EPISODE 6:
THE REICHENDERP FALL
Things were good for the residents of 221 Baker Street. Almost too good, it would seem. John's blog had taken off, spurring up a near constant stream of press coverage on the family, which had begun to be referred to as the Scooby Gang, which was all the more fitting now that they actually had a pet dog. Sherlock and Scottie seemed to loathe the attention; John put on an indifferent outlook, and Emily seemingly couldn't get enough of all the buzz, usually being the first to strike a pose for the paparazzi.
One particular morning John was seated on the couch and looking over several newspapers as his flatmate stomped over and threw one more copy down in front of him.
"Boffin," Sherlock scoffed. "Boffin Sherlock Holmes." He started walking back across the room in the opposite direction, having to step over Emily, who had an entire scrapbooking collage project set up that took up the vast majority of the living room floor.
"Careful!" Emily warned, pulling the scrapbook closer to keep the detective from treading on it. Circled around her were printed out photographs she'd taken over the last few weeks, when she first decided to start the project, as well as stacks of colored and patterned paper, fun stickers, rhinestones and glitter glue. Gladstone had long since been shut into 221C to be kept from eating all the craft materials.
"Everybody gets one," John muttered.
Sherlock stopped and looked back at the other man. "One what?"
"Tabloid nickname. SuBo, Nasty Nick… Shouldn't worry; I'll probably get one soon."
"MADRE DE DIOS!" Scottie squeaked, toppling over from where he'd been sitting on the arm of the couch so that he was now lying across it sideways with his head in John's lap. "LOOK!" The boy held up the paper for John to see, except that it was way too close to his face and the doctor had to snatch it away and then set it down at a comfortable distance (which just so happened to be directly on top of Scottie's face).
John squinted at the paper. "Johnlock? What's that supposed to mean?"
Emily's neck snapped up at the word. Scottie turned his head sideways to her, peering out from underneath the page folding over him. "It has begun," he said in an unnecessarily deep voice.
"Johnlock: London's Favorite OTP," John read the full article title aloud. "It's like some kind of foreign language!"
"OTP means one true pairing," Scottie explained, spinning around to sit upright. "As in a couple you ship. Johnlock is your power couple name. Congrats."
"...yeah see words are coming out and I still have no idea what's going on." John straightened out the paper and read on: "What's sexier than fighting crime? Doing it with the whole family, apparently! The public can't seem to get enough of happy couple Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and adopted children…" Without even finishing the sentence, John threw the paper down into his lap and looked up at Sherlock with a frown. "Happy couple?" he echoed. "Happy couple? Who in their right minds would write something like this!"
"Who wouldn't?" smirked Scottie.
"This isn't funny, young man."
"So people think you're having sex," Emily shrugged. "Big whoop. The rest of it's true."
"As if you didn't care what people were saying about you," John growled.
"That's because people only ever have good things to say about me," she told the man rather matter-of-factly. "See for yourself." Emily gave a nod towards the stack of papers, and Scottie took the next one off the top and flipped to the first article concerning them.
"Okay here we go…" Scottie muttered, starting to read the article to himself. His eyes got larger and smaller several times before he threw an incredulous arm out at the newspaper, smacking it. "WHAT BULLSHITERY IS THIS?" the boy demanded to no one in particular.
"What's it say?" Emily asked, starting to look worried. "Is it about my wardrobe? Oh my God I bet they're going off on me for repeating outfits, aren't they?!"
Scottie looked confused. "What? No. That's… That's really stupid. Emily. C'mon."
"Why is it always the hat photograph?" Sherlock was asking in the background, evidently oblivious to the rest of the conversation. "What sort of hat is it anyway?"
Scottie shook his head. "Okay no but seriously, this is just disgusting," he said, getting back to his main point. "It's no secret that junior detectives Scottie and Emily are not blood relatives, which begs the obvious question, is there something more going on between the two best friends?" read Scottie.
Sherlock went on flipping a deerstalker about in his hands, unphased by the others: "Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?"
Emily looked utterly horrified. "Is that really what people are saying?"
"It's absolutely absurd, that's what it is! Have they even met us?"
"At least you're being… shipped with someone of the opposite gender!" John let out indignantly.
"That really wasn't as comforting as I think you meant it to be," glowered Scottie.
"I'm sorry, is no one else bothered by this?" Sherlock said loudly, holding out the hat and finally addressing the other three.
"Not really," John, Scottie, and Emily all answered at once.
"Okay, this is too much." John scooped up all the newspapers in one motion and brought them over to a nearby recycling bin. "We need to be more careful."
"What do you mean, more careful?" Sherlock asked.
"I mean that isn't a deerstalker now; it's a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that Scottie and Emily aren't just a couple of kids we happened to befriend one day; now we really have signed up to be their mummy and daddy and half the country is watching like we're the Kardashians or something! I mean that you're not exactly a private detective anymore." John held up a hand, showing Sherlock his thumb and index finger about an inch or so apart. "You're this far from making the whole household famous."
"Oh, it'll pass," shrugged Sherlock. He retreated to his armchair and melted into his base pose with his hands pressed together in front of his chin.
"It'd better pass," John warned. "The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on you."
"Yeah and all that stuff about Emily and I needs to stop, that's not even a little bit true," Scottie said, nodding vigorously.
Sherlock lowered his hands. "It really bothers you."
"What?"
"What people say."
"Yes."
Sherlock looked a little surprised, if not flattered. "About me? I don't understand - why would it upset you?"
"For fuck's sake this isn't just about you," Emily rolled her eyes. "Shipping wars are fine as long as I'm not a part of them. At least not if they aren't involving celebrities or, y'know, guys that are actually attractive."
Scottie held out his hands, offended. "You really could've just said straight, you know."
"I know what I said."
"Just try to keep a low profile," John begged Sherlock. "Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news."
"Check it!" Emily shouted excitedly, slapping down a plastic card on the table in front of Sherlock.
The man glanced up from his microscope, announcing, "It's a driver's license."
"It's my license."
"Really? I couldn't tell from the photograph." Sherlock turned back to his work disinterestedly. "Although I suppose it figures that you and Scottie haven't the skill to procure fakes."
