Dear God, He's Gone and Done It: Chapter 8
"Damn! We need to get our hands on the hospital security feeds."
Sherlock looked angry. Correction; Sherlock looked as though he might cause John some bodily harm.
"Calm down Sherlock. I'm sure she left on her own. If someone had come after her, I would have heard their footsteps or some sort of sound that she would have made."
"Are you sure about that? You didn't seem to hear a sound she made when she slipped away in the first place."
"Sherlock, let's just check the security footage, yeah."
Apparently, Mycroft had given strict orders that Sherlock and John were to be given access to anything they asked for because, when they asked for the footage, they were given complete access with no questions asked.
"See, Sherlock, she got up and left of her accord; nobody grabbing her and forcing her out of the front door."
"She shouldn't be leaving yet. What does she think she is doing?"
John, for once, knew exactly what she was up to. As Sherlock began to race out of the hospital, John did his best to keep up as well as dash off a quick text to Mycroft.
"S.O.S.! Our girl is gone. Left hospital alone. Find her. JW"
Whatever his involvement may or may not be, if someone was indeed after Sherlock and this woman was a link in that case, then Mycroft should be kept in the loop. Life would be much smoother for John himself in the long-run by playing by the rules.
"John, I will need you to get a message to Mycroft. Someone that is after me attacked her…."
"I've already done, Sherlock."
Sherlock merely looked at John, pleasantly surprised by the fact that his friend had anticipated the command before it was given.
"We should go back to Baker Street, at least for the moment, in case she turns up there."
"Then, what Sherlock?"
"I don't know; I have to think."
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Once back at Baker Street Sherlock and John raced up the stairs to their flat; Sherlock was already very clearly deep in thought….or at least trying to be. His thoughts were scattered and he wasn't sure why.
He barely knew this woman; although they had shared quite the interlude the other night, he still knew next to nothing about her….yet she was taking up a great portion of his thoughts. He shuddered to think of the mess she had made of his mind palace. He couldn't get a single thought to stick long enough to examine it closely. He vaguely heard John's voice breaking through the fog.
"What was that?"
"I think we need to consider her possible connection to Mycroft."
"Why should we? What on earth could Mycroft have to do with someone like her? She's not his type at all, for work or for play."
"Look at the facts for a moment will you. Focus Sherlock," although, if John had to be honest, it was somewhat humorous to see Sherlock all in a twist over a woman for a change. "She arrives here, at Baker Street, beaten about the head. She says her boss is a slave driver and he doesn't appreciate her….does that not sound a bit like Mycroft? Be honest. She mentions that someone is out to get you. In the ambulance she tells me that she will not allow anyone to get close enough to you to hurt you. If she was just a normal woman, why would she say such a thing? The average woman barely knows how to protect herself in a confrontation, let alone to protect someone else so thoroughly. And think about the fact that we were rerouted to a different hospital than Bart's. Why was that? And I might as well tell you that, when you left on that case with Lestrade, Mycroft made an appearance in Barbary's hospital room. He admits that he was behind the change of venue. He admits nothing so far as being Barbary's 'boss', but that is of little shock, he reveals little about his work usually. When he first entered the room his exact words were 'My dear girl, what have you gotten yourself into…'. He asked whether I thought she would be back to normal in a few days etc. When I told him what Barbary said about her boss not appreciating her, he turned to me before he left the room and told me that he always appreciated her. Sherlock, we have to at least examine the possibilities. If this was anyone else, you would have turned over every stone by now."
"Perhaps. But this leads me to my next question. What does Mycroft have on Barbary?"
"What? That's the question you ask?"
"Think about it. Barbary seems so…."
"Ordinary?"
"Almost. But she does seem at least somewhat intelligent. What sort of dirt does Mycroft have on her to get her to do his bidding? She seems too smart to get into business with him."
