The pieces are slowly coming together….sorry, the operative word there is slowly . I'll try to do better next chapter.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al – that privilege belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss
Greg Lestrade looked up to see Sherlock and John walking towards his office. He glanced towards the man sitting in the chair opposite him, but he appeared totally at ease, drinking the police canteen tea with only the merest hint of disgust.
Sherlock burst through the door without even having the courtesy to knock, and stopped dead.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
John recognised that particular tone in Sherlocks voice, and so was not at all surprised, when he finally followed him through the door, to see Mycroft. His lips twitched into a small smile as he noticed the canteen crockery.
"You really must let me buy you a tea, John." Mycroft's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. John grinned back.
"No thanks, I'm fine."
"Well?" Sherlock demanded. Mycroft turned his eyes unhurriedly up to his brother, his expression carefully neutral.
"I came here to give Detective Inspector Lestrade some information about Pierce Akaid and his known associates." He placed his half-finished drink on the desk. "I would have spoken to you first, but neither of you had your phones switched on in the prison, and as I didn't know how long you were going to be…"
"Well, if you're going to tell me about Gavin Matthieson, I had that information from Terry Harrison!"
"How did you manage that?" Lestrade looked intrigued. "Since he got nicked he's denied all knowledge of Akaid and his network."
"I simply told him that Akaid arranged William Phillips death, and that Phillips had been living in his brother's boxing club, " he smiled a little wolfishly "and if I know that, then I'm sure Akaid and his associates would know"
"He thought that by telling us, hopefully we'll do something about it before Akaid decides to act against his brother." John picked up the story. "He's heard about Phillips – he's scared. He hadn't realised, 'til Sherlock told him, just how close to home this was getting. "
Both Mycroft and Lestrade nodded, understanding at once the rationale.
"Was he able, brother dear, to tell you where to find this Matthieson fellow?"
"No, I was rather hoping you could tell me that." There was a challenge in Sherlock's face and voice. Mycroft didn't rise to the bait.
"I can tell you that he's been active in the smuggling business, his name has been – shall we say – bandied about by several known traders."
"You're brother has been good enough to let me know who those traders are, but we're not going to move on them until we get the ringleaders."
"Akaid and Matthieson."
"And any others that Scotland Yard can prove are associated with them." Mycroft stood and hooked his umbrella over his arm. "Thank you for the tea, Lestrade, you must let me return the favour some time."
"Oh…uh…you're welcome." Lestrade stood also, and watched as the elder Holmes brother all but glided from the room.
"Don't do it." John said quietly into the stillness in the room.
Sherlock looked at him, a half smile on his lips.
"Don't do what?" Greg caught sight of the smile, and his frown deepened.
"Go to tea with Mycroft. He'll kidnap you in one of his nasty black cars, and if you're very lucky you'll find yourself in his Whitehall office, but if he's in a bad mood….." John fought to keep a straight face.
"Yes, very funny John." gesturing to them to sit Greg pushed a small pile of files towards their side of the desk. John sat, but Sherlock just grabbed at the top file and read the name written on it.
"James Harrold?" he looked at the next one "Matthew Lucas? Are these the traders?"
"Yeah, I thought you might like to have a read through what we know about some of them, see if there's anything that we've missed…."
"That'll be everything of note then…."
"Sherlock." John shook his head, exasperated, "Not everyone has your powers of deduction. Stop being an annoying dick and be grateful of the help…"
The younger man wasn't listening; he was scanning the reports in the first file.
"We'll take these…"
"No you won't, Sherlock," Lestrade was adamant. "You'll have to read them here. Look, I've got an office you can use, but I really can't let you take these home – they're live files – what if this Akaid bloke recruits someone else to break into your flat?" He quickly scooped the files into his arms. "Come on, you can use the office upstairs."
Sulking, Sherlock followed Lestrade, the eyes of every officer in the room watching their progress through. John trailed along behind, nodding acknowledgement to a few of the officers he knew from various crime scenes, deliberately avoiding Sally Donovan.
In the unused office, Sherlock had already thrown himself back into the files. Not even looking up as john entered, he pushed half the files to the far side of the table.
"Notes, John, as detailed as possible."
Sliding into a chair, John pulled out his notebook. Greg stared at him, dumbfounded. John grinned.
