Devonshire Squires Chapter Twenty Five

As soon as the front door shut behind John, Mary was reaching for her phone. She decided that she had to call Mycroft first, then Lestrade.

I'm sorry, Sherlock, if this ends up with you in rehab. She had to balance her priorities. Keeping John unaware of her past was number one, and that meant satisfying the elder Holmes's need for information about his brother more than the younger one's need for freedom. Besides, if John found out she'd ratted on Sherlock, then she could justify it by saying it was for his own good. If he was using drugs again, then rehab was the best place for him. At least in there, Sherlock wouldn't be able to make John upset by not involving him on cases.

Not for the first time over the past three weeks, Mary felt caught between a rock and a hard place. She genuinely liked Sherlock, and loved John. But, because of the past she was fleeing from, she didn't have the option of ignoring Mycroft. So, needs must.

Two rings, and then that patrician voice, "Miss Morstan. I do hope that this is going to be a meaningful call, because I am beginning to get curious about your back story."

She ignored the threat. "No need for that." She drew breath and then continued. "I'm going to assume that you know everything that Detective Inspector Lestrade knows- either because he's told you or you found out by other means."

"That would be a correct assumption."

"Then you know Sherlock's using again."

There was a silence. Then, "your utility to me is in direct proportion to how much you tell me that I don't know. You are not yet proving to be at all useful."

She had dealt with people like Mycroft before, but none quite so…scary. She took a deep breath.

"Then listen. You need to get your people to tell you what John was just texted. It's an address. I don't know where, because he refused to show me. Something that I do know that you don't is that Sherlock's going to be there. It's the fight club venue for tonight. Things kick off at 8."

"Wait." It was a command, and she obeyed it, counting off the seconds it would take him to communicate with his people.

Faster than she expected, he was back on again. "Thank you, Miss Morstan. One small step in the right direction. Is there any more useful information you can provide?"

"Stuart Bradshaw and Simon Waterman are going to be at that fight tonight. They're two fighters linked to the first death at Fort Street. And Bradshaw is the Crusher- the one who fought Sherlock last Friday. He fights for the Cunninghams, who were in the middle of the murder last night of William Kirwan. But I don't understand the connections."

There was a bored sigh on the other end of the phone. "Domestic crimes are so mundane. I am not interested in this case, Miss Morstan." His inflection on the word 'case' conveyed his total lack of regard.

"Well, you should care more, because it's what is keeping Sherlock alive at this point." She might have known Sherlock for only a month, but clearly she knew him better than his own brother did. If Mycroft was going to be so sniffy about this, she wouldn't hesitate to point out what she did know.

Probably because very few people ever had the temerity to reprimand him, Mycroft's reply was a surprised, "I care about Sherlock more than what little puzzles he chooses to waste his time on."

At that point Mary realised that part of Sherlock's problem was that whatever he'd been up to over the two years away might have impressed his brother, but clearly what he did in the real world wasn't up to the same level of respect.

While she mulled the signficance of this over, Mycroft continued. "Pity that your fiancé seems not to care anymore about Sherlock."

She leapt to John's defence. "He's on his way to the fight club right now, meeting up with George Hayter who's got him in as a guest. He's going to try to find Sherlock and talk him into getting help. Now listen carefully, because this part is important. Sherlock's doing what he's doing because he hasn't stopped living the way he was for the past two years. If your lot barge in too early, then you won't get what you were talking about the last time we met. Sherlock's clearly rejected any help from you or your employers, so you're going to have to back off. Give John the chance to try to help him re-integrate into civilian life again. I will help, but you've got to let us try it our way. Will you promise me that?"

There was a long silence at the other end. Then an abrupt, "I will be watching. And if I don't like what I see, then the whole deal is off."

The connection was broken from his end, leaving her looking down at the phone. She felt very helpless, relying only on John. It was something that she had rarely ever been willing to do- to trust someone else to do what had to be done. In his current frame of mind, she wasn't sure he'd succeed. Please, John. Hold onto your temper. It's not just Sherlock's future that is at stake; it's ours, too.

She started hunting for Lestrade's number.

oOo

As John Watson arrived outside the front door of the Shootfighter's gym just off the Poplar flyover, he was already in fighting mode. The taxi ride had given him too much time to replay his earlier conversation with Mary that had been halfway between an argument and a discussion.

"I'm coming with you, John. I'll drive you there, and wait in the car."