"Maybe. But, I still think that she's working for him in some capacity. It's the only thing that really makes much sense at all. And, like I said before, if this was anybody else, you would have already figured everything out. I think you have become rather attached to Barbary and rather quickly, too, I might add. And that may be clouding the issue." John new he was poking the bear.
"Don't be absurd. I don't do sentiment. Feelings for other people aren't my division.' Seeing John arching a brow at him, 'Ordinarily; although I do count you and Mrs. Watson as dear friends."
John could only roll his eyes a little harder, 'You deny having any feelings for her then?"
"John, I fail to see how this has anything to do with our current endeavor."
"That smelled faintly of denial."
"Do shut up."
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Across town in his posh old farts club, Diogenes, Mycroft received John's hastily sent text. Smiling somewhat smugly he fired one back at John.
'Find her. Whatever for. She is….her own '
John glanced at his phone.
"What has Mycroft said?"
"Nothing; just avoiding the truth. God, that must be an inherited trait."
John took a moment to fire yet another text back to Mycroft.
'She's her own woman? Or, is it that she is under your employ? Find her Mycroft! I shudder to think what Sherlock will do to those involved if something were to happen to her. JW'
Then almost as an after-thought….
'PS: How many times did Sherlock throw that American mercenary that beat Mrs. Hudson out of the window? JW.'
Momentarily his phone pinged with a response.
'You have a valid point there Dr. Watson. I will have my people locate her and find out her medical status. MH'
"I see that you have brow beaten my brother into doing your bidding. I am impressed John; didn't know you had it in you."
"Yeah, well it was either that or march into Diogenes and hold a gun to his head. As sorely tempting an option as that was, I don't relish being out-numbered by MI-6."
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Back at her apartment building, Barbary walked through the door, holding her hand to her head. That headache she was sporting from the beating she took had never really gone away. She knew she should have stayed in the hospital, but there was work that needed to be done. First things first; she had to touch base with Edward and Phillip to get what information they might have come across….that is if Mycroft hadn't already badgered them into giving it to him, making her efforts worthless.
They showed her the video feed from the other night, when she had Sherlock over….the dark feed with the man smoking the cigarette across the street, just out of range.
"Poppet, we also have these brief shots of him since then." Phillip had Edward play some of the raw footage that they had collected over the past few days. It was the same man, only some of the shots were in daylight. They could at least assume it was the same man. By using the night time footage and using the light from the cigarette in his mouth to estimate the man's height, they used an algorithm to get more details.
"We haven't been able to find his face in any of our databases…."Edward began explaining, but trailed off when he and Phillip noticed the pallor in Barbary's face change.
Taking a deep breath to steady herself, gripping the desktop for balance, 'You're not likely to. He's had work done to change his looks…even going so far as to have the doctor who did the work reshape portions of his jaw. And he's dyed his hair….maybe even cut it a bit."
"How can you possibly recognize him then?"
"I am the reason he had to get the work done. Or have you forgotten? Eight, maybe 10 years ago…Macedonia. I should have killed him when I had the chance."
"Ah. That's him? But, Poppet, you were out-numbered. The place was rigged with explosives, we were ordered to pull you out."
"Uh, yeah. I know. I planted nearly half of them. And now he's back to finish the job apparently. We'll see who comes out on top this time. I hope he brought back up."
"Last time they brought their own bombs….and guns, lots of them. Be careful what you wish for. But of course you did assassinate the assistant of the Prime Minister."
"He deserved to die. He was at the top of the food chain in the smuggling operation that had taken those girls. Beyond the fact that human trafficking is illegal and inhumane, he made his government look bad. I now have a flat with all the trimmings in Skopje at my disposal anytime I want it, courtesy of their President."
"Our point was he found out you were after him and made arrangements. If we had not pulled you out when we did…."
"Yes, I know. And, I know that both of you have been waiting for an excuse to go rogue on Mycroft ever since."
"He told us to ditch the operation. He knew you were still down there!"
