Thanks for deciding to venture on to Chapter 3!
This was originally supposed to be two chapters, but it's looking like it'll be five or six long now...
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An Unwanted Visit from a Brother
'Mrs Hudson, there's no milk!' There was no reply, 'MRS HUDSON!'
The next door neighbours threw something at the wall, Sherlock stuck his tongue out at them.
Still hearing no response from his land lady, he briefly considered going without any tea, then realised the absurdity of this notion, and decided to act.
I understand that this may seem a little dramatic, but for Sherlock, the decision to leave the flat showed how truly bored he was after he had unofficially been suspended. If I'm going to be honest, Lestrade had been waiting a while for the opportunity to get rid of Sherlock (only for a bit, mind) because even though he had accidently taken on the role of assistant carer to the great buffoon, occasionally, enough was enough.
Sherlock, still dressed in a pair of brushed cotton pyjama bottoms and his sheet, went to leave his flat. He then thought better of it and quickly replaced the sheet with a silk dressing gown, then slipped on a pair of black brogues.
Who needs matching clothes when your IQ is probably higher than the entirety of the east end?
Grabbing the keys from the small china bowl, he swept out of the flat and down the stairs, slamming the front door behind him as he made his way out into the street.
His designer shoes clicked forcefully as he walked purposefully down the pavement. Curtains swished closed when he passed, some opened slightly, their owners gawping at the strange man who lived down the road with lovely Mrs Hudson.
'Poor lady,' some would mutter.
'Why does she think it's her duty to look after that?'
'I heard he lives there for free, scrounging off an old woman like that, there's just no place to low for some people!'
Little did they know that to Sherlock, their reaction was exactly what he wanted. He had discovered a long time ago (after trying to impress his school friends with a dead rat) that if you can't join them, creep them out until they leave you alone.
As he continued his way down the street, pace at a rare leisurely stroll, he basked in the looks he was been given. The air fizzled around him with the warning of an oncoming storm, each curl on his head became tighter with anticipation and each footfall mimicked that of a thunderclap.
Sherlock was paying little attention to the weather, his mind focused on past cases, trying to see any possible links between them, the only form of paranoia he would allow himself. A nervous tick is what brother said, Sherlock of course then made every point of continuing it.
He neared the supermarket, the doors swung open before him announcing his arrival. Briefly, he stood at the entrance, the look on his face was that of an animal surveying his territory, when really he was just looking for sign that indicated where he might find the milk.
To others this may have been a simple, everyday task, to Sherlock, this was a new challenge.
Dressing gown wafting around his slender frame, he hastily made his way along the isles.
Whilst staring at the multitude of milk brands, he hadn't noticed the tall, well-suited man glide up to stand behind him. The man crossed one leg over the other, his umbrella taking his weight, and arched an eyebrow as he studied Sherlock, his head forming quick answers to the questions that came to mind.
With a loud, melodramatic sigh, he said, 'You don't even know what brand you drink.'
Sherlock sneered, his eyes not leaving the rainbow of packaging, 'The small things are irrelevant.'
'The small things are what make us who we are, for example, the fact that hadn't even processed the words written on the milk at home before you left to go and get some, tells me that you're unusually distracted. I've also taken note that you're not wearing a top, a little extravagant even for you don't you think? And since you are…under dressed for public formalities, I can see that you've lost some weight, not because of a case, I had my people check, so instead something else. Which leads me to wonder, what on earth would have the great Sherlock Holmes tied up in a forgetful, semi-nude state and to top it all off, result in him showing emotion?' There was a hint of concern laced into his controlled monotone speech.
'You already know, so why don't we skip the formalities Mycroft,' as an afterthought he added, 'and I am not semi-nude, I'm wearing a dressing gown.'
Mycroft took a step forward and handed him a blue topped milk carton with a green label that read 'Organic! Not just great for the environment, but also for your health!'
'You need all the nutritional help you can get,' he uttered, and then said more sincerely, 'If you want me to, I can track them down for you, it won't take long.'
Sherlock took the carton, but remained staring at the bottles, 'You of all people should know the rules Mycroft, no meddling with fate,' he bit out the last word.
'But if I was to involve myself, then it would be fate wouldn't it.'