He'd dismissed that. "Not happening. You are far too curious a cat to keep out of things. I know you, Mary. I'll take a taxi. Don't wait up, as I have no idea how long this will take. If I connect with Sherlock, it could take a while, maybe even all night, if I can get him back to Baker Street."

She'd just looked at him, and he could see she was not at all happy with that idea.

She put her hands on her hips and her chin rose, unbidden. "So, why can't I come? I don't buy that line the only women allowed in have to be arm candy. You can introduce me as a possible medical advisor; after all, I have no doctor's license, but could probably diagnose any injuries at a fight just as well as you can."

"It's not about that; this could be dangerous."

"As if I haven't faced danger before in Africa. If you think that it's so risky, then tell Lestrade and he'll break it up before it gets dangerous. He's the one who wants to interview Bradshaw. Just tell him when and where."

"No." John knew that if the police broke up the fight before he got what he wanted, Sherlock would be furious. Even if he was hurting, even if he was using again, Sherlock would be focused on the case. He's always been willing to sacrifice common sense when he thinks it's necessary.

To forestall an argument, he had tried to explain. "Look, you're the one who says I should be sorting things out with him. I can do that better if I'm not having to worry about some crazy bare-knuckle fighter pushing you around because you're not on the invite list. And if the police come barreling in there at the wrong time, then Sherlock's just going to bolt again. Trust me on this. I need to do it alone."

Eventually, she caved in.

Now forty five minutes later, John took one look at the man waiting beside George Hayter at the gym door, and took an instant dislike. Dressed in a purple track suit with a matching sweatshirt incongruously topped by a cervical collar, the big bald fighter eyed the doctor with some surprise. The look on the man's face when he was introduced to John was enough to add fuel to the fire of John's annoyance. Guys who were much taller and bigger tended to give him that look of surprise and dismissal, all wrapped up in a bundle of superiority complexes.

"You're John Watson, the blogger who works with Holmes?"

"Yes." He said through gritted teeth, while his left fist clenched in sympathy.

Once in the front door, and their names checked off the list, John steered the two men away from the crowd of suited men and their dolled-up women waiting for the lift, and through a door marked "Emergency Stairs". He used the walk down to the gym floor to explain his game plan. "I don't care why you two are here. I'm here to locate Sherlock and get him out of here. If you spot him before I do, don't tell him I'm here."

Stopped on the landing between the flights, he turned to see if Hayter and Bradshaw had picked up on the undercurrent of anger in his tone.

The retired colonel responded first. "That's okay, Doctor Watson; we have business of our own; we'll be using the time during the bouts to build support amongst the fighters for a medical presence. I'll be working on the Devonshire lot, with Simon Waterman. If we can recruit supporters on all of the other teams, then that will help our case."

Bradshaw chipped in, "I'm going to try to get the Cunningham fighters on side. This damn collar should be evidence enough." He fingered the plastic and Velcro contraption around his neck.

John nodded and clattered down the last set of stairs. When they got to the bottom, John called back to the fighter, "Just don't get any ideas about that re-match, Crusher." If John put a little sarcasm onto the name, it was consciously intended.

Bradshaw had the decency to sound embarrassed. "Look, if I'd known who he was, I wouldn't have fought him. Christ, I have a sister who's a civil servant; she was in the House of Lords during that debate, the night you two were down in that tube tunnel saving London. She's alive because of Holmes."

John snapped back, "and so are you. Any other fighter wouldn't have figured out how hurt you were; they'd have just kept going. It's not hard to convert a crushed neck vertebra into a permanently damaged spine. Lucky for you, he wasn't interested in that."

Hayter then asked the question that John didn't know how to answer. "About that….what's Holmes doing picking fights? I don't get why he would be interested."

As he pushed open the door to the main floor, John said, "That's what I intend to find out. In the meantime, don't tell anyone else who the Devil is."

Behind him, John heard Stuart mutter, "No name, no blame."

oOo

As the crowd started to build on the gym floor, Sherlock beat a hasty retreat down the corridor lined with treatment and changing rooms. Taking a right into the Gent's loos, he pushed a stall door open and slipped in, squeezing his gym bag into the cubical with him. He popped the seat down and lowered himself a bit gingerly onto it, while swiping into life the tablet he'd just been given by the Devonshire coach.

He couldn't help but let a smile escape. The cocaine rush was coming to its peak just when he needed it the most. The morphine mist was being burnt off by the heat of his rediscovery of just why he was an addict. As the tablet went through its opening routines, he just closed his eyes and enjoyed the ride.