"I know that as well. As you have said, the place was rigged with explosives; you could have all been killed. Sacrifice one for the greater good."
"No. We have seen to your welfare since we brought you back from Marrakesh. You're like our own daughter. If you go, we go. When the time comes, you will not be left out in the cold. Remember that." Edward smiled and Phillip winked.
Barbary hugged them both before turning back to the issue at hand, 'So the question remains…Who is our dear friend working for now?"
"Well, now that we know who it is, we can start to narrow down the possibilities."
"Quite right…." Barbary's head was still aching quite a bit from the head wound she had received just the day before and she couldn't repress the need to grasp her head in her hands now as the throb got worse. Apparently her pain meds were wearing thin.
"Did he do this? The man in the videos; did he do this?" Phillip was deadly serious. Nobody messed with his Poppet…
Barbary carefully shook her head. Edward stood and made to help her to the elevator; he was going to take her to her flat and see that she got some rest in her own bed.
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Ordinarily, Sherlock would have done all he could to come between John and Mary having a night in; if for no other reason than to be a total dick head….since he didn't get into conventional hobbies like football or whatever it was that the fellows were into these days, making other people's life difficult was it for him. He'd turned it into an art form. But tonight would be an exception; he had made reservations for John and Mary to have a nice quiet evening out at one of the best restaurants in town, the entire meal (including several of the finest bottles of wine) was paid for. He even managed to arrange to have one of Mycroft's cars to pick them up.
John knew he should be at least skeptical about the effort that Sherlock was putting into a date night for him and Mary. There was a stench of underhandedness about it all. Sherlock wasn't the kind of person that would just do all of this without some reasoning behind it. John knew, without asking, that it likely had something to do with Barbary. Oh! That's it. He's going to go looking for her and try to ferret out information and he doesn't want me rubbing it in that I was the one who actually 'observed' for a change. John could have laughed at his own train of thought. He knew there would be time to rub salt in the wound later. But tonight, he was going to enjoy this date with his wife fully.
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It had to have been 6:45 before John and Mary were picked up to begin their date night. Sherlock gave an extra ten minutes to be sure that they were well up the road without any chance of them seeing him before hailing a taxi for himself. He gave the driver the address; when he arrived at the building containing Barbary's flat, he paid and left the driver a handsome tip. Sherlock had used him as well as a few of his cabbie brethren to supplement his homeless network; and it paid dividends to take care of your sources. He knew that someone was out to get him and that someone had attacked Barbary, by having this cabbie keep his eyes and ears peeled as well as the feelers that he had with the network, he felt as though he would come to a conclusion in no time at all.
Next, he made his way into the building seeing the one older gentleman behind the desk.
"Phillip, is it?"
"Yeah? Oh, you're that bloke that was with our poppet…."
Edward happened to be exiting the lift at this time and saw Phillip talking to someone.
"Ah, yes. Mr. Holmes."
"You know who I am?"
"Sir, in this day and age, in this city, who doesn't? Besides, we know your…"
"Phillip!" Edward cut the chatty older man off quickly.
Phillip cleared his throat carefully. Edward glared at him a second longer before continuing.
"We know you're friends with our poppet. She has mentioned you, said you were an acquaintance of sorts. I just saw to it that she reached her flat safely. You may go up if you like."
"Sirs, I already know that you have dealings with my brother. I am not privy to the extent, nor do I care, but I do know that you move in…..similar circles. "
"How could you possibly…."
"Oh, Phillip, you old fool….First of all, he's Sherlock Holmes….that was a stupid question. Secondly, the fact that you all but told him pretty much gave it away. You know how Mycroft is, and you don't think that his brother would have inherited at least a portion of the man's intelligence and dedication to his work?"
Sherlock grinned smugly at the two older gentlemen, 'Quite right; although, in many ways I am far more intelligent than my brother."