With a frown Emily snatched her license back and shoved it into a wallet. "Hey, instead of being a smartass, why don't you try congratulating me like a normal person for a change?"
"Most people pass on their first or second attempt."
"Well, you know what they say," the girl muttered with a sarcastic smile. "Fourth time's the charm."
"Okay, so maybe it isn't all that impressive," Scottie chimed in from where he'd been hovering in the kitchen doorway, "but it does mean Lestrade can't pull us over for heading out on our own anymore. Also we won't have to worry about cab fares after she gets a car."
"She's not getting a car," John grumbled from the hallway. He had just come out of the bathroom next to Sherlock's room and was wearing a bathrobe with a towel hung around his neck like a scarf and his hair still wet. Gladstone trailed after him with an almost stupid grin, tail wagging and nails clicking against the hard floor.
"Aw, but Dad!" Emily whined.
"Don't you 'but Dad' me," the ex-army doctor shot back.
"I will 'but Dad' you, because right now you're certainly acting like a butt, Dad!"
"Ooooooooooh!" Scottie crowed, his hands cupped over his mouth. "Did someone call for a medic, because it looks like we've got a SICK BURN over here!" He and Emily both chuckled and high fived one another.
"Butt Dad?!" John scoffed, stiffening. "What happened to Dr. Fun Times?"
"You tell me, Professor Buzzkill," Emily sneered. "Dr. Fun Times would let me have a car."
"You're eighteen, for God's sake! You never even leave the house except for when joining Sherlock and I on cases! And do you have any concept of how much insurance and gas and parking around the city is? Who do you think will end up paying for all that, exactly? Besides, we already let you keep a pet, which is kind of a big deal. Don't push your luck." John shook his head in utter disbelief at the request and pushed past Scottie and Emily on the way into the living room. He stopped in the kitchen doorway to peer up at a dummy that was strung to the ceiling with a noose.
"Oh, Henry Fishgard never committed suicide," Sherlock explained, glancing up from his microscope. He picked up a book from in front of him on the table and slammed it down again. "Bow Street Runners: missed everything."
"Sherlock, tell John I'm responsible enough to own a car," Emily pleaded, crouching down next to the man.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked over at her as she gave her most winning smile. "I'm not going to lie for you, if that's what you want."
John retrieved a newspaper from the coffee table and took it back to his armchair with a grunt. Gladstone got distracted upon seeing Scottie and dug a tennis ball out from underneath the table, which he then brought to Scottie.
"Not now," Scottie told the dog. "You're gonna break half the things in the flat."
"This is bullshit," Emily groaned and came into the living room after John. She plopped down on the couch and took out her phone. Gladstone made a whining noise and took the ball over to Emily. Emily glanced up over her Simpsons app at the animal and sighed. "Alright fine. We could probably both use a walk anyway." She then took the tennis ball from him and started to go outside, Gladstone bounding after her with his floppy tongue out.
Not too much time passed before Sherlock's cell phone went off from the living room. John lowered his paper somewhat and scowled at the device. "I'll get it, shall I?" Getting up to retrieve the mobile himself, John read through the incoming text and his face went blank. "Here," he finally said, bringing it to Sherlock.
"Not now, I'm busy," came the detective's distracted grumble.
"Sherlock..."
"Not now."
"He's back."
Sherlock finally lifted his head at this. The man took his phone, paused to read the text for himself, and then sank back into his chair with a forward stare. There was an uncomfortable silence that followed. From behind his chair, Scottie began waving an arm in front of Sherlock's face to make sure he was still with them. Sherlock almost immediately slapped it away and stood up.
"What's going on?" Scottie asked, as if he didn't already know. "Is it… Is that Moriarty? What did he say?"
"Not from him," corrected John. "Apparently the man broke into the Tower of London, Bank of England, and Pentonville Prison just before getting himself arrested. They've got him in custody and awaiting trial right now."
"Damn. Heads must be rolling."
John nodded, eyes wide with disbelief. "I bet. Three of the country's most secure facilities… Can you image?"
"I'm being called as a witness," Sherlock told them, still keeping his gaze fixed down at the phone.
"We're attending the trial?" Scottie looked excited.
"I'm going to the trial."
Scottie scooted closer to Sherlock and looked up at him with puppydog eyes. "Yes. And I'm coming with you."
"Not this time," came the detective's stern reply.
"C'mon," pleaded Scottie. "Let's discuss this rationally. The fucker had Emily shot, remember? I want to see him go to jail just as much as anyone else. 'Sides, maybe Willow will be there, or he'll say something about her, or-"
"No, I'm sorry, but Sherlock's right," John interjected. "You're not coming and that's all there is to it. This is court, for crying out loud, not a crime scene; they don't let just anyone into there."
"I hope you appreciate the irony of what you just said."
"May I?"
The trial had come and passed, along with its infamous result: not guilty.
Sherlock held a hand out to his guest, indicating him to have a seat in John's armchair. "Please."
Instead Jim Moriarty made himself comfortable in Sherlock's chair and got to work on carving something into the apple he had in his hands with a pocket knife. Sherlock remained almost disturbingly calm through all this. The consulting detective set down his violin nearby and started to pour two cups of tea.
"You know when he was on his death bed," Moriarty started, "Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end…"
"And the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it," Sherlock finished for him.
"Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody," Moriarty said distractedly.
"Neither can you. That's why you've…" Sherlock paused, swearing for half a moment that he heard something downstairs. He shook his head. "That's why you've come."
"But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased."
Sherlock was about to respond when there it was again, this time louder than before. A rhythmic thudding that echoed up the stairs and through the flat's floorboards. "What, with the verdict?" Sherlock finally asked, choosing to ignore the music. He picked up one of the teacups, poured a bit of milk into it, and then offered it to Moriarty.
Moriarty straightened and took the cup from him. "With-"
But he didn't finish his sentence just yet, because the music doubled in volume and now it was very obvious what the song was, it being so loud that the lyrics could be heard perfectly at any point in the entire building, if not the half of Baker Street.
