Congratulations to me. I worked out a murder in a respectable bank heist case... but that was rather the point =)
Dead at 3:30, John turned around to see Sherlock standing behind him.
"Jesus, Sherlock! You scared-"
John could recognise him only by his eyes and his cheekbones. The rest, he didn't look like he was Sherlock Holmes.
He turned around and started walking away from John. Perplexed, he decided to follow him, like always. After sometime, Sherlock entered a building through a backdoor, leaving John behind to contemplate whether he was going to follow him into it when a text arrived.
Hurry up. SH
John sneaked into the building and plunged behind the tall lithe figure clad in a hoodie and track pants. He followed Sherlock into a small noisy room, perhaps the ventilation chamber of the building. Sherlock sat down, took off the hoodie and dabbed his face with a damp cloth.
With those disguises, he could have easily been an undercover agent.
Genius, John thought to himself when he saw that the hoodie was reversible with a bright red on one side and the pale blue on another. He looked down at the pale boy staring up at him and a powerful desire to kiss him swept through him.
"You... undercover?"
Sherlock merely nodded, looking everywhere else. John thought about starting on his apology.
But before he could start, Sherlock opened his mouth awkwardly to start on his, "John... um... "
John shook his head and sat down on the floor, wanting to laugh at the way Sherlock was trying to apologize. He let his eyes wander on the shadows on his otherwise unblemished face for a minute. He was no longer attempting to conceal his attraction. Sherlock seemed to have understood and cleared his throat to bring John back to earth.
"Ah- yes- ahem... it's not that, Sherlock. Do you treat everyone like this?"
The taller boy looked around, as if he was the one who was new to the place, "Maybe. I don't really pay attention to conversations with idiots. I've got Lestrade on semi permanent mute-"
John let out an exaggerated sigh, "There it is again. Anyway, I'm not mad at you... but it was really cute seeing you Jooohning your way in," he flashed a mischievous smirk at his friend.
Sherlock's mouth fell open and he closed it back, biting the insides of his cheek in annoyance, "Well played, Mr. Watson," he said through gritted teeth.
John gave him a short bow before firing his next question, "Why are we here?"
At that, Sherlock reached out for the pocket of his track pants and handed John a pencam and his mobile phone after unlocking it and showing him pictures of what seemed like the insides of the vault of the bank, "Study them, and tell me what you see."
"That's a pencam."
Sherlock frowned, "Perfectly sound. But I was talking about studying the photographs instead, not the camera."
He'll never learn, will he? "Why a pencam?"
"Photography is strictly prohibited in there. Although I was dressed as a policeman, they said that they could not allow any more photographers to roam around there. Idiots! Anyway, Study them and tell me what you see while I get myself into some respectable clothes."
John understood his words belatedly as Sherlock opened a side door and slipped into the adjoining room. He swallowed and turned in the opposite direction although he couldn't see Sherlock anyway. The thought of being within ten feet of a half-nude and a very vulnerable Sherlock Holmes left him with a raging boner.
He swallowed and concentrated on the memories of his annoying sister. It almost helped. Almost.
He peered at the screen, drifting through the endless number of photographs Sherlock had taken. The first one was of the safes which stood open. Nothing unusual. Then came the photos of the ingenious methods the robbers had used to bypass the security systems. Every succeeding one left John more and more awed at their imagination.
"The system wasn't hacked," Sherlock's voice floated over from the other room, "They know that hacking can be traced, howsoever effective it may be."
"And what stuff is this, they've got to enter codes into these number pads, don't they?"
"That's what I'm saying," Sherlock opened the door, looking fresh and spotless as always, but this time in a casual shirt and jeans, but at least not like the desperate homeless fella from a couple of minutes ago, "they did not have to worry about them."
"How?"
"Those number pads are needed to disable the alarms. Since they had already found their way around, they hardly needed to do that. It was not like the door wouldn't open without it. But that's hardly important. We need to recover the gold before it reaches the intended hands."
John frowned, "We?"
"Yes. They are one kilo each gold bars with an image of a pentagram on them. I've secured some of the supply from a merchant-"
"WHAT?"
"Why do you think I was undercover? There's nothing to be gained from the crime scene, save the facts that the all the men except the conman, that is, the safecracker and the gunman were above six in height and 8 and 10 sizes in shoes. The safecracker had a poor left eye-"
"Hold on," John held the door open for Sherlock as an unconscious gesture, "I thought that the police had their descriptions."