"Then please explain to me why it is that your brother is for all intents and purposes the British government, making a handsome yearly salary with regular income, and you're…NOT."
"Boring." Was all that Sherlock said before he made his way to the lift and then, consequently, up to Barbary's flat.
Mumbling under his breath as Sherlock walked away from their security desk, Edward couldn't help but make an observation of his own.
"He's even more insufferable than his brother in a lot of ways."
"Yeah, but not by much. It's a shame they couldn't be more like their father, he's a good man."
"Or even their mum. She might ask 100 questions, but at least she's polite."
"Yeah, and she makes some puddings to die for."
"Phillip, really?"
"What? Her puddings are like m'own mum used to make….they're quite good if I say so myself."
"Well she does dote on you a bit."
"Because I complement her puddings."
"You're hopeless; stick to being a sniper." The two old friends fell into a small fit of laughter as they turned their attentions back to their security screens and making plans for a sweep of the building later.
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Sherlock finally made it to the floor that held Barbary's flat, picking the lock as he does with any door that stands in his way. Once he got the door opened, he assessed his Barbary's…..Barbary's condition.
'My Barbary?" Sherlock was taken aback trying to figure out where in the hell that came from. As it was, she was leaning against the wall that separated her main living space from her bathroom. She seemed to be taking deep breaths to try to control a bout of dizziness quite possibly; she didn't even seem to notice that Sherlock had picked the lock and was now standing completely inside of her flat.
"You should still be in hospital."
"Why? I'm a fully functionin…." She threw up her hand, holding up her index finger to signify that he would have to wait for her to finish that comment. She dove into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and Sherlock could distinctly hear her vomiting. She seemed to give herself an extra minute or two to make sure she was finished before brushing her teeth, cleaning herself up and exiting the room.
"What do you want Sherlock?"
"Why would you leave the hospital when you are clearly still in need of medical care?"
"That is what you came here for?"
"Hardly, it's merely the first question on my mind….followed up closely by….How do you know my brother?"
"Your brother? Have I met him?" Barbary gave him a mock clueless look.
"Who is after me? And, what is it that you think you can do to stop them? Oh, and…Where the hell have you been for the past three days that you can't bother to answer my texts?"
"I don't actually know who is after you. All I know is what the man said when he bashed me in the head…..Not answering your text? Poor baby; I didn't realize I had to run my itinerary past you. "
"He would have to be watching you over the past week or two to learn your routine and know where you would be." Sherlock began to pace a bit as he thought.
"As to where I have been for three days….I told you, I've been doing some thinking. And, more to the point, who says the thug was following me? If the people that he represents are out for your blood, he could have been watching you instead."
"Where?"
"Rooftop of my favorite building in this city. I enjoy seeing the skyline at night, everything lit up. London is quite lovely then. It seems as though I didn't anticipate the weather though; it rained for two out of the three days….it got a bit cold on the rooftop I must say. Oversight."
"How?"
"How what exactly?" Barbary saw the arched eyebrow that Sherlock gave her; she knew that he knew that she was avoiding the question.
"How do you know my brother?"
"I. Don't. Know. Your. Damned. Brother."
(During the conversation, Barbary had been moving around her flat, making tea, and setting some biscuits on a tray to go with it all.)
"Mint tea today?"
"Yes. It's a Moroccan thing. It's actually quite good."
"When were you in Morocco?"
"I lived there years ago. It was an…..exchange program…I was a part of."
"Really? An exchange program? What school did you go through? I assume it was some American school."
"You need to stop making assumptions about who I am and where I am from. It's rude. And it's starting to piss me off. Why do you keep assuming that I am American anyway?"
"I keep hearing muddled aspects of your accent. You're certainly not English….."
"And I explained to you that I have lived all over the world at various times in my life. I have picked up the languages and accents of the places that I have been; of course my accent is bound to be muddled sometimes. It gets hard to focus on one accent at the time sometimes."
