Act III: Irregular Times Call For Irregular People
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Sherlock opened the door to the street and stuck his head into the night air. "Well?"
A girl, lean of appearance and impatient of attitude, pushed past him and headed for the stairs. She ignored him as she simply brushed past the Doctor on the stairs, disappearing into the room at the top. Sherlock followed her in a rather spritely rush, the Doctor smiling to himself before catching up.
He came to the room to see it empty, and followed the sounds of tinkling and fridge doors. He followed he noises to snake his head round the doorjamb of the kitchenette, finding Sherlock, arms folded resolutely, watching the girl swing a long blond ponytail out of the side of her face. She appeared to be invested in the act of creating a sandwich large enough to sate a pair of lions in London Zoo as the kettle boiled away happily next to her left elbow.
"Well?" Sherlock repeated.
"Make it twenty-five," she said easily, slapping the last of the house's cheese onto the pile of lettuce and sliced ham atop a doorstop of bread. She went back to the fridge and took out a squeezy bottle of mayonnaise. "Nice. Did your boyfriend buy it ya?"
"My blogger bought it," Sherlock said firmly.
"Whatever," she smiled, upending it to douse the edible mess beneath in man-made mayonnaise nirvana with a rather rude raspberry from the bottle.
"Twenty-five quid then," Sherlock agreed, reaching out and taking the mayonnaise from her before she managed to empty the nearly-new container. She tutted but otherwise ignored him as he righted it and slapped the cap shut. "Well?"
"I haven't heard nothin'," she said, lifting another doorstop and roofing the sandwich with it. She picked it all up carefully and took a huge bite that would have scared any beach-goer at Amity Island.
"Anything," Sherlock corrected absently, making the Doctor smile slightly. "Are you sure? It was taken from the V and A earlier today. Looks like a useless candlestick."
She chomped on the sandwich as the Doctor went around them both, making a fresh cup of tea.
"Who's this bloke?" she asked around a mouthful of food.
"An acquaintance," Sherlock said irritably.
"Well he's better looking than your other boyfriend," she breezed.
"Look, do you want twenty-five pounds or not?" Sherlock snapped impatiently.
"Yeah, I do," she nodded, taking another huge bite. "Just can't 'elp you, Mr Holmes. No idea. Never heard of no candlestick."
Sherlock's face twisted into irritation and he opened his mouth. However, the hesitation of wondering if grammar-policing were worth it kicked in, prompting him to huff and shake his head, letting it go. "Fine. Then perhaps when you do hear something, you'd be good enough to be useful," he said swiftly. He put a hand out and hooked it through her arm, turning to pull her from the kitchen.
"I ain't had me tea!" she protested.
"No information, no tea," Sherlock said brusquely.
"Hang on a minute," the Doctor called. "She could at least get the sandwich down her neck."
"Yeah, see?" she said with a huff, tugging her arm free. She looked up at the Doctor. "Least you has a heart - more'n this morbid sod's got."
"I'm busy, and you're not helpful in any way," Sherlock said simply.
The Doctor looked from him to the girl. "Where do you live? Perhaps you could call us if you hear anything."
She turned a large smile on him, until she took another bite of her food. "I don't have no phone," she allowed, the amount of food in her cheeks enough to make a hamster proud. "You need a fixed address for one of them proper ones."
"Then… where do you sleep?" the Gallifreyan asked, his face slowly settling into one of annoyed concern.
"Wherever I want," she said defensively. She looked at Sherlock. "If something happens, I'll tell you, alright?"
"Fine," he nodded. "Come on, you're taking up thinking time." He put a hand out to push at her in raging impatience.
But the Doctor's arm came out and he blocked the other man's way. "Just wait," he said firmly. "It's cold outside. Let her have the tea."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed in apparent confusion, before he turned away and crossed to the window. His long, thin fingers rested on the handle and abruptly it became obvious to the others in the room that nothing short of a four-minute warning alarm would be able to encroach upon his inner thoughts. The Doctor eyed him before turning his attention back to the girl.
