Another chapter, guys. Hello and thank you to our new readers and, as always, our old. (:
Mycroft stood in the doorway. Sherlock and John stood in the middle of the drawing room. They stared at one another in silence. Mycroft in his usual uptight position. Umbrella hooked securely on his arm. "Sherlock."
"Mycroft. How kind of you to finally arrive. I'm sure Samuel would be honoured."
"I'm not here for Penber."
"Oh I know," Sherlock chuckled. "You never could address your toys by first name, could you?"
John observed the pair shoot daggers at each other and felt silence would best suit him at the current moment. He did not wish to be brought into another Holmes brawl. No matter if it was verbal or physical. "Do you have it, Sherlock?"
"Perhaps," replied Sherlock childishly. As if he was hiding the fact he had just broken mummy's best china plate.
"Grow up, little brother."
"If you haven't noticed, Mycroft, I already have."
Mycroft let out a frustrated sigh as he entered the room. He took a momentary glance at staining blood on the floor before he tore his sight back to Sherlock. No sign of disgust or pleasure crossed his face. He conveyed nothing. This made John all the more uncomfortable. "Hand it over, Sherlock. Please." Sherlock laughed as he reached into his pocket and threw the miniature stick at Mycroft. He swiftly caught it, explained the edge and pocketed it. "There we go. Wasn't so difficult, was it?"
Turning on his heels, Mycroft started walking back towards the door as if nothing had occurred. "You wouldn't care if he died, would you?"
He froze in his space. Muscles tensing. "Would you?" His voice laced with ice.
"Of course not but that's not the point, brother dearest. The point is whether you would. Goodbye, Mycroft." With that the sound of God Save The Queen began to hum through the room causing Mycroft to continue his journey out of the building. It only stopped when the black car drove away.
"Remind me to never go to one of the Holmes Christmas dinners."
"John, don't be so normal." Sherlock laughed. "Mummy makes sure everything's perfect. Mycroft and I are not allowed to fight."
"Oh, sounds... Half decent." John nodded; he studied the room and ignored Sherlock's over excited examination. Sherlock threw himself to the floor and, lying face down, proceeded to mutter to himself. He stood up and dusted himself off.
"John, there are no clues." He said quietly.
"Huh?" John asked, surprised at Sherlock's bluntness. He would've usually spent hours, if needed, examining the room. Checking that everything was perfect.
"No clues. Not a single one." Sherlock muttered. "So think. If you were a criminal mastermind, a 'proper genius', what would you do?"
"Hire someone else to do it for me?"
"Exactly! So, now our question is... Who did he hire?"
"A group of thugs." John answered.
"Yes," Sherlock sighed, "but what thugs? Which ones? Names, ages, addresses. We need these things!"
"Can't you do some of your Sherlock discoveries and find a footprint that says he's so-and-so tall or this-and-that wide?"
"Not without the evidence!" Sherlock shouted. "And there's no evi-" he paused, turned around and faced John. "You're amazing!"
"I'm what now?" John asked, his eyebrows shooting up.
"You conduct genius!" Sherlock shouted. "Footprints!"
"Footprints?"
"Footprints, John! Footprints!" Sherlock grinned, running out to the back door, the one they'd entered through the first time they came into the house. John followed close behind. Sherlock pressed himself up against the doorframe and looked closely at the hinges.
"The door was opened forcefully. Skilfully, but forcefully." He said loudly, not expecting John to be so close behind him. "And now to look at the footprints." He pushed the door open and stepped out into the garden. It was a mess, the same mess as it'd been earlier. Sherlock was peering at the ground, as close as he could get without rubbing his nose on the dirt.
"She-"
"Shut up, John." Sherlock interrupted. John complied and remained inside of the door frame so he would not 'tamper' with evidence. "When you subtract the two sets of footprints made by us it is easy to figure out our men."
Sherlock stood up and beamed at John. A gleam in his eye that expressed the amount of entertainment he was getting from this. "Well?"