"Hmmm….I suppose." Sherlock knew she was lying. She must get so tired playing this insufferable game.
They sat together on her sofa, drinking the tea and eating the biscuits. Sherlock couldn't resist, he had to try to get the truth out of her. He knew she was lying about not being American; at the very least she was being evasive, and that was practically the same thing. And, he also wanted to know more about her link to the traffickers that she said were after him, as well as her link to Mycroft.
"What school did you go to as a girl?"
"What?" Barbary tried to act as though she hadn't heard the question over the crispiness of the biscuit that she was eating.
"Don't play coy, it doesn't suit you. What. School. Did. You. Attend. When you were a young girl?"
"Elementary, Jr High, or High school?"
"Pick one." That answer right there told him she was indeed American. A person who had grown up in Great Britain or Continental Europe would have referred to their schools differently.
"Look. It's been a long a long week for me…"
"Alright. Skip that. John said that Mycroft came to see you in the hospital."
"Who is Mycroft again? Is this Mycroft person the same as the brother you think that I know?"
" John told Mycroft that you didn't think that he appreciates you….as he turned to leave moments later, Mycroft told John basically that you are wrong. He said that he has always appreciated you."
"Well, he has a bloody unusual way of showing it." Barbary had meant it to be mumbled under her breath, but Sherlock heard her nonetheless.
"And by that you mean…?"
"I really should send this Mycroft person a THANK YOU note….that is the proper thing to do, is it not?"
"I wouldn't know; I rarely do the proper thing."
"So I've heard."
"Mary."
"Mary. She knew I wanted to meet you; set the whole thing up, meeting at the theater and all."
"Why would you care to meet me?"
"You can't be serious? I keep track of your career….the cases you've worked, John's blog, anything that Mary tells me about you is usually committed straight to memory….the few times I have heard you give interviews for the news….your voice….that damned voice. Mary has known of my little crush on you for a long time. I guess setting it up so you and John would come to the theater and we would finally meet was Mary's version of a birthday present for me."
"And now, the real reason?"
"I just told you; Mary wanted to give me a birthday present. Now, Mr. Holmes, I am going to bed." Barbary walked through the room, ripping off the hospital bracelet as she went, dropping it on the floor, following it up with the sweat shirt that she had been given by the hospital. Underneath the sweat shirt she had a camisole shirt; and there went all ability for Sherlock to reason as a higher life form. She wore a pair of joggers that were a bit too large for her, making her seem even smaller than she already was; they were long enough on her that she had to roll the bottoms of the legs of them up so she wouldn't walk on them, and the draw-string was pulled as snug as she could get it and the waistband was still too big, so she had taken to rolling the waistband over to help hold them on. Soon they hit the floor as well, leaving her clad only in the camisole top and a pair of boy-cut underwear. Of course Sherlock, having lost all ability to think clearly, followed. If you're going to do one bad thing, you might as well do it at least twice.
As Barbary reached the sleeping alcove, she turned at the edge of the bed to find Sherlock standing damn near on top of her; her face nearly collided with his chest when she turned around.
Hearing her gasp of surprise, Sherlock couldn't help the smug smile that graced his face; however, that same smile was wiped away when she pushed him away from her.
"I don't think that it's a good idea for you to stay the night tonight. I'm still sick after all and I don't want to give you whatever I have."
"That's exactly why I should stay. Well, that, and your concussion."
"Don't worry about me. Phillip and Edward are looking out for me tonight. You should go home. I don't want to be responsible for the world's only consulting detective coming down too sick to work properly."
Sherlock could see the glint of something in her eye. He couldn't have named it if his life depended on it; maybe it was a bit of sadness, but it was mixed with other things that Sherlock could never have understood if his life depended on it….perhaps a touch of betrayal, but why? He hadn't betrayed her.
"Go home Sherlock; we can grab some lunch or something another day this week, after I get better."