"'CAUSE I KNOW WHAT THE GIRL THEM NEED," Jason Derulo's voice rang out. "NEW YORK TO HAITI. I GOT LIPSTICK STAMPS ON MY PASSPORT. YOU MAKE IT HARD TO LEAVE."
"Noisy neighbors?" Moriarty asked, having to raise his voice above the music.
Gladstone, who had previously been napping beneath the kitchen table, was woken up by the music and continued to lay there with his head lifted for some time before getting up and hurrying out of the flat to investigate.
"BEEN AROUND THE WORLD, DON'T SPEAK THE LANGUAGE, BUT YOUR BOOTY DON'T NEED EXPLAINING. ALL I REALLY NEED TO UNDERSTAND IS WHEN YOU TALK DIRTY TO ME."
"I am so sorry," Sherlock said, actually looking like he meant it. "I'll, um… I can ask them to turn that down, just give me a minute."
"No rush," Moriarty sang, sipping at his tea.
Of course the music only got louder as Sherlock hurried down the stairs to the ground floor and toward 221C, which he was half surprised to find did have its door closed already. Gladstone was standing in front of it barking, but the barks were entirely drowned out by the music. Sherlock knocked and waited for a minute. When no one answered he knocked again, louder this time, but there really was no point in trying to be heard above Talk Dirty to Me. Finally he tried actually opening the door himself and found that it was unlocked already. Gladstone pushed past him and ran into 221C.
"I KNOW WHAT THE GIRL THEM WANT, LONDON TO TAIWAN. I GOT LIPSTICK STAMPS ON MY PASSPORT. I THINK I NEED A NEW ONE."
Gritting his teeth, Sherlock came inside and made his way into Scottie and Emily's room just in time to see them rocking out to an enthusiastic trumpet solo. Scottie was standing on top of his bed and using a toilet brush as his prop instrument as Emily stood on the floor in front of the two beds, a toothbrush that had previously been used as a microphone in one hand as she bobbed back and forth, throwing her shoulders into the motion almost violently. When she saw Gladstone she got excited and danced around the dog, who continued to follow her movements with his head, tongue lolling.
"Could you please turn that racket down?" Sherlock asked politely. Not only did the kids not hear him over their earsplitting music, they also didn't even see him come into the room. Sighing, Sherlock came over to Scottie, tapped him on his leg and tried again.
Looking over, Scottie smiled and waved back at the detective. Emily saw him now too and came forward, holding the toothbrush up to her mouth as she lip synced the 2 Chainz portion of the song and proceeded to dance around the older man:
"DOS CADENAS, CLOSE TO GENIUS. SOLD OUT ARENAS, YOU CAN SUCK MY PENIS. GILBERT ARENAS, GUNS ON DECK. CHEST TO CHEST, TONGUE ON NECK. INTERNATIONAL ORAL SEX."
Sherlock couldn't possibly have looked more shocked and alarmed at this. He shoved Emily out of his way and sprang to the source of the music so fast he may as well have made it in a single step. The detective pulled out the speaker cord in one swift motion and Talk Dirty to Me cut out, a silence like none other filling the room in its place.
"You could've just politely asked us to turn the music down," Scottie whispered.
"What's the meaning of this?" Sherlock demanded. "I am upstairs with a very important guest, and I had to leave them unattended because you two factory reject dildos are down here pretending you actually have enough friends your own age to throw a party at that volume!"
Scottie glanced over at Emily. "Did he just call us…?"
"I'm pretty sure he did," Emily answered, looking every bit as surprised as he did.
Sherlock took a deep breath before continuing: "Now, if it's alright with you, I am going to rejoin my guest upstairs, and I expect you both to stay down here and keep absolutely silent. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"
"Can't we just come with?" Emily asked, entirely ignoring his previous statement.
"No," Sherlock said without any hesitation. "I mean it. Quiet, and stay put." He started towards the exit and Gladstone began to follow him. "You too," he told the dog. Scottie went to Gladstone's side and crouched down, petting him so that he wouldn't follow Sherlock out. Sherlock slammed the bedroom door on them and then, seconds later, the front door to the flat.
Scottie stood and went to open both doors for Gladstone. "Be free, friend," he told the animal, stroking Gladstone's back as he went back into the building's lobby.
Emily stood for a moment with all her weight on one leg and then went to plug the speaker back in, this time more than halfing the volume. The speaker was plugged into her computer, which was still on shuffle and Say Something (I'm Giving Up On You) was now playing.
Scottie hovered in the doorframe for a bit. "Hey, did you say you wanted me to teach you how to slow dance?"
"I did," Emily said. "It was after I helped you master the Handshake Song and I said that would be my payment eventually. Although this isn't traditionally a slow song."
"It's close enough." Scottie stood up and came into the open space in the room. "C'mere. It isn't very hard, I promise."
"Alright, but do you want me to do the guy part because I'm taller or-"
"Emily, I swear to God if you mock me I will call John and tell him about some of those lyrics you sang to Sherlock."
Emily put the song on repeat until she could remember the steps without Scottie having to say them out loud to her, at which point he nodded at her and said "Congrats. You now know the thing."
Emily fist pumped the air victoriously before going to turn off the music before she went insane from hearing the same song too many times. Gladstone came padding back into the room with a ball in his mouth, which he brought up to Scottie and sat down, wagging his tail cheerily. Scottie got onto one knee and held out a hand.
"Drop it," he instructed. Gladstone obeyed the command, letting the ball drop into Scottie's open hand. "Good boy!" Scottie cooed, scratching the pleased dog under its chin with his free hand. Scottie then looked down at his other hand and realized that the slobbery object he was holding wasn't a ball at all, but an apple. He turned it in his hand to see the letters I O U carved into the side of the fruit.
"Sorry I took so long!" Emily exclaimed, hurrying over to the Lestrade, Donovan, and the Baker Street boys from Molly's car, which she had just parked next to Lestrade's in the driveway in front of the boarding school they were at. "There was, um… traffic. Yeah."
Scottie wasn't far behind, being pulled along by Gladstone's leash.
Sherlock remained unconvinced by Emily's excuse. "Absolutely gridlocked, I'm sure," he said sarcastically. "Although I am curious as to how you successfully found a way to draw with charcoals while behind the wheel."