"Four men of course. All in their mid thirties. Minus one of the men who was in his early forties. The elder man is six foot five and weighs roughly sixteen stone whilst two of the younger men are both six foot two. One weighs fourteen stone whilst the other matches the weight of the elder. The remaining man is five seven and eleven stone though he was weighed down on one side suggesting he was holding a rather heavy object used to assault Penber." Sherlock began pacing around the garden carefully, looking for more clues. "The smaller man was here to open the door. Whilst the older man paced up and down. The two others remained pretty still for some time before they all entered the house. Eldest first." Barging past John, Sherlock ran towards the front door. "Mr Fourteen Stone walked over to, and unlocked, the front door. He waited for a few moments at the door before joining everybody in the living room. So he let somebody in. Somebody who didn't want to get his feet dirty. Do you know what this means, John?"
John looked puzzlingly at Sherlock. Trying to process the large information he had just been handed. "Not really, no."
"It means, John, we have somebody familiar with my methods! He's playing a game because he knows I'd want to play. Oh I do love the smart ones." John let out a disapproving sigh. "Easy to figure out after you pointing out the footprints. Can't believe you thought of it."
"I do possess some intellect, thank you very much." John huffed.
"Yes but by reminding me of the footprints you have given us an insight to our villains!"
"Uhuh." John agreed, he began drumming a repetitive pattern on his thigh. "So, what n-"
Sherlock grabbed John's elbow and raced out of the door. He watched the ground carefully, John didn't say anything more. Sherlock suddenly whined, watching the floor.
"No! No, no, no!" He shouted. "No! The tracks are gone!"
"What tracks?"
"The footprints, John! Keep up!" Sherlock looked at him, questioning something. "Silly little minds... But, John, if you wanted to get around without being seen, how would you do it?"
"Borrow the invisibility cloak?" John joked. A single, sudden look from Sherlock stopped John's larking about. "I'd take a taxi. People never remember taxis."
John's mind flashed back to the first case he ever helped Sherlock with. A Study in Scarlet. The taxi driver with the pills...
Sherlock jerked him roughly out of his thoughts with a hearty slap on the back.
"Well done, John! You're learning!" Sherlock reached into his pocket and began texting. John read over his shoulder, typically Sherlock the text was neither polite nor explanatory.
Need records of all cars that came down the street in the last day. - SH
"Come along, John." Sherlock yelled, walking around the side of the house and down the street path. Forcing John to run to catch up.
"And where are we going exactly?"
"Dinner I believe."
"Dinner?"
"Yes, dinner. It's a meal that people usually have in the evening after lunch but before supper." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, John, keep up will you."
John resisted the urge to snap back and continued walking next to the detective. "And will you be eating?"
"Case."
"Right. Apologies."
Sherlock waved it off as he continued walking and turned a corner. "I do believe the place we're looking for is just around the next corner."
The pair walked up a long path for what seemed like forever until they finally reached the corner Sherlock had talked about. Once around it, they soon drew to a stop outside the neon light front of a fish and chip shop. Bright blue and red lights shone in John's eyes as his nose picked up the distinct smell of battered cod. "Fish and chips?"
"Best in London. Even if on the outskirts." Sherlock pushed open the door, making it produce a large ding. Almost immediately a plump woman emerged from behind the counter. Her cheeks a scarlet red.
"Sherlock!" She beamed, leaning on the counter. "The usual?"
"No," Sherlock replied. "This time I'm here looking for food."
The large woman laughed and slapped the counter in front of her. She spun around and, with surprising grace for a woman of her size, picked up an order. She handed it to a small teen boy before taking his change and putting it to rest in the till.
"Um..." John looked at Sherlock, who was looking at John expecting something. "I'll have a battered cod and ships."
"Large?" The woman asked, "Only, a large is code for 'help me, I've been kidnapped by Sherlock Holmes'." She giggled to herself. John shook his head.
"Small, please." Sherlock said with a smile. He seemed quite at ease with this woman, which surprised John. Although, John shouldn't be surprised any more, this Sherlock was a different person to the man that 'died'.
"John, meet Jo. She's the woman that kept me informed on the movements of the thugs in the Dinkleburg case."
"Ah, so she's your invaluable source." John realised. "Nice to meet you, Jo. John Watson."
"Joanna Tyler." She smiled back, holding a cone of chips out to Sherlock. "Now, you Mister, better eat. You're so skinny; it's not good for a body."
