I'm sorry about the wait, however short. I've officially run out of chapters written in advance, meaning that it'll be a little harder for me to get them to you all each week- I'm hoping it won't come to not having to follow the schedule.
Maybe John had spoken a little too soon about the Bond thing.
He didn't think he had ever worn a tuxedo in his entire life— it had always been suits or his uniform for him, for formal occasions. He'd never been given a reason to tie a bowtie.
Now that he had, he wished he could have gone back to his oddly-patterned ties.
A google search elicited thousands of youtube videos on the subject— he picked the first one, glad that he wasn't alone in his ignorance.
Well, he was— alone, in his utilitarian hotel toilet with his laptop propped up against the faucet and a knotted, wrinkled, and thoroughly un-tied bowtie around his neck.
"Fucking— what are you doing with that bloody thing? Just stop, just—"
Alone, and very much yelling at the collarbone shot of the man on his screen.
"And... Turn it, and push..."
"I am turning! It's turning out all wrong!"
John was having a hell of a time getting the tie to do what he'd wanted. Why couldn't he just wear a tie? Or one of those clip-on bowties? There was no need for the real thing, only he would know.
He was spending so much of his attention yelling at the bowtie and the man trying to teach him how to tie it, that he did not notice Mary when she entered. She made note of her presence with a small cough— it startled John.
"Oh, for fuck's sake—"
"Having fun there, Will?"
He scowled— she was laughing at the rumpled tie, the youtube video, his yelling.
"Yeah— yeah, 'course I am."
John grumbled, turning from her only half-angrily.
Then, with a mind full of Hollywood movies—
"Do you want to help me with this?"
She laughed— short and mocking, but pleasantly so.
"Why the fuck would I know how to tie a bowtie, Will?"
Fair enough.
He looked back to her— noticed that she was still wearing her pyjamas, her dark hair pulled out of her dark eyes in a messy bun that made her look like a uni girl. Ten years younger. Beautiful.
"Aren't you going? Don't you have to get ready?"
She shrugged.
"It doesn't take long to zip up a dress and put some mascara on."
A beautiful, funny woman who knows how to handle a gun, and just so happened to take less time than he did to get ready?
Tony must be a lucky man.
Mary leaned against the doorframe, making it clear that she was planning on staying. John restarted the video.
He'd gotten about four minutes in when she spoke again—
"Jenn and Tony aren't coming."
"Hm? Why?"
"They're flying out to California as we speak."
He frowned. Restarted his bowtie.
"Just them? Why?"
"Jennifer has to deliver the watch, and crack some... code in it. Tony has to make sure that whoever it is they're sending her to doesn't kill her."
"So it's just us four going, then? Craig, Angela, you, me?"
"That's it. Jenn was a little put out, 'course she wanted to get all dressed up for this charity thing, but we'll be missing Tony's help."
"Hm. You sure you don't want to help me with his bowtie?"
"No, I'm having way too much fun watching you get angry over a piece of fabric."
He smiled at her through the mirror— he was trying really hard not to be flirtatious, and he was failing rather miserably.
"Well, I'm glad someone's enjoying it."
Music filled the ballroom from the front— there was a jazz band just off the main stage, playing something soft and gently syncopated. John sat near the back of the room with Mary— Angela and Craig were somewhere in the centre. They all had guns, miniscule speakers glued into their ears, and high-quality microphones.
So far, no one had spoken to either of them through the speakers. No one knew who would— Some off-shore lackey, probably. Doling out orders last minute.
Angela was angry about that part of the plan— she hated the idea that they had no idea what they were going in for. She'd called— actually called— to voice her disappointment. Loudly.
In the end, it didn't really matter.
There was much too much gold in this room for John— gold and red and champagne. At least he got to sit with Mary. She didn't make as funny conversation as Craig, but she was a much more comfortable companion without Craig's need to forever talk or be the centre of things.
She didn't like to start conversation, though.
"So... Where're you from, then?"
It was like pulling teeth.
"Oh, you know. Philadelphia."