"How did you think we worked Greg? I'll make notes from all the files, things that look important to me, and he'll read all the files and write the information that looks important to him in that virtual notebook in his head." Opening the first file he continued "When we get home, he'll sit down with my notes, and compare them to his notes."
"And does it work?" fascination coloured Greg's words, and he almost held his breath waiting for the answer. John didn't disappoint.
"Most of the time, yes," he said honestly, "but sometimes not, sometimes he gets part of it, sometimes none. Then we talk, or rather he talks and I re-read my notes. Invariably though…."
Greg whistled. He hadn't really appreciated just how much the ex-army doctor brought to the partnership, and he looked at him with renewed respect.
"Invariably I get it right." Sherlock interrupted tetchily "Now John, please! The sooner we get this done the sooner we can go home."
John just smiled as he applied himself to the task in hand. Lestrade shook his head and left, reminding them to return all the files to him before they leave.
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At almost four in the morning, as the sun sent pink fingers of light through the windows of 221B, Sherlock suddenly sat upright on the couch, his eyes wide, his lips shaping an 'oh' of realisation, and leaping to his feet his dashed up the stairs two at a time.
"John…John!" he burst into the upstairs bedroom. "John, don't just lay there – I believe we have a lead!"
John groaned and opened one eye.
"Go away, Sherlock, come back in the morning."
"It is morning, John! Come on – up!" he grabbed John's duvet, but the doctor had anticipated that move, and his fists clutched tightly at the thick down-filled cover.
"Sod off, Sherlock!
"Come on John, I need tea!" Whirling around the consulting detective dashed back down the stairs, leaving his flatmate now wide awake and cursing quietly under his breath.
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At the same time as John finally dragged himself down the stairs, the container ship John Dory was preparing to dock in Felixstowe harbour. In the harbour lorry park, a non-descript white unit and trailer pulled in, its driver directed to a place where he could park up and wait. In a few hours the ship's cargo would be unloaded, and container BCA1887N would be on its way to its final destination – an industrial estate in Braintree, Essex.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of the windows, muttering to himself.
Barefoot and wearing just his blue and grey striped dressing gown, John wandered into the living room, two mugs of tea in his hands.
"This had better be good, Sherlock," he said quietly as he handed the other man a mug of steaming liquid.
"I think I have it, John, the connection, the next move!"
John sat in his chair, crossed one leg over the other and waited expectantly. He didn't have to wait long. Sherlock dropped John's notebook into his lap.
"Look closely at your own notes, John, you have the connection there – right there – John, you saw it, you just didn't make that leap!"
"No, that's what you do, Sherlock, I just get up at stupid times in the morning to make you tea while you crow about how brilliant you are!"
Sherlock frowned, wondering if he'd missed something important. "John?"
John waved a hand at him, and took a healthy swig of his tea.
"Look at your notes, look at the names John, the names connect them!"
"Names?"
"Yes, John, names! Look at the names!"
Putting his mug down, John opened his notebook and started reading, conscious of the other man alternately standing looking over his shoulder and staring out of the window at the waking London streets.
The remnant of his mug of tea was cold by the time he had read and re-read his notes. Sherlock watched with a slight smile on his face as John reached for a scrap of paper and started making notes from his notes, picking out the recurring names and places, drawing up timelines.
"They all have a connection to Sanderson Imports, the company that Akaid used as a front for his smuggling." John said, finally, rubbing at his forehead with a couple of fingers, as if to stimulate thought processes.
"And…."
"And….." blue eyes flicked again at the notes in front of him "and there are also connections to another importer, Beaumaris, although that's less obvious, because they import wines and spirits rather than clothing."
"The Managing Director of Beaumaris is a Jeremy Quintain," Sherlock sat down opposite his friend and leaned forward, his eyes glowing. "Quintain is married, his wife's maiden name is Jones, and she has three siblings – two sisters and a brother."
Again the reference to the notes, then "Jones – he's one of the traders."
"Correct! And while he is interesting, the sisters are more so. One is married to Gavin Matthieson, who has recently become a junior partner in a fairly new import/export business with one Peter Carson."
"And the other?" John was almost certain he knew the answer.
"The other is married to Pierce Akaid!"