'Just leave it,' he waited a breath, then turned his head to look at Mycroft, he was surprised to find sadness replacing what he had imagined to be anger, 'Please.'
Straightening his back, he turned on the spot and proceeded to march towards the self-checkouts, Sherlock walking alongside him.
…
He stood outside Scotland Yard later that day(fully clothed this time) and debated whether to just walk in and presume his business of convincing Lestrade to let him work again, or to sneak in and blackmail Anderson to let him know the details on how the crime was handled. He went with option A, as Anderson couldn't be relied on to deliver accurate information.
As the lift doors opened with a ping, he stepped out and walked (making sure to pass Anderson and Donovan) straight to Lestrade's office, where he swung the door open to find a rather pissed off Detective Inspector with his feet upon the desk and a case file in his hand.
'Sherlock, I'm fairly sure I remember telling you to go home!'
'Yes, and I was at home, but now I'm here so let me see the case file,' he held out a hand expectantly and made a small 'give' gesture.
Lestrade snorted, 'I don't think so, not until you've got over what happened, you can't just go on like normal.'
His eyes narrowed suspiciously, his hand lowered slowly to his side, 'You've been talking to my brother haven't you.'
'Look, he called me to ask-'
'You have no right to help Mycroft keep tabs on me,' he said accusingly, almost in a childlike whine.
Lestrade let his feet swing off the desk and rested his arms there instead, 'It was always part of the deal, Mycroft would stop bugging you directly, and as a replacement, would start badgering me.'
Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms, 'I am perfectly capable to work, it's better than sitting at home with nothing but boredom and Mrs Hudson's incessant singing keeping me company, it makes me sick.'
'Trust having a holiday to make the freak bored,' Donovan drawled.
Sherlock remained facing Lestrade, but bit back over his shoulder, 'I apologise for my brain not being as simple as yours is to find happiness in doing nothing, clearly you don't use it that much.'
'Hey! We are not staring this again, I refuse to have fighting in the office,' Lestrade said, sounding like a teacher telling off two bickering students.
He stood and walked out of his office, Sherlock then Donovan and then Anderson followed him. The large room was filled with people working on a variety of cases, from petty theft to serial murder. A quiet hum of hard working people slowly changed to a light natter as one person noticed the aggravated leader, the tall pouting man, the grumpy woman and the intrigued smaller man all walking in a row around the bull pen. They then pointed this out to their colleague, who then told her friend, who told his, who told theirs, until eventually the whole room was fixed on the strange quartet.
At least they were, as by the time they had reached the coffee machine, the lift sounded its' customary ding, and the shiny, silver door slid open.
They weren't anyone special, as in, they didn't have an IQ that would rival any of the Holmes', nor did they look like they had just stepped off the catwalk. But to a certain person in that room, they couldn't have been any better.
Jessica Newman (aged eighteen), located in the far corner of the room directly opposite the lift, was interning at the Yard, she certainly wasn't expecting anything phenomenal to happen on a Monday afternoon at the place she had an unpaid job.
But her luck had changed, and now, her person had finally entered her life. Whether they would be a lover or a friend, or just someone who would offer her hand and accidently change her life, no one knew. Nor did anyone know that he was anything special to her, until…
A slight tingle blossomed on the back of her neck. It spread, slowly working its way down her spine and through her nervous system, her insides fizzled like a bath bomb. Hers would be a gentle relationship, not explosive or dangerous, however, it was still too soon to tell if would a relationship of love of friendship.
By this point, he too had realised that something was happening, something he had only ever read about, something he had only witnessed once as a young boy. Nathan Wicke, twenty-one years old, had recently finished university, where he gained a degree in English Literature and was sent here by the same agency that sent Jessica there, only he was to assist on a case that required detailed knowledge on 18th century English.
The room had long since fallen silent, every person had their eyes glued on the newcomer and the girl. Both of them were entranced by their own thoughts, Jessica stood and turned to face Nathan, he smiled giddily and she returned the gesture.
At first it seemed as though they were blushing, entirely in their right, given that approximately forty-two people were staring at them, mouths agape. Surprisingly, to the curious crowd, the blush consumed them in them in a soft pink glow. Love, was the way they were headed.
…
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