No— it was like pulling teeth that had been trained to withstand torture.
Eventually John gave up, started making conversation with the other two couples that were sitting at their table, letting Mary be ignored as she'd apparently wanted. He wasn't upset about it— he understood that some people needed different spaces to feel comfortable.
God knew he knew that some people just weren't good at talking to others. He could pull the weight.
The one couple was old but chatty— the other were a little more reserved, preferring to speak to themselves about absent friends and in-jokes.
They were just supposed to keep themselves entertained until the speeches started. Then they were to shut up, in order for their microphones to catch as much as possible.
Then— wait for instructions.
When the band stopped, the noise in the room dulled considerably, waiting. An older man, well trimmed and wealthy, stood up to the microphone in the middle of the platform in the front of the room and straightened the front of his tuxedo.
"Well, hello, everyone!"
A ringing in John's ear. He went to lean away from it when a familiar voice spoke to him—
"Hello, Dr. Watson. Make sure to keep it secret that I am speaking to you. Do not answer or attempt to make any communication with me. I can neither see nor hear you until we've set up the feed, so your efforts will be for naught at the present moment."
— Mycroft Holmes' voice, intimately soft as a whisper in his ear. It sent an unpleasant shiver down his spine.
He turned himself away from the speakers set up at the sides of the room, but only slightly— just to be able to hear Mycroft better. For once.
"It's good to see that you have taken well to your new life here in America. You're doing good work here— but I think you know that. You're back in your element, more so than you've been since your military days. Is that not so?"
John knew that Mycroft couldn't see him (or at least, that was what he'd been told) but he still felt the need to narrow his eyes at the insinuation.
"I'm not contacting you to see how you're doing, of course. I need you to do me a favour."
A favour? From Mycroft Holmes?
Well, this ought to be great.
"The name of the man that is speaking right now is Charles Augustus Milverton, and he is one of the only people on this planet that Moriarty goes to when he is in need of something. He is not dangerous in the strictest of senses, but he is cunning, and well-connected."
Mary didn't look as if she was being spoken to— but John didn't know if he would be able to tell if she was. Probably not.
"Milverton is a master blackmailer— he has access to highly classified information, in both personal and political spheres. Not only does he use this access for his blackmailing business, but he also sells this information to willing and solvent buyers— such as Moriarty."
John heard a soft sigh through the earpiece, a ruffle of papers. It must be nearing three o'clock in the morning in London— Mycroft didn't sound tired, but he did seem a little pressed.
"I'm afraid I don't have the time to indulge in the pleasure of explaining all of my reasoning to you as you so doubtlessly would prefer, Dr. Watson, but I'm going to need you to break into his private quarters and set fire to his blackmailing material. Quite obviously."
Well.
"It will be the task of Angela and Craig to ensure the safety of the guests and servers, and in a moment I will speak to Mary. On my word you two will excuse yourselves."
John obeyed. He didn't have much of a choice— he was sure that this one-sided communication was not accidental on Mycroft's part, the man hated questions more than anything.
The static subdued, which John was sure meant that he was talking to Mary, but she gave no sign of it. Instructions to destroy property and possibly endanger the lives of hundreds of aristocrats had to be something she was used to, then.
It took less than a minute (had she already known about Milverton, or had Mycroft not felt the need to explain to her?) before she finally turned to John, her lips close to his other ear.
"Will, I don't feel very well. Can we go?"
She leaned back just far enough to look him in the eye— she had a sense of urgency in her own dark eyes, and she gripped his hand in hers on the table, just for effect.
Just for effect.
"Yeah, yeah. Sure."
They easily collected themselves and slipped out of the room with little problem— John was worried about being noticed, but sitting at the edge of the room meant that few people were disturbed.
They waited until they were in a secluded area to speak again.
"So, what did he tell you?"
John was interested in what she was told, but mostly in what she already knew.
"He told me what you knew, and what I was allowed to tell you. Now come on, we'll miss our window if we hang back."
"What you were allowed to— now, wait a second—"
He couldn't wait, though— she was already making her way towards a staircase behind a heavy wooden door.