A puzzled expression flashed across John's face. "Emily knew that this was time sensitive. Why would you accuse her of stopping to do an art project in the middle of it?"
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock took Emily's arm, pushed up her jacket sleeve, and showed John the black smears running from the side of her left hand halfway to her elbow. The girl pulled away and began rubbing at the excess charcoal unhappily. "That doesn't prove anything," she shot back. "I could've just accidentally rubbed up against something dirty."
"But you didn't."
"Well, yeah, but I could've."
Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow at her. John pinched at the bridge of his nose.
"See, you wouldn't have to worry about this sort of thing happening if I just had my own car," Emily whispered. She looked over at Scottie. "Help me out here."
"Hey, don't look at me," the boy shrugged. "I was ready to go on time."
"Is that a dog?" Donovan asked, squinting down at Gladstone.
"Yes," Lestrade told her. "They have a dog now. Haven't you seen the papers?"
The woman raised a judgemental eyebrow. "So we're allowing pets onto crime scenes now? And here I thought we were pulling strings letting the freak in. Next it was his new friend, then a couple of kids he picked up off the street, and now, apparently, some mangy mutt! What's next?"
"Alright," sighed Lestrade, "cool it. We've already talked about this, and I told them that as long as he doesn't get in the way of anything…"
Donovan folded her arms and shook her head with disapproval. "I don't believe you. And don't you dare try and tell me you don't just have a soft spot for their family, because we both know that's complete bull."
John cleared his throat and stepped between the two officers. "Uh. Excuse me, but I think we're getting a little sidetracked. Kidnapping, remember?"
"Oh. Yes. Right. Eh-hem." Lestrade stepped beside Sherlock and pointed towards a sobbing older woman a little ways away. "Miss Mackenzie, House Mistress. Go easy."
Without thanking him, Sherlock made a beeline for the woman. "Miss Mackenzie," the detective started, "you're in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night." His voice rose now, startling the poor lady: "What are you: an idiot, a drunk or a criminal?" In one swift motion Sherlock pulled a blanket from around Miss Mackenzie's shoulders. "Now quickly, TELL me!"
"All the doors and windows were properly bolted!" Miss Mackenzie whimpered, looking up at Sherlock fearfully. "No one - not even me - went into their room last night. You have to believe me!"
"I do," Sherlock said, reverting back to his normal calm self in all of .2 seconds. "I just wanted you to speak quickly. Miss Mackenzie will need to breathe into a bag now," he told the nearby police officers on his way back to the others. "Well? Shall we have a look, then?" he asked pleasantly, stopping in front of the group and clapping his hands together.
Donovan threw a harsh look at Lestrade just before whipping her shoulder around and starting towards the school interior. The others followed suit, but just as they were getting to the front steps of the dormitories, Scottie was stopped by someone he didn't recognize.
"I'm sorry, but you can't have any animals on school property," the man told him.
"But he's with the police," Scottie half lied. "He's a police dog. In a manner of speaking."
"And you?"
"I'm also with the police," the boy insisted.
The stranger frowned. "You're just a kid."
"He's telling the truth," Lestrade said, coming back to flash the man his police badge. "Now you'd best let the boy and his dog through."
Although he didn't look happy about it, the man backed off and Scottie, Lestrade and Gladstone hurried after the four, who first made their way to the girls' room.
"Six grand a term, you'd expect them to keep the kids safe for you," John was saying as they entered the sleeping quarters. "You said the other kids had all left on their holidays?"
Seemingly not wanting to waste time talking with them, Sherlock was already hard at work scouting out the entirety of the room. He first dug through a cupboard beside one of the pink beds and then dropped to his knees, looking beneath the bed for anything that might point him in the right direction. Gladstone excitedly tried to join in on the search, but Scottie wrapped the dog's leash around his arm and kept him out of the way.
"They were the only two sleeping on this floor," Lestrade informed him. "Absolutely no sign of a break-in." He paused for a moment as Sherlock picked up a lacrosse stick, holding it out in front of himself like a sword for mere moments before tossing it aside again and starting towards a wooden trunk. "The intruder must have been hidden inside someplace," the DI continued.
Inside of the trunk Sherlock found a sizeable paper envelope with a red wax seal, already broken. Sherlock inspected the object for a moment before sliding a hardback copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales out from the packaging. He set the book down again and got to his feet.
"Show me where the brother slept."
The consulting detective was then taken to a second dormitory, where he took almost no time at all in figuring out which bed belonged to the kidnapped boy. Sherlock looked at the bedroom door, which had a frosted glass panel through it, and held an arm out towards the bed.
"The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He'd recognize every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door."
"Okay, so…?" Lestrade pressed.
Sherlock looked only slightly annoyed at the man's inability to keep up with him. "So someone approaches the door who he doesn't recognize, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon." Suddenly entirely immersed in his theory, Sherlock darted out of the room and pulled the door until it was nearly shut. Holding out a hand as if it were a gun, he posed momentarily at the opposite side of the glass and then came back inside. "This little boy, this particular little boy… who reads all of those spy books… What would he do?"
"He'd leave a sign?" John guessed.
Now Sherlock took up a cricket bat, sniffed at both ends, and set it down again in order to sniff around the bedside table. Sherlock reached underneath the bed and pulled out a little empty bottle of something. He looked up again. "Get Anderson." Lestrade nodded and stepped out of the room.
"Is it just me or do those two remind you of us?" Emily asked her partner.
Scottie made a face. "Who? Sherlock and Lestrade?"
"What? No. The ambassador's kids."
"You mean the ones that we haven't found yet and as such have no possible way of having met?" Scottie reminded her.
Emily noticed that Donovan looked over suspiciously as she said this. "Yes, those kids," she replied. "I just mean, like, with the sibling thing, and how the boy's collection of spy books isn't entirely unlike your fascination with detectives. Also they're American and there was that one time we were abducted…"
"Um. Okay. Your point being?"
"No point, just pointing out some similarities," the girl shrugged.