"As you wish." He didn't want to argue with her. He needed to get back to Baker Street so he could go through his mind palace. He already had a room dedicated to Barbary; so far it was Spartanly furnished and looked a lot like the inside of her flat with books and papers everywhere. It looked very much like a mad professor's study would look actually. There was probably loads of information to learn on those sheaves of paper, but they were scattered all around and written in so many different languages. Sherlock determined he should really reorganize her room into more of a tower; he thought of the biblical Tower of Babel when he thought of her, and he was not a religious man in the least. But she was becoming a puzzle. All those scattered papers and books leading to information about her that he desperately wanted to know, but the closer he got to the truth, he kept getting knocked back down to square one….very similar in nature to the mythology around the fabled tower itself.
Before leaving, Sherlock leaned closer to her, wrapping his arms around her; his right arm wrapped around her left shoulder, allowing him to cup the back of her head. His left arm went around her waist, allowing his hand to splay across her back. Next, he kissed her deeply, the kind of kiss that your mother warned you about….well her mother would have warned her about if she had lived long enough. It was the kind of kiss that wrecked all of your ovaries.
"Goodnight, then, Barbary. Text me when you want to go out." Sherlock turned as he was leaving to shut her door behind him and he saw that same sad, confused, betrayed look on her face; only there was more sadness in her eyes this time around.
Getting into the cab, he gave the cabbie instructions to take him back to Baker Street; as he rode quietly, he began trying to organize some of the information that he had gleaned and that would be joining what already littered the shelves of his mind palace when he got home.
"Are you Sherlock Holmes, sir?" The cabbie seemed genuinely interested to know. "I've read about you a great deal in the papers. Never thought I'd ever get the pleasure of meeting you then. Today must be my lucky day. My wife will never believe the story I tell her tonight."
The cabbie had an accent not unlike Cockney; probably had a lower standard of education. One does not expect to see a trained engineer or physicist behind the wheel of a taxi-cab at any rate.
"Yes, I am Sherlock Holmes. Thank you for noticing." Sherlock did his best to keep the disdain out of his voice. Ordinarily he wouldn't care; but John, Mary, Molly….hell even Barbary in her way, had been trying to curb his natural reaction to rubbish conversations. He figured he would try it their way for a change. Being polite was almost excruciating. He didn't understand what people got out of it.
After a few more minutes, they arrived at 221 B. "Here we are Mr. Holmes; hope you enjoy the rest of your day, sir."
"Thank you." Sherlock replied curtly as he passed a few bills over to pay the driver, tipping him rather well before walking through the front door of the building.
After watching Sherlock make his way into the residence at 221 B, the cabbie gave a smug smile to himself.
"Poor bastard doesn't even know what's coming." He began to chuckle to himself as he pulled away from the curb and made his way to the docks where he would dump the car. Was he a different sort of man he might feel bad about the body of the real cabbie in the trunk. He seemed like a nice chap really, so helpful. But the man had seen his face; he knew too much….he couldn't be allowed to live.
After dumping the car down by the docks, the stranger picked up a can of petrol he found sitting nearby; there was just enough in it. He doused what he could of the car and struck a match, setting the whole business ablaze. The charred body in the trunk would take a little while for them to puzzle out and link back to him, if they were ever able to; in the meantime he had to gather some more intel before striking. He turned to the city of London, making his way back to the main road to catch a ride to the hotel he had been put up in. He needed a shower. Murder didn't bother him, it came with the job; but all of this damned waiting was driving him insane.
Post AN: 'Kay, so there's the latest. Lemme know what you think. I can only improve if I know what I need to work on. Thanks for sticking it out with me thus far. And if it seems weird that I keep switching up the way I refer to certain things in the story between the American way and the British way…well I am American, so is the main character, although she tries very hard (at times at least) to cover it up. I figured if I peppered it a little bit with some of the different references it would make it seem a little more real than if I was just straight faking the whole 'I wanna be British' thing.