"No they don't. They usually don't meet their clients so there are no descriptions available even if a spy were to go and meet them. Anyway, safecracker had a poor left eye and was a regular smoker... or at least a consumer of tobacco in some form. He's Italian, the pencil shavings showed that."
"Pencil shavings?" John's eyebrows shot up in admiration, "You mean that he actually sat there and cracked open hundred and eight safes singlehandedly instead of drilling his way in?"
Sherlock smiled, "I know, it's amazing. Some of the safes had those new generation alarms which send a text to the keeper when drilled through them. Seemed like they didn't want to take the risk. I've never heard of someone as fast as him. It took him four hours to do so. So, I had Lestrade check with the Italian police. There were no records of any such man, but they're spreading the word around.
"Now, the gunman. He was mostly security for the safecracker and the one who disposed off any evidence and of course, helped with loading the loot. That's the way they work. Driver waits a few blocks away in a stolen taxi with a usually fake license plate, no one pays attention. Conman waits along with him, communicating with the two men inside. But since they were stealing gold this time, they needed Hoffman inside as well. Police have Hoffman's photographs from the CCTV footage of the bank."
"How d'you know they use cabs all the time?" John hadn't realised that they were still walking through the streets of greater London.
"I know the tyre dimensions of an average London cab. Lestrade brought in the report from the Chicago police, from Minsk police, their last targets, and from Diamond Squad in Antwerp. Same results there as well."
"So, what's next?"
"At this point of time, someone must be doing a background check on me. They'll never find anything suspicious by the name of Shezza."
"Shezza?" John snorted.
"I told you, I was undercover!" Sherlock insisted.
"Seriously, Shezza though?"
"Anyway," Sherlock decided to ignore John's teasing, "As it always is, I was right. They have a protector, untouchable to law. He's the one who organizes all the meetings and auctions and orders those background checks."
"Okay."
"You want to hear something better?"
"Like?"
"You remember our first case?"
Course I bloody remember it! I was holding a gun, for God's sake! "Yeah?"
"Those smugglers were also under his protection. They escaped yesterday, and the operation was probably orchestrated by him."
His lower jaw fell open, "What? That's your idea of 'something better'?!"
"Lestrade's offering me every sort of police protection," said he, ignoring John, "but I think that they might get to you first, John. They remember you better."
John suddenly looked around him, trying to find any familiar faces of those smugglers. Somehow, the idea of being at the pinpoint of the wrath of an avenging smugglers gang made his breath hitch deliciously, not out of panic, but out of a twisted sense of excitement. He glanced at Sherlock, who was surveying the place with intense concentration.
"That's okay, I can take...," nod, "care of it..." John stared down at his trainers and then at Sherlock's shiny shoes. Standing near him sometimes felt very out of place.
"No," he growled, "I shouldn't have taken you with me that day. I made a mistake-"
"Shut up, Sherlock!" John snapped at him, "I'm not going to argue with you in the middle of a busy street... " John thought about the words about to come out of his mouth, "If you can take care of yourself, so can I. I was brought up in Afghanistan, for God's sake!"
"John, but-"
"No. Let's just focus on what we have here. You don't need to worry about my safety."
Sherlock looked genuinely worried, making John feel a sickly guilty sensation in the pit of his stomach, "Seriously, Sherlock! My dad was a Lieutenant Commander-!"
"Exactly! Was a Lieutenant Commander. He's retired, John-!"
"You've got smugglers on your track too, Sherlock! You were the one trying to outsmart them, not me. I'll be alright, just... do this fancy robbers case please?"
The deadpan look was back on Sherlock's face as he pointed at a distance, "I have an appointment with a pawnbroker in Oxford Street."
"Appointment? With a pawnbroker?"
"Yes, he owes me. I -ahem- helped him out a few years ago."
"Oh, did you get him off a murder charge as well?"
John struggled hard to fight off the blush forming on his cheeks as he watched Sherlock's signature smirk growing on his face, with a hint of amusement. The sort that said I was expecting that, "No. I helped him move into his newest location. Taxi!"
That man surprised him to no end.
"Mr. Montgomery!" Sherlock called out, "Basil here!"
"Basil?" John whispered, puzzled.
"Another one of my aliases," he revealed.