It wasn't too much later when Lestrade returned with Anderson. Sherlock explained to him what he needed and they immediately got to work on darkening the room, closing its wooden blinds and setting up a large UV light on the wall beside the boy's bed. As they were doing this Scottie took the opportunity to pull out several glow sticks he'd had stashed in his pocket especially for the occasion and started to crack them to make himself glow in the dark bracelets.
"Ooh, give me a couple of those!" Emily said excitedly, taking a two from his hands.
"Who just carries around glow sticks?" Donovan asked, looking a little confused. "If I didn't know better I'd say you knew there were going to be UV lights."
Emily blinked guiltily. "What? No. H-How could we possibly know that?"
"One doesn't need an excuse to have glow in the dark fun," Scottie tried. "I like to be prepared for any number of shenanigans."
Donovan squinted back but otherwise said nothing. The UV light was switched on and now the words "HELP US" could be seen scrawled across the wall.
"Linseen oil," Sherlock muttered thoughtfully.
"Not much use," shrugged Anderson. "Doesn't lead us to the kidnapper."
"Brilliant, Anderson."
The other man looked genuinely surprised for half a moment. "Really?" he asked.
The next line Scottie and Emily recited along with Sherlock: "Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot."
"He says things like that a lot," Emily told Donovan knowingly. "Not weird at all. I promise."
"The floor." Sherlock pointed at the ground and shone his own light closer to it. They could now see that there were a set of greenish footprints going from the edge of the bed out the door.
"He made a trail for us!" John gasped.
"The boy was made to walk ahead of them," Sherlock deduced, following the trail.
"Oh, what, tiptoe?" asked John.
"Indicates anxiety; a gun held to his head."
The group followed Sherlock as he came out into the hallway and stopped suddenly, a sizeable puddle on the floor in front of them. All eyes slowly turned towards the teens, who were in the very back.
Scottie looked down at Gladstone, more impressed with the dog than anything else. "Dang. I didn't even see do that. Talk about stealth!"
"And this is exactly why we don't let non-certified animals onto the scene!" Donovan let out an aggravated groan.
Even Sherlock looked like he was trying not to get mad. Rather than yelling at the kids, he squeezed back through the clump of people and took Gladstone's leash from Scottie, turning and handing it over to Anderson, who looked surprised by the gesture.
"Your services are no longer required," Sherlock announced. "Now please wait with the dog outside the premises."
"B-Wh-Why me?!" Anderson sputtered.
"I'm going to count to one," Sherlock said sternly.
Lestrade held up an arm and dropped it again helplessly. "Just listen to 'im," he sighed.
"One."
Anderson let out a huff and snatched away Gladstone's leash. He stepped over the pee puddle on his way out with Gladstone in the lead.
"Ew I don't want Anderson handling my dog!" whined Scottie.
"Shush." Sherlock now took a wide step over the puddle and came up to a window that they'd had covered with black paper moments ago. The man ripped away the paper, letting daylight come flooding in. Sherlock set his light onto the window sill and knelt down in front of it, taking out a mini tool kit to retrieve a plastic petri dish, which he set down at his side and let out a slight chuckle.
John tiptoed around the puddle along the wall and came to a squat beside Sherlock. "Having fun?"
"Starting to."
"Maybe don't do the smiling. Kidnapped children?"
Sherlock looked up from his work momentarily. "Too close to home?"
"Either way."
"Hm."
On their depart from the boarding school Scottie and John piled into the back seat of Molly's car with Gladstone between them. Emily got into the driver's seat and Sherlock into the passenger's.
"Where to, Mr. Holmes?" Emily said playfully as she fastened her seatbelt.
"Pit stop at the flat," the detective decided. "Then Saint Bart's Hospital."
"What do we need from Baker Street?"
"It's not what we need but what we don't need," Sherlock elaborated.
Scottie wrapped his arms around Gladstone's neck protectively. "You said he could come with us if he didn't hinder the investigation!"
Sherlock looked over the back of his seat with a stern look directed at the boy. "A privilege he's now lost."
"Don't listen to him," Scottie urged, kicking at the back of Emily's seat with his knee. "Just go straight to Saint Bart's."
Emily started the engine. "Sorry, buddy. He's the boss."
After dropping Gladstone off back at the flat, the foursome made their way to Saint Bartholomew's, where they stopped Molly just as she was coming out of the building.
"Molly!" Sherlock said in an uncharacteristically chipper tone.
"Oh, hello," the woman greeted them, looking a little startled. "I'm just going out."
Sherlock put his hands over Molly's shoulders and turned her back around. "No you're not," he told her decisively.
"I've got a lunch date," Molly tried, despite already being ushered inside by Sherlock.
"Cancel it. You're having lunch with me." Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bag of chips from each, showed them to her, and then stuffed them away again.
"What?"
"Need your help," the detective went on. "It's one of your old boyfriends; we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty!" Completely inside now, Sherlock turned to smile back at Molly, who had stopped in her track several steps behind him.
John, who had also halted, stared back at Sherlock. "It's Moriarty."
"Course it's Moriarty."
"Er, Jim wasn't even my boyfriend," Molly clarified. "We went out three times. I ended it."
"Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organized a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." Sherlock brought out his chips once more and went through another door.
"I don't know," Scottie started, looking up at Molly. "You dumped Moriarty. I'd say that's pretty fucking badass. Admirable, even."
"Y-You think?"
"Sure! Not that you knew it at the time but…"
"Oh, and these are yours!" Emily handed the woman back her car keys. "As usual, thanks a lot for giving me access to it."
Molly took the keys with a smile. "No problem. Except… Well, I had assumed after you got a proper license you'd be looking into buying your own. You are, aren't you?"
Emily ever-so-slowly shifted her eyes over towards John, who held out a stern index finger before she could even finish the motion. "Don't," he warned. "Don't even think about asking again."
"Too late," the girl whimpered.
The door at the end of the foyer flung open again and Sherlock leaned out on the doorway, looking vaguely frustrated. "Perhaps I didn't stress the urgency of said lunch date?" he pressed.
