end of the room opened, and watched as the two men walked forward.
Sherlock seated himself in the chair opposite the prisoner, John chose to sit on the edge of a table slightly behind his friend.
"Now, Mr Harrison," Sherlock leant forward, speaking deceptively softly, "I want you to tell me all about Pierce Akaid"
A/N: Anyone who spots the significance of the container number can award yourself a hug from Sherlock or John (take your pick!)…