John let out an exaggerated sigh, "First Shezza and now Basil. I've seriously got to teach you how to think names!"
"Yeah, like Hamish is a very nice one... Good evening, Mr. Montgomery," Sherlock put on one of the most cheerful facades John had ever seen in his life.
"Ah, Basil!" the elderly man shook his hand with equal fervour, "How're you, my dear boy?"
"Very well, thank you. Mr. Montgomery, this is..." Sherlock trailed off, unable to give John a name.
"James," John uttered the first name that popped into his head. Mr. Montgomery seemed to buy it and shook his hands enthusiastically as well.
"Hello James!" he turned back to Sherlock, "Three people came to me yesterday. They tried to sell me the same merchandise you told me about."
"Tried to?"
"They'll be coming back today. Eight thirty-ish. I told them that I'll keep half the cash ready by then. Same one kilo bricks with a pentagram on top of them."
"Right, you sell five of them to me tomorrow nine-fifteen in the morning. And how's your wife now?"
Fortunately, Mr. Montgomery couldn't spot John's baffled expression as Sherlock made small talk with the pawnbroker. He couldn't help but think how the scene in front of him resembled the one he had been in some weeks ago during suit and tie shopping.
"Oh gosh," Sherlock continued in a high voice, "I forgot it. I have a present for little Rich."
Little Rich?
Sherlock drew out his pencam and handed it to him, "Tell him never to leave his spy novels," he winked at the elderly man.
"Pen and spy novels?"
"You're too old, dear Mr. Montgomery. He'll get it. Goodbye." With that, Sherlock strode out of the shop with John following closely behind.
"Any... explanations, Sherlock? Why would someone come to Mr. Montgomery to sell gold bricks?"
He smiled wickedly, looking much like Mycroft, "Mr. Montgomery isn't some ordinary pawnbroker. He's what we call the middleman in such transactions. Well, retired middleman. Very hush-hush about everything and very useful to me in such cases. He thinks I'm just another buyer."
"Buyer? How're you going to arrange for all that cash- Oh! You've told DI Lestrade haven't you?"
"Not a word. He wouldn't let me do anything like that. He thinks I'm his son or something."
"Well, you're almost Greg's age, aren't you? Anyway, how do you know Mr. Montgomery?"
Sherlock visibly stiffened, "I told you, I helped him move in."
John nodded, "Oh, so you spotted the old man having difficulty with the heavy boxes and decided to play good Samaritan?"
"I'll get back to Mr. Montgomery tomorrow," Sherlock continued as if John hadn't asked him any question, "Right now, I need to go to the Yard. Taxi!"
After one and a half hours, John found himself sitting with Sherlock on a bench in a park, sipping cold coffee. He had declared that there was nothing more that he could do for that day. DI Lestrade had given John an exasperated look when Sherlock had finished with transferring all the footage into a pen drive and a silent warning to the latter to not come traipsing around in NSY whenever he felt like.
"I didn't know you were so good with disguises."
Sherlock turned to look at him. You don't know lots about me. His eyes traced the path of the single rivulet of sweat running down John's tanned face, "I just get into the character," he replied dismissively.
"No.. I mean yes... even though I was peering at your face, I could hardly recognise you."
"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight," he chanted.
A pause for a few moments. "So... you and Greg, huh?" John figured that this was the only time when he could get Sherlock to open up about himself.
"What about us?" he frowned.
"I don't know... I remember you saying that you like watching him play soccer," John suddenly realised how dumb he sounded.
Sherlock nodded, frowning to himself, "Actually... I used to wonder how an idiot could have a more idiotic offspring, but that shouldn't come across as surprising, I suppose."
"Sherlock!"
He rolled his eyes, smiling impishly, "You know what I mean, John. I'm only joking."
"Greg's my friend," John let it drop. He had been forced into a life of secrets. He had to keep his friendship with Greg and Mycroft a secret from everybody. He had to keep his time with Sherlock Holmes a secret from everybody. He had to keep Sherlock's secret from everybody. And he also had to keep his sexuality a secret from most people, including his parents, "and Mycroft too."
He trusted him. He knew that somewhere deep within, Sherlock hated keeping his secret from everyone and depriving himself of the appreciation of his genius. He knew that he would be burdening Sherlock with secrets of his own to keep. But Sherlock did not seem to mind in the slightest; instead, he simply nodded, attempting to process this new information, "I thought Lestrade was the only one capable of staying with my painful brother."