"What do you mean, what you're allowed to tell me?"
She smirked—
"He said you'd have a hard time with that. Just— come on. Let's go start your fire."
She'd taken off her heels, leaving them at the foot of the steps— in her tiny bag she'd crammed in a pair of flat shoes that she'd pulled over her feet before ascending. There was a man at the top of the steps, behind another set of doors— he was large, Tony-sized, with a walkie talkie in one holster and a gun in another. Mary had a small gun in her hand, suddenly— it shot out a small dart and, before the man could react, had tranquilised him. She held him on his way down to the floor, and when she straightened up had his walkie talkie and a set of keys on her hands.
"My- my fire? What are you up to?"
John followed her blindly as they made their way to the right— John broke a man's hand before he could shoot, Mary hitting him with her tranquiliser.
"That's one of the things I can't tell you."
And before he could set the sleeping guard down, Mary sped off without him, into one of the many doors that lined the lush hallway.
"Of course it is."
John didn't have a tranquiliser gun on him like Mary did— he had Angela's handgun, which made him feel safer than if he'd not had anything but wasn't sure how he was supposed to use it without making too much distracting noise.
He kept out of sight, then.
"Here— try the microphone now."
In full alert mode, the last thing John expected was the tiny speaker in his ear— Mycroft hadn't so much as coughed softly to let him know he was going to speak up.
"Jesus. You startled me."
"Do try not to slip out of your American accent, Dr. Watson. There's a room to your right— no, not that one, next to it. There should be linens and a can of petrol waiting for you."
There was.
"And what am I supposed to do with these? I don't have a lighter."
"Dr. Watson, I am sure you can figure something out. Quite possibly, you could even notice the lighter that has been provided for you, sitting on the second shelf."
It was on the third, but John didn't tell him that. Mycroft had probably fired for less.
"Ok, ok. Now what? Just lay them in the middle of the hallway?"
He could hear the eyeroll across the ocean.
"Follow Miss Morstan, if you would. You haven't lost track of her, have you?"
"You bloody well know that I have, Mycroft. Where am I going?"
Instead of standing in the hallway wasting time, John had decided to grab the linens and petrol, skirting down the hallway a little less quietly than before.
"Turn left here."
John turned.
"The door to your right should be open."
"No, it's locked."
"Hm. Continue down the hall then, if you will."
The sound of a door opening, just around the corner— John swore under his breath, trying the handle to the door next to him before whipping around, trying the door on the other side of the hall—
"Do not open that door, Dr Watson—"
John did.
It was open— it led into a study of some sort, with a wall of bookshelves and a heavy-looking desk to anchor the room to that point.
The window looked out onto the courtyard in the back, which was, at the present, empty. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this room— nothing that looked like it was the office of a man who stole information and blackmailed dignified members of society.
Except...
"There's a secret room behind that vase, isn't there."
Except for the dust.
When Mycroft didn't answer, he continued—
"No, there's definitely some sort of... Hiding place behind here, you can just barely feel the creases in the wallpaper... Is there a code to get in? Mycroft?"
Not only was he not hearing Mycroft, he wasn't hearing the static silence. Mycroft had turned off his microphone.
"God dammit."
He didn't know how he'd recognised it— there was a decorative piece lining a barren wall, there was nothing to draw attention to it save for the fact that it and the floor around it had been notably clean. The vase was sitting atop a thin stand and was rather large, and held a few fake plants and thing, decorative sticks— near the back, behind those things, there was a keypad.
Irene Adler's phone and its hidden explosives came to mind first— he didn't bother even trying to guess a passcode. He waited for Mary.
He didn't have to wait long.
"Will?"
He looked behind him, as glad to see her as she was confused to see him. A bit upset, too.
"What are you doing here?"
She looked to the can of petrol still in his hands. It was then that he realised that she had a can of her own.
He narrowed his eyes, only slightly.
"I'm being put on again, aren't I?"
She sighed. It confirmed his suspicions.
"Well, I don't see any harm in you actually taking part, really. Man in the earpiece told me to let you do your thing. Code's 48108."