"Don't worry about him," she said quietly, winking at the Timelord. "He's a bit funny in the 'ead. Think he's maybe a robot under that take-you-apart-for-study face. You watch him, you'll see what I mean," she nodded.
"Right," the Doctor breathed.
He chatted to her as she finished her sandwich, and then her tea. Sherlock remained immobile, staring out of the window. Eventually, the girl left and the Doctor retreated to the table between the windows, picking up the first newspaper he saw and opening it up.
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Watson fairly bounced down the stairs, his humour much restored by his recent private conversation as he turned right and opened the door to the sitting room, walking through with a very slight hum under his breath. Entering the kitchenette, his hands went out automatically to set the kettle to boil and two slices of bread to hover over the toaster. He paused, realising something was about to make it impossible to get one of the slices in.
He put both hands on the counter, peered at the toaster, and then groaned, looking straight up at the ceiling.
"Sherlooooooock!" he called wearily.
"Been talking to Sarah?" was Sherlock's barely audible response.
Watson kept his mouth shut against the rude rejoinder that threatened to spill forth and embarrass him, and it was then that he looked to his right, to find his flatmate stood by the window, watching the outside world. Then he noticed a brown-haired head just taller than the backrest of his adopted armchair, enjoying a newspaper open at the middle pages.
Watson cleared his throat. "Sherlock!" he tried again. "There's a leather wallet in the toaster!"
"Well done," the detective muttered to the window.
"I said, there's a-"
"Yes John, I heard you!" he called back, suddenly willing to raise his voice. "Leave it, I need it for a very important experi-"
"No!" Watson warned. "No no no no no! I will not go without supper just because you want to measure how long it takes for a bloody credit card to melt, or whatever it is you're obsessing over now!" he hurled angrily.
"In a domestic toaster? About forty-two minutes," the Doctor put in helpfully from his position of comfort.
Sherlock whirled to look at him. "Forty-two?"
He bent the right corner of his newspaper down to see over it. "A typical toaster, yes," he nodded.
"Oh." Sherlock looked back at the window, but his right hand came up over his shoulder in a dismissive wave. "Take it out, John."
Watson was already tipping the appliance upside down, shaking it to get the offending article out. There was a thunk and a sigh, and then tinkling and clicking told them some serious toasting was underway. "Any progress?" he asked.
"No change. Obviously," Sherlock said slowly with deliberate clarity, his breath steaming up the glass slightly.
"Right. I'll be back down in two minutes. Do not touch my toast," Watson said firmly, before disappearing out of the room and back up the stairs.
The room lapsed into silence once more, all of the Doctor's attention on a slim silver instrument he was attempting to rub clean with the tail end of his shirt. The room was content to let it all slide by until the kettle began to whistle. Sherlock drifted toward it, his eyes distinctly unfocused as his mind wrestled with the arguments pertaining to the hypothesis of differing makes of glass cutters sharing common manufacturing sources, consequently making it harder to trace the exact manufacturer or date of creation with less than three scratches to go on. He turned off the gas just as the toast jumped up from the appliance. He put a hand out and, without even looking, took one slice and jammed it in the corner of his mouth. He turned and went back to the window to munch on it idly. To the Doctor's experienced eye, this appeared more to do with the relevant parts of his anatomy being on autopilot that any connection to feelings of hunger or need.
Watson came back down the stairs, going round to the kitchenette and making himself a cup of tea. He went to the fridge, brought out the butter-dish, and set it on the table. Then he turned to the toaster and found the solitary surviving slice of toast waiting for him.
He sighed, took it anyway, and dotted it with lumps of hard butter that still hadn't melted by the time he was looking for a clean plate to use. In the end he gave up, eating the toast as fast as he dared, lest it get itself stolen too.
His eyes caught movement from Sherlock and he looked up. The other man was opening the window and leaning out. He appeared to wave a hand before displaying fingers in some strange pattern. Watson shook his head but picked his tea up protectively as he heard the downstairs door open and Mrs Hudson's voice.
Feet on the stairs made all three of them look at the open door.
"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, a very familiar worrying tone to her voice, "there's a lad here to see you."
"Yes yes, I know." He came forward, stopping just short of bowling the young man over. "Well?"