Shortly afterwards the group had relocated to a lab where Sherlock got right to work on examining the sample he'd collected from the dormitory's floorboard under a microscope. Molly had since changed into her lab coat and came into the room carry two additional folded white coats, and pairs of goggles.
"What's this?" Scottie asked as she came up to them.
"Well, what kind of lab assistants would you be without proper safety attire?"
"The kind that still have dignity," Emily wrinkled her nose. "Sherlock doesn't have to use anything except gloves half the time."
"Come now, let me have my fun playing dress-up," Molly begged.
Scottie took his half of the outfit and started putting an arm into the lab coat. "You don't have to tell me twice!"
Sighing, Emily took the other coat and started to put it on but wouldn't accept the goggles. The three of them then joined Sherlock around the counter he was working at. Each putting on a pair of latex gloves, they proceeded to assist Sherlock's project mostly by handing him things. Or, rather, Molly would hand the objects to one of the kids who may have otherwise not known what to grab, and they would then give it to Sherlock. After only several minutes of this Molly was squeezing some liquid or another into a glass petri dish.
"I need that analysis," Sherlock told her.
Molly dabbed a pit of Litmus paper into it and Scottie peered over the counter with interest as it turned blue.
"Alkaline," she concluded.
"Thank you, John."
Molly turned her head slightly. "Molly."
"Yes."
To say that Emily was bored with this method of solving cases was an understatement. While the others were distracted, she slipped away from the scene as discretely as she could and rejoined John, who was towards the opposite end of the lab now.
"How's it going over there?" John asked, looking up as the girl approached.
"Give me something to do that doesn't involve science," she demanded. "I don't care what it is just give it to me."
"Oh. Um. Well, I suppose I have some of the police photographs taken at the school. We could have a look through those together, if you think that'll help."
"As long as it doesn't involve chemicals or math we're good," Emily muttered.
John pulled out the pictures and began flipping through them slowly, holding them out at an angle so that Emily could see as well. They'd gotten halfway through the stack without any major breakthroughs when Emily lifted her chin to see Molly leaving the room. Emily looked down again and flipped to the next photo. This one was of the wooden trunk, the envelope with the seal still inside of it. John's eyes widened and he pulled the stack of pictures closer to himself and flipped quickly to the next one: a close-up of the seal itself.
"Sherlock," he said, looking up.
"Hm?" came Sherlock's distracted voice.
"This envelope that was in her 's another one." The doctor paced up to where he had taken off his jacket.
"What?"
"On our doorstep. Found it today." John pulled a similar envelope out from his jacket pocket and had a look at it. "Yes, and look at that. Look at that. Exactly the same seal." John circled round and handed the envelope off to Sherlock.
"Way to withhold evidence," Emily muttered, joining them around the countertop.
Sherlock reached into the envelope and took out something so small the others couldn't see from where they were standing. "Breadcrumbs."
"Uh-huh. It was there when I got back."
"Hansel and Gretel," Scottie said out loud as he leaned forward to get a better look for himself.
"You think?" Sherlock asked, turning his head.
"Isn't it obvious? Two children, a boy and a girl. The breadcrumbs. That book of fairy tales. It all fits."
"Indeed it does," Sherlock agreed. He set the envelope down on the counter in front of himself.
"What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?" asked John.
"The sort that likes to boast. The sort that thinks it's all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me… All fairytales need a good old-fashioned villain." Sherlock adjusted his microscope and looked back into it. "The fifth substance; it's part of the tale." The man looked up again, his face serious. "The witch's house."
"What?"
"PGPR!"
John wasn't any less confused by this explanation. "What's that?"
Sherlock jumped to his feet and hurried towards the exit, saying, "It's used in making chocolate."
John looked from Scottie to Emily. "Are you guys getting any of this?"
"More or less," Scottie said. "He thinks he knows where the kids are. Or, rather, where to start looking."
"That's good enough for me," John took up his jacket.
"Hot chocolate…" Emily mumbled, breaking off from the rest of the group and clearly on her own personal mission.
"Seriously?" Scottie sighed, stopping to wait for her. "Do we have to do this every single time we come to the Yard?"
"Yeeeee…" Emily purred upon locating the coffee machine that also made free hot chocolate that she loved oh so very much. She pushed a button on it and watched with interest as steaming hot chocolate ran down in a stream into her paper come. Scottie tapped his foot against the ground impatiently. Once it had finished Emily took the cup and she and Scottie continued through the doors Sherlock, John, and Lestrade had just disappeared behind.
"...asphalt, brick dust, vegetation," Lestrade was reading off of a paper by the time the kids arrived on the scene. "What the hell is this? Chocolate?"
"I think we're looking for a disused sweet factory," explained Sherlock.
"We need to narrow that down. A sweet factory with asphalt?"
"FUCK!" Emily gasped, stumbling backwards and splitting a bit of her drink. "I burnt my tongue," she told the adults, who were facing her now. "Sorry. Continue."
Sherlock turned his head back to Lestrade. "Too general. Need something more specific. Chalk, chalky clay… That's a far thinner band of geology."
Emily touched the tip of her tongue with a finger. "Aw man, 'is gon'a feel 'eird thor days!"
"That's what you get from being impatient," Scottie shrugged.
"You thut uh fuhck up." Emily took her finger out of her mouth and wiped it off on her jeans.
"Brick dust?"
"Building site," Sherlock said. "Bricks from the 1950s."
Lestrade rubbed at his face. "There's thousands of building sites in London."
"I've got people out looking," Sherlock went on.
"So have I."
"Homeless network - faster than police." Sherlock smiled snidely. "Far more relaxed about taking bribes." Sherlock's phone went off several times. The detective took it out, looking pleased with himself, and looked through the messages. "John." he said after a couple moments of this and held the phone out for his flatmate to see. "Phododendron ponticum. It matches. Addlestone."
"What?" Lestrade asked confusedly.
"There's a mile of disused factories between the river and the park. It matches everything." Without any hesitation Sherlock whirled around and scurried out of the office. John darted after him.
"Here we go again," Scottie breathed, gearing up to join in on the chase. "You ready?"
Emily looked sadly down at her hot chocolate. "But I just…"
"Right, come on," Lestrade instructed his team, who didn't appear to be in nearly as much of a hurry. "Come on!"