Bliss. He'd actually forgotten (deleted? If so, why?!) this incredible feeling. It had been years since he'd used this particular drug, but he remembered now why cocaine was the solution to all his problems. The clutter and noise of his normal sensory assault just…vanished. Every piece of data coming in was used or discarded without conscious effort. Things just slowed down to the point where he could actually manage the mess that came into his brain. And pain just disappeared- off the radar, did not compute. It wasn't a pain killer- not in the way morphine or heroin numbed him. With cocaine, he just didn't give a damn about the pain. It was no longer important, no longer a distraction. Only the case mattered, and the drug gave him a mainline injection of focus that quite literally blew his mind free of all the detritus that had accumulated over the past weeks. As he drew a shaky breath in, he realised that he had not felt so good, so right in years.

Lucky for him, the fight venue wasn't an abandoned building or one half-constructed. Because the fight club had lost two venues in as many weeks, it wasn't easy to find a replacement on such short notice. With neither the Acton Aces nor the Cunningham Chancers willing to meet at a venue in the other team's territory, the Devonshire coach had used his contacts to get into this venue as a stop gap measure. The Shootfighters Gym had a place like this toilet where he could get the privacy he needed for the next few minutes. There were training rooms, changing rooms and lots of places to absorb the crowd of fighters and their support teams, as well as handle the growing crowd of arriving punters.

At the pre-bout team briefing, Sherlock loitered in the back, keeping a low profile so he could observe the others in the room. The coach had stood up on a bench to be heard by the dozen or so people in the small locker room. "It's not a big night for us, which is lucky, given how many of you are on the injury list." The East Ender shook his head. "You lot of City nancy boys really take the biscuit. The Dervish is out for at least another week." The man searched the crowd for Sherlock. "Devil- are you gonna be fit enough for next week, cos I really need you to be there?" When he got the nod he was looking for, his gaze moved on. "Deceptor- you ready for your novice trial next week? We need you to get into the scene ASAP as we are down so many fighters. If you are willing to live up to that silly name you've chosen, then we'll put you on the team, even if nobody bids for ya. We're that desperate." This drew a ripple of laughter, and a rueful "Thanks for that vote of confidence, coach" from the newbie.

The coach looked down at his clipboard again. "Defender- it's your job next week to polish off the Cannon Street novice; he's easy meat, according to my spies- just watch his left jab. We're giving you a soft start after your weeks away."

Sherlock leaned forward, looking around the large shoulders of the man in front of him to take a closer look at the Defender. This was Simon Waterman, who had been mentioned in Lestrade's case notes as Robbs's colleague also working on the Agrikoliades case. The man in question was already wearing the turquoise blue hooded sweatshirt with "Devonshire Squires" printed on big letters on the back. Sherlock had put on his own, too, to help him blend in with the others.

Waterman was speaking, "I need to talk to you about that, coach. Me and some of the boys need to sort something out with you."

The coach looked up from his clipboard in annoyance. "Later, after the bouts." He continued, "The first one up tonight is Finsbury's Fiend against the Liverpool Street Lout, the second is the Threadneedle Terror against the Lloyd's Legend. But the real fight is the last one, the Acton Ace of Diamonds against the Cunningham Challenger – that's the real grudge match, and one that should attract the big money. The odds our team is offering have been loaded on your pads. Tonight, it's all about filling our boots with dosh, guys, so get out there and make the punters see your point of view."

As soon as the Devonshire team dispersed, Sherlock had bolted for the loo and turned on his tablet. One advantage of using the gym over the earlier two venues became immediately clear, as wifi connected almost immediately. The betting system managed by the club promoters was dependent on a good signal- if it had to come via the phone network, it was slow.

Sherlock's feral smile came unbidden as he tapped into Dropbox and downloaded his mirror virus. Then he injected it into the betting system accessed via the tablet. He'd cloaked it as a windows update, which would happen as a background task on the main server, wherever it was, when it was accessed by the tablets with the bets tonight. He then pulled out the burn phone and texted Lestrade.

7:48pm At midnight, check your home email. A dropbox link will give you evidence you need- six files of mine plus another to come with the illegal gamblers' names. It's CHRISTMAS! SH

Then he leaned back, and closed his eyes. He had some thinking to do- the last pieces to be sorted and the evidence board in his Mind Palace updated. Things were starting to make sense, at last. Just a matter of time now.