"Now wait a minute," he said quickly, his hands up. "Abbi said there was twenty quid in it for me."
"Twenty-five if you tell me something verifiable and useful," Sherlock rattled off. "Now."
Mrs Hudson shook her head and retreated back down the stairs. The Doctor got up from the armchair slowly, watching everything with big eyes focused on the boy.
"Cool. Right then. There's this bloke, see, and he rocks up like half an hour ago and says he's lookin' for a candlestick."
"Who?"
"Dunno - just some bloke. From the city, I think, way he spoke. Business suit an' all that. He says he'll give us a tonne if we tell 'im where he can find it."
"How would he give you a hundred pounds?" Sherlock asked quickly.
"He says he'll be at the bridge tonight, waitin' for news," the boy replied innocently. "Me and Gemma'll be waitin'. We want to split it."
"How romantic," Sherlock said crisply. "What time?"
"He said eleven. Said he was busy 'fore that."
Sherlock looked at his watch quickly. "That's in thirty minutes." His eyes went back to the boy. "So where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"The candlestick! The candlestick the man asked you for!" he cried.
"Dunno. No-one's seen it, but Abbi said you only asked her like an hour ago. Not even we can get news that fast, mate."
Sherlock pouted at the floor.
"Can I have my twenty-five quid now?" the youth asked pointedly.
Sherlock snapped his fingers at Watson. Twice.
Watson just looked back at him. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said deliberately dumbly. "Did you want something?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and the impatient way his shoulders went up and out straight told the others in the room just how close he was to giving his frustration free rein. He put his right hand out, palm up, and twitched the fingers closed and open over and over with intense irritation.
Watson pouted at the palm. Then, very slowly, he turned and put his cup down on the kitchenette table. He wandered back again as leisurely as he could, before finding his wallet in his jeans pocket. He snapped the popper open and looked inside. "I've only got fifteen quid," he said maliciously, raising his eyes to Sherlock's.
He fumed, but the Doctor was already feeling through his right trouser pocket. "Now, hang on, let me see what I've got," he said loudly, pulling out a very antiquated fold-over wallet, made either of leather or the strangest carpet swatch known to sentient life-forms. He pulled it open and rifled through what appeared to be all manner of paper items. "A Caprican cubit, no… Arkturian dollar? No. Ooh - couple of pound notes - guess they'll be out of date now. Oh! Here we go - twenty pounds, the new one." He slid it out and proferred it to the lad watching him with wide eyes.
"Thanks," the boy said. Watson came forward and handed him a five pound note. "I'll be off then. You wants anything else, you ask me, ok?"
"Go," Sherlock said testily, waving him toward the door. The boy swept out, closing the door behind him.
"Just once, it'd be nice if you paid your own people," Watson said meaningfully.
"So that's another Baker Street Irregular," the Doctor grinned to himself. "Nice."
"A what?" Sherlock asked.
"Nothing, don't mind me," the Doctor said happily.
"Don't forget, he owes you twenty pounds," Watson warned.
"Oh it's only money," Sherlock said dismissively, going back to the window. He turned suddenly and snatched up his coat. "Well let's go - the bridge."
"What bridge? Where?" Watson demanded, lost.
"I know which one. Come on - let's see who this man is, shall we?"
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The taxi ride was short but definitely not sweet, as the Doctor deemed it safer to sit in between the others. Watson made a few pointed remarks regarding everyone else's sanity, but Sherlock's attention was definitely out to lunch - if lunch included heavy symposiums on the diverse patterns made by different years of Bridgestone tyres for a whole range of public service vehicles between the years 2005 and 2011.
After a good fifteen minutes of stiff silence, the Doctor paid the fare and they climbed out to find themselves under a rather dingy, stinking bridge next to a spectacularly unremarkable river.
"Nice," Watson said with sarcastic cheer, pulling his jacket tighter and plunging his hands into his pockets. "You do know all the most charming spots."
"I didn't realise you thought of it as a date," Sherlock shot back petulantly.
The Doctor brought himself up to Sherlock's shoulder. "Now now," he admonished. "We're early. We'll see all the exciting stuff soon enough. Where are we supposed to be hiding?"
Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and strode off. Watson followed, casting a look at the taller doctor.
"Sorry about him. He's a bit lacking in social graces," he offered.
"Don't worry about it. That's why he's got you."
Watson glanced at him but they walked on in companionable silence. Catching up with the grumpy detective, they found themselves concealed under the side of a tall bridge of indescribable smell. Watson managed to avoid touching the metal and stone-clad arch by his shoulder, but the Doctor next to him put a finger straight out and against the mulchy, rotting surface, licking the tip in thought.
"Excuse me, could you not do that please?" Watson asked politely. "It makes me want to heave."
" 'Course, sorry," the Gallifreyan replied.
"Sshh!" Sherlock hissed irritably. "This isn't a school trip!"
The other two shared a glance that small boys at the back of the school bus have been using for fifty years or more before clearing their throats and pretending they were being serious. Sherlock took a step back suddenly, forcing the two behind him to shrink further into the shadows.
"There's Brian. And Gemma," he whispered, as two figures sloped into view on the muddy bank. They wandered together, it seemed, hand-in-hand and apparently listless. Finally they came to a stop just forty or so yards from the bridge. The young lad turned his head for a moment, just a moment, but it made Sherlock smile to himself. "Clever boy," he murmured. "He's checking we're watching all this."
They waited in silence.
Minutes passed. Then more. Time just kept coming and coming, rolling past unchecked. Watson lifted his wrist and pushed the jacket back to peer at his watch in the darkness. Eventually he sussed out the hands.
"It's nearly half past eleven," he whispered. "Do you think he's still coming? Maybe he saw Brian come to up to the flat earlier."
"Sshh," Sherlock managed softly. "Look."
They stared, fascinated, as a lone figure came along the riverbank. The water lapped gently, the stars peeked out from behind vast grey clouds, and even the moon got in on the action, reflecting down on the three people visible on the bank.
The newcomer walked briskly, a large, dark coloured coat wrapping him up against the cold of the evening. He came to a stop a good ten feet from the two youngsters, his hands deep in his coat pockets.
"I don't like this," Watson whispered.
The man lifted a single hand - his right - from his pocket. The moonlight glinted rather dully on the finish of a handgun. Watson began to move but Sherlock's shoulder jutted into his path deliberately, holding him back.
"You said you wanted the candlestick, man," came the young man's voice. "Don't you want it?"
"You haven't got it," was the loud, gruff response.
"Nah, but I know who has," Brian shot back. "You want it? You better give us the hundred quid and stop playing with that toy."
"What do you know?" the man said slowly.
"Fella called Pratt, down Covent Garden. He's got it," he said proudly. "Now where's my tonne?"
The man considered. And considered.
"Give him the money," Sherlock muttered to himself. "Come on, be a thief with a code."
The man let the gun drop to his right side, his other hand coming out of his pocket.
Watson was aware of a tiny buzzing noise, a strange blue light from somewhere by the taller doctor's side. He ignored it, watching the three people on the bank.
"John, Sherlock," the Doctor said quickly. "That's not money."
"What?" Sherlock blurted.
The Doctor pushed the other man out of his way, rushing out from under the bridge.
"Doctor!" Sherlock protested angrily. He tried to grab his coat.
"Brian! Gemma! Run for it!" the Gallifreyan shouted.
Right before the man on the bank raised his left hand, raining blinding light over the entire area.
Everyone ducked, stumbled.
Except Watson.
His hand slapped itself over his eyes in some vestige of army training. He rushed forward. By the time he could see without his fingers blocking most of the view, he had nearly stumbled over two people on the bank. He dropped to his knees, rolling them over and checking the pulse of the girl first.
He gasped out relief, turning to Brian and finding that he, too, had a strong pulse. He leant his weight on his right knee, looking around to try to locate anyone else on the bank. He saw two figures trying to stagger up blindly from the grassy mire.
He took a deep breath. "Sher-!"
Something smacked into the back of his head. He remembered he was not wearing a standard-issue army helmet just as he hit the muddy ground.
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