"I'm on a case. I don't eat. Digesting slows me down." Joanna sighed. "Although, I am hungry for information. Have a group of four men, three are thirty something, and there should be an older man, tall, late thirties or early forties, been in here recently?"
"Oh, Sherlock!" She cried. "You don't mean Jack and his young lads, do you now?"
"It depends," he said lightly, "they may have saved a man's life."
"Well then!" She beamed, "I'll send them over to you, if you're willing to wait. Usually they come here for their lunch, around six-ish."
"We'll wait. John, grab your food and sit." Sherlock nodded. "I'll be right back."
"Hey, that's not fa-" John protested, but it was too late and Sherlock had already left the shop.
"He does that all the time, dear." She laughed. "You sit down and I'll get your order ready. It's best you wait for him to come back."
John waited in the corner by the window. He felt shattered after the last eventful three or four hours. Rushing from the press release to a pub and then from an exploding building. The hospital wasn't exactly pleasant either. This chip shop looked like the most pleasant place of the day and it still looked like the last place he expected to have found Sherlock in. Especially there to eat. It all seemed a bit weird that he was still finding information about Sherlock out. After so long. "Sweetie, your order is ready!"
John turned his head to the counter to find Joanna smiling at him, his order in her hand. He smiled back and went over to collect his order. The chips looked cooked to perfection and the batter looked just right. Not too crispy but not soaky like that nasty sort you get. Thanking Joanna, who refused payment because "a friend of Sherlock's is a friend of Joanna's"; John retreated back to the corner and began to start his meal.
He had to agree. These were the best fish and chips he had had in a long time. It didn't take long for him to eat it all and he was glad that Sherlock had made his order a small. He was absolutely full. The idea of Sherlock polishing off an entire portion to himself made John want to laugh. That runt of a man hardly ever ate. It was like he survived on oxygen alone.
Sherlock hauled himself over the ledge of the roof. His slim frame was easily too small to weigh much more than he could lift. He slipped over the roof slates, making less sound that a breeze of wind.
"...and then 'e turned to me an' begged - 'tually begged - for us to stop." A rough voice laughed. Sherlock's ears pricked up. Was this the man he was looking for? He sulked closer to the open window from which the voice was coming from. "But the lads 'ad enough. We bugger'd off an' went to the pub."
"Indeed." A young woman said, Sherlock could tell it was a young woman, highly educated and upper class. "I can see you had some fun there." She cleared her throat. "But, as always, I must be off. It's a nice day and I want to stop by the shops for a quick peek in the sales. I'll see you next week, Uncle."
"Oh, aye. Take care, Tara, love." The rough voice laughed. There was an exchange of pleasantries that Sherlock ignored; this wasn't the man he wanted. He took an uncertain step over the roof tiles and made sure he was balanced. He took another. Soon he was on the other side of the building. From here he could see Penber's house, the front at least. Although, he reasoned, there was no way anyone could see the front of Penber's house from anywhere on the street but this maisonette. The thugs had to be here.
John looked out of the window, laughing to himself as he thought about Sherlock trying to eat a whole meal. Something about it was hilarious and he couldn't take his mind off the idea. Maybe it was the fact that Sherlock seemed only to eat when it was socially excepted, when he wasn't working, or when he was bullied into it. What was it he'd said... 'Everything else is transport'? John couldn't imagine neglecting his body like that. He wiped his face with the small napkin left out for him.
Jo's bustling energy seemed to warm up the shop, she waddled over to him.
"Was that alright, duckie?" She laughed. She seemed to be permanently laughing. "Did it fill you up?"
"Y- yeah, thanks." John smiled, one of the first true smiles he'd smiled in a while.
"Lovely. Anything else I can get you? Drinks?"
"Um... A coke would be great. Or tea."
"Oh, I'll make us both a cuppa." Jo smiled. "Sherlock loves a good cuppa."
"He does." John smiled. He looked down at his hands as Jo scurried to the back room. They were shaking. What?
John shook his head. This wasn't proper behaviour for him. Outside he heard the scurrying of city life and the loud, boisterous sound of men approaching.