Emily stared longingly after her drink, took one more sip, promptly burnt her tongue a second time, and then set it down on a random nearby desk.
As they expected to, they found the two children at the sweet factory. The boy was unconscious and had been dropped off in intensive care while his sister was taken back to the Yard with them. Lestrade and Donovan took a turn talking with the girl private as Sherlock and John waited patiently outside to have a go. While they waited Emily snuck back into the break room to make herself a new hot chocolate.
"As you sure that's a good idea?" Scottie asked, leaning against the wall.
"Unfinished business," the girl insisted. She filled a second cup of hot chocolate and held it close under her chin as she paced over to the office windows and peered out at the nighttime cityscape. "Sometimes it reminds me of home, you know," she exhaled. "Tall buildings, lights… You can hardly tell the difference when it's dark out."
"It is home."
Emily rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean. Home-home. Where we were before all this."
"Doesn't look a thing like Tennesse," Scottie commented.
"Shush. I'm reminiscing."
Emily came closer to the window and pulled down a couple of the blinds with a finger from her hand that wasn't holding the hot chocolate. Suddenly the lights from the office building across the street all came one at once and there it was, spraypainted in large letters across the windows: I O U. Emily gasped and pulled her hand back, dropping her cup in the process. The paper cup hit the ground softly, its dark contents spilling onto on the floor. The lights went out again and the message disappeared.
"What the fuck?" Scottie looked up.
"D-Did you see-"
Donovan entered the break room just then. She halted in the doorway for a moment. "Oh. I didn't realize you kids were still here." With a shrug, the woman passed them on her way to the coffee machine, which she inserted one of the little plastic coffee packages into. She then opened up the cupboard above the machine, pulled out a white mug, peered into it, and placed the object under the coffee machine's spout and pushed a button. The machine started making percolating noises.
"Hey, Sally?" Emily piped up.
"Sergeant Donovan."
"Right. Did Sherlock leave already?"
Donovan turned around and leaned her back against the counter as she waited on her coffee. "The freak? No, I don't believe so. I just saw him a couple minutes ago. Worried he might leave you kids behind? Wouldn't be all that surprised if he did, you know."
Scottie clenched his fists but said nothing. Noticing this, Emily went on, "Was there a scream?"
"Scream?" echoed Donovan.
"It's just that, we thought we heard one from the little girl, but… maybe not?"
Donovan thought for a moment. The coffee machine beeped and started pouring out its contents into the mug. Donovan glanced over at it but let it continue doing its thing uninterrupted. "No," Donovan answered. "Nobody screamed."
"That's... weird. Are you sure?" Emily squinted.
"Why would she have? She's safe now."
Emily looked over at Scottie, who shrugged back. "Because she recognized him as the... kidnapper...? Or at least thought she did? No?" Emily searched the older woman's blank face for some kind of acknowledgement that this had happened. She swallowed. "You know what, never mind. That's... That's good. Forget I said anything. I'm sure everything's fine."
"We should get going," Scottie said quickly.
Emily nodded. "Right. Um. Good talking with you, Sergeant."
Donovan picked up her coffee mug and sipped at it with a disinterested "Mm-hm." The two teenagers hurried out of the room and started quickly pacing down the hall.
"The hell was that all about?" Scottie said under his breath as they went.
"I don't know! I guess I just panicked, that's all. But what did she mean, the girl never screamed? Do you think she'd lie to us about something like that?"
The two of them stopped in front of the room they thought Sherlock and the others had been in. It was empty now, so they continued down the hall and towards the flight of stairs to the downstairs lobby.
"I doubt it," Scottie was saying. "Isn't trying to tarnish our hero's reputation in front of us, like, her signature move or whatever? Why waste an opportunity?"
Emily stopped at the bottom of the stairwell and met Scottie's eyes. "But then... then what does that mean for the episode? If the girl doesn't scream? Wouldn't that, y'know, change things?"
"Who cares? Maybe now they'll have no reason to turn on Sherlock. This could be a good thing. Like, for instance, has it ever occurred to you that we might be about to rewrite the ending? Maybe make it a happy one. No fake suicide. No depressed John. I'm just saying, if it were possible, theoretically, of course, we're in just the position to do it..."
Emily looked doubtful. "This isn't a Disney movie. We're not gonna suddenly get a happily ever after instead of the scripted cliffhanger just by being here."
"I thought you were supposed to be Little Miss Optimism about these things?" teased Scottie. "What about Johnlock?"
The girl stiffened. "What about it?"
"You gotta get your head in the game! Remember the end goal!"
"We talked about this. Johnlock isn't the end goal."
"But-"
"Speaking of, here they come!" Emily waved to Sherlock and John as they approached. "You certainly took your time," she said to the both of them, a hint of uneasiness in her voice. "Anything exciting happen? Mm?"
"Emily..." Scottie warned.
John shrugged. "I don't know if that's the word I'd use."
"She didn't want to talk much at first, if that's what you're insinuating you want to hear more about," Sherlock began. "Practically had to pry it out of her. But apparently there were at least two kidnappers. She never saw their faces, so the sketch artist they brought in was virtually useless. We were able to gather that they were younger - adults, but probably only just - and one was female."
"Oh." Emily's eyes darted over to Scottie, who shrugged.
"Well, I'm sure we'll figure out who they were soon enough," the boy insisted. "Back to headquarters, then?"
Sherlock nodded. The three of them followed him out and waited at the sidewalk just outside the building. It wasn't long before a taxi cab pulled up, and Sherlock held open the door for John, who slid into the furthest seat. The detective got in next. Scottie took a couple steps forward, but Emily pulled him back by a sleeve.
"He was supposed to tell us to take the next one," the girl whispered.
"So? Maybe he changed his mind."
"You getting in?" John asked. He blinked up at the teenagers expectantly.
"We'll, um, catch the next cab. There's something I have to discuss with Scottie. Privately."
"Suit yourself."