That was not the reply John had been expecting, "You guys are cousins, right?"
"We stay in the same house. Somewhat intermediate between cousins and brothers, according to most people anyway... So, Lestrade's trying to get back at James now? And I assume he told you not to tell anyone."
John could swear that Sherlock was the only person who called him 'James'.
"Yeah. But that doesn't mean that I'm not friends with Jim. He seems like a nice guy."
Seeing as Sherlock determinedly avoided commenting on John's last sentence, which sounded more like a suggestion than a statement, he added further, "You know what happened?"
Sherlock nodded, "Yes, but I think you should hear it from Lestrade himself. Or unless someone voluntarily tells you."
John nodded. He had a vague idea who that person might be.
"By the way," he continued, "I'm friends with James and Irene, much older than I'm with you. I might tell them."
John looked at him, trying to judge what he was trying to mean, "You could."
"Then why tell me?"
John smiled at how readily the answer rose to his lips, "You won't."
"You're sure about that?"
"One hundred percent. I trust you."
No one had ever said those words to Sherlock Holmes. Since childhood, he had been looked upon with suspicion, like he was a monster ready to tear everything apart. He had attempted to channelize his excess energy into boxing and athletics. And his family had completely given up on him when he had been found face-down in a ditch, overdosed and close to death, and when the doctors had revealed that he had been on drugs since a couple of months. Sherlock couldn't be trusted with anything.
Unfortunately, that brilliant mind of his meant that rehab was useless. They had no choice but to move to another place, somewhere where Sherlock's parents believed that no one knew about his drug habit. So, they moved him to Westhaven, where Sherlock could start his life over again. He had been burdened with seven subjects just so he could keep his mind off... things. And then John Watson said those words so easily without a second thought about who Sherlock really was and what his past was. So easily and so honest. Sherlock felt so overwhelmed as he looked down at John's small tanned hand holding the coffee and wished if there had been his hand instead.
Any other person would have asked about what was wrong with Sherlock and Mycroft being brothers and even would have tried to preach something about familial sentiment. But John left it at that.
Even James had never said that to him. Although, why would he? He found the protests of his mind dwindling rapidly in volume, "You do?" his voice came out, almost choked.
John chuckled quietly at that, as if trusting Sherlock Holmes were the most natural thing in the world, "You said that the sun goes around the earth."
Sherlock was completely derailed from the ongoing thought-processes in his head, "Sorry what?"
"Today morning, in the guise of that policeman with that horrible accent. You said that the sun goes around the earth and that it's general knowledge."
"So?" Sherlock realised he had said something inaccurate and his tone became defensive automatically, "What are you trying to say?"
John gave out a laugh, "Are you serious?! Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the sun?"
"So what if I don't know?"
John's eyebrows were in the danger of disappearing in his hair, "How d-? ... this is primary school stuff. How can you not know it?"
"It doesn't matter. I must have deleted it."
"Doesn't... okay!" John smiled and raised his hands midway in the air, "Not judging you at all," he looked at his watch, and groaned almost inaudibly, "Er- sorry Sherlock, I'll have to go. My mum gets really worried-"
Sherlock stood up abruptly and whispered, "Goodnight John," see you tomorrow.
John stood watching Sherlock's black silhouette wading through the streets of London, before deciding to get back to his own humble abode.
The next day, Sherlock decided to text John before he set off.
School or case? SH
The reply was fast, like it was kept readymade.
Case. Where to meet?
That same office building. SH
John did not want to ask from where Sherlock had got the cash required for the bricks when he spotted a black backpack on him. All Sherlock said was that it contained the second half of the total amount of money he was required to pay. He wouldn't be surprised if someday he got to know that Sherlock had been arrested for having stolen the amount from his parents' bank account. He knew the great lengths to which his friend could go to get to the bottom of the matters concerning the case.
When they reached at Mr. Montgomery's on Oxford Street, they were met with an unpleasant surprise. Usually, the pawnbroker was very quick with his responses to any customers and especially to Basil. Sherlock, suspecting something very wrong, crept into the shop with John at his heels stealthily.
They had come across Mr. Montgomery, shot in the head and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.
More action to follow. I'll get back to the main story after two chapters, because... well, there's no other scenario that portrays their (John and Sherlock's) dynamic best :)