Sherlock scooted closer to the door and shut it, leaving Scottie and Emily to stand in silence for a moment and watch the car drive away. "What the hell was that about?!" Scottie finally snapped. "Unless you were trying to give them some 'alone time,' in which case I just might be able to forgive you…"
Emily rolled her eyes. "No, genius. You know as well as I that all four of us can barely squeeze into the back together, and I wasn't about to stick you next to Moriarty."
"...oh." Scottie nodded slowly. "Right. But, I wouldn't have said anything!"
"Yeah, because that's totally not suspicious at all."
Scottie rolled his eyes. "Oh, shush. Maybe you're just being paranoid for nothing and we have Willow to thank for changing the situation or something like that."
A second taxi came around the corner then and Emily held up an arm, getting it to stop for them. Imitating Sherlock just moments before, Scottie held open the door for Emily. Of course, he didn't follow through with the gesture and cut her off at the last second.
"221 Baker Street," Emily told the driver bitterly and shut the cab door.
They had barely gotten going when a little TV screen lit up with some sort of jewelry ad. Scottie frowned. "Seriously? They're already charging ridiculous fares. This is just insult to injury!"
"Uh, Scottie…"
The video began breaking up and was quickly replaced by Moriarty's psychotic happy killer face. Scottie and Emily both went pale.
Hello! Are you ready for the story? the video began. This is the story of Lord Smartypants and Lady Showoff.
Lord Smartypants and Lady Showoff were the two most extraordinary children in the whole kingdom. Maybe they weren't big and strong like the knights, but they were clever, and always seemed to know where a dragon was going to be before it even got there. One day, they met Sir Boast-a-Lot, who was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table. Sir Boast-a-Lot was so impressed with their abilities, that he invited the Lord and Lady to come live with him in the castle. But soon the other knights began to grow tired of their stories of how clever they all were, and how many dragons they'd slain together.
And soon they began to wonder, "Why are these children so special? Does anyone even remember where they came from?"
Ohhhh noooo.
Sir Boast-a-lot didn't want to believe it, so all the knights went to King Arthur and said, "I don't trust Lord Smartypants and Lady Showoff! Have they ever actually saved the kingdom from any dragons? They're probably cons who are just taking advantage of our hospitality!"
And then even the King began to wonder... But that wasn't the end of Lord Smartypants and Lady Showoff's problems. No. That wasn't... the Final Problem.
The end!
The screen went black and Scottie and Emily turned their heads to each other slowly. "We dun fucked up," Scottie whispered, his eyes still fixed forward. And then, hardly breaking between trains of thought, suddenly lunged forward, wedging himself between the front two seats. "Hey, Moriarty, that was great! Do you think we could take home a signed copy on DV-OH MY GOD ABORT ABORT!" The boy flew backwards again, smacking into the leather seat behind him.
"The fuck was that?" Emily demanded.
"THAT WAS MOST DEFINITELY NOT A MORIARTY; IT WAS A ZOMBIE. I REPEAT, THIS VEHICLE IS BEING DRIVEN BY A ZOMBIE."
"A zombie?" Doubtfully, Emily looked for herself and, sure enough, the driver's seat was currently being occupied by a man who was unconscious and quite possibly dead. Thankfully not undead, but still not a much better scenario. Emily slapped a hand over her mouth and sat back. "No one's driving."
"What?"
"No one's driving us," Emily removed her palm. "The driver was drugged or something, I don't know, but his foot is still holding down the gas. We're gonna crash sooner or later. It's surprising we haven't already!"
"Well why don't you stop explaining how we're gonna die and start driving?" Scottie shot back.
Emily's eyes widened. "Pardon?"
"You heard me! You're the only one out of the two of us qualified to operate this thing, so do something about it!"
"You do remember I didn't actually pass that written test, right? The examiner literally gave me my permit for looking cute. Literally."
"Stop bullshitting me! You haven't been able to shut up for five minutes about your license since you passed your driving test on the fourth try. I've also been in a car with you driving many times before and while it admittedly still isn't perfect, technically you haven't gotten into an accident yet. Notice I say 'yet', because in a matter of minutes at the most-"
"Yes, yes, I know!" Emily choked. "Thank you, Captain Obvious!"
"It's Captain Sockarms!"
"You shut the fuck up with that! And I'm not gonna sit in the deceased dude's lap! That's where I draw the line!"
Scottie furrowed his brows frustratedly. "EMILY, YOU STOP BEING A WEENIE RIGHT THIS INSTANT OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL OPEN THIS DOOR AND JUMP OUT."
"OKAY, OKAY! I'LL TRY!" Looking ten different kinds of uncomfortable, the girl squeezed her legs first into the front half of the cab and over the body. Stepping on the brake with increasing pressure, Emily turned the wheel. The taxi came to a safe, albeit jerky, stop halfway up the sidewalk, narrowly missing a stoplight. Once the cab was no longer in motion, Emily put the vehicle into park and jumped out of the car, stumbling up to the streetlight, which she leaned up against for support.
Scottie came up behind her. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Absolutely peachy," the girl wheezed.
"So…" Scottie pursed his lips together. "So should we report this, or…?"
"And tell them what?" asked Emily. "The truth?"
"Yes! Well, no. Maybe just the cabbie having a heart attack and nearly killing us part."
Emily shook her head. "It'd waste too much time. The episode is still in motion. Plus, after that little movie date I'd rather not get caught at the scene of a murder, if you don't mind."
"And if they dust the wheel for prints? What then?"
"I don't know, okay! I just want to get back to the flat. Is that alright with you?" Emily took off walking without waiting for an answer. Scottie hesitated for a moment, glancing worriedly between her and the dead cabbie, before bounding after his friend.
"How did he die, anyway?" Scottie wondered aloud. "Because I've heard of stuff being put in the vents and if that's the case, then what if we've been exposed and-"
"I don't wanna hear it," growled Emily.
"Fine. But... just let me know if you start feeling nauseous or anything, alright? I understand that that was a traumatizing experience and I'm worried about you. Also if you pass out I don't want to carry you back because it's really far and I'd probably have to resort to dragging your body through most of it and people will probably give me really funny looks."
Emily marched onward, now holding out a middle finger for him to see.
TO BE CONTINUED...