He didn't waste time being angry at the man in the earpiece, the one that he already disliked— instead, he used the light of his cell phone to punch in the code inside the vase.
The reaction was instant— a door-sized portion of the wall pushed back, and it slid silently on tracks to reveal the secret passageway, or lair, or laboratory...
A storage room.
Just a room with florescent lighting and a lot of filing cabinets.
A small desk at the far wall, a rolling chair—
There was absolutely nothing special about this place.
"This is where most of the damage must occur. But doubtlessly Milverton does not keep everything in one place, so the entire house must be burnt down. Let Miss Morstan complete her portion of the task, Dr. Watson. Continue down the hall."
Mycroft was in his head again, telling him things he already knew. He didn't bother responding— he looked to Mary, who was already peeking through filing cabinets.
"Let's start pulling all of the files out of the cabinets, easier to burn."
He didn't answer her— something had caught his eye on the desk.
There were pictures of Tony, pushing a stroller in some generic commercial centre.
Angela, in her blonde wig just this morning, documenting the handover of the watch.
Craig playing basketball with a considerably younger version of himself.
Jennifer and her parents, taken through their kitchen window.
Mary, on the balcony of the hotel they were staying in.
Himself, pecking away at the latest blog post through the lens the camera that had hid in the bookcase of 221B for god knows how long. Sherlock stood almost off camera, holding his priceless violin without care, a scowl on his face—
"Mary..."
— And, thinner, gaunter than he'd ever seen him, sitting alone in a café in a jacket that did not become him, Sherlock Holmes.
He pulled the picture of Sherlock from the others, keeping it from her view before she turned to look at the remaining six. She swore under her breath.
"Well, they know we're here. Better get moving."
Sherlock's eyes were sunken in, and he looked like he hadn't slept in— well, in more than a Sherlock-amount of time. He looked—
"Will?"
— He looked sad.
"Yeah. Yeah, sorry."
They pulled all of the papers from their metal cabinets and onto the floor in a flurry of notorious names and notable pictures accompanying them— John barely registered the scent of petrol as he poured half of the can onto the floor, standing back into the previous room to light the first paper.
The photo was marked June. It had been taken barely a month ago.
He had it in his hand, then he'd stuffed it in the inside pocket of his jacket, where it sad crumpling, waiting for him to take it back out, look again at that gaunt face.
"C'mon, Will, we have to finish this before the fire alarms are set off."
John tossed some of the linens on the hard wood floor, dousing them in the rest of his petrol before setting them alight, stepping back with Mary into the hallway—
"Mr. Sigerson and Ms. Mosran, you both are going to have to return to the first floor as quickly as possible before the fire alarms are set off. Please do so now."
John and Mary looked at each other, confirming that they'd both heard what had been said through the tiny ear pieces, before making their way to the stairwell. John had already used all of the petrol in his can and so had left it in the office, but as Mary ran she left a trail of the stuff behind her.
They ran into no trouble as they skirted through the hallway and down the stairs— The guests had already started leaving the ballroom in the least orderly way possible, and so it had been easy to slip in unnoticed. They looked scared— some of them were screaming about murder.
The fire alarm had not yet been turned on. Why were they running?
"What's going on?"
John asked Mary— It was possible that, like everything else, she'd been alerted before him.
By the look on her face, she had not.
"Better find Craig and Angela."
The house was in considerable disarray, visible even from the outside— the group of six stood far from the commotion in the parking lot, removing high heels and loosening bowties as they kept as far as they could from the news crews.
Craig, predictably, was still recounting the scene.
"— And he's not even halfway through his speech, right, he's just going on and on about some sort of charity and helping animals or something, I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention at that point, I was hungry as fuck— hell, I'm still hungry as fuck— and then—"
"He was shot, Craig. We get it."
Angela hadn't spat it. She didn't sound angry. That was the first hint.
Mary was the first to spot it—
"Were either of you contacted?"
Simultaneously, Craig answered no and Angela, yes.
"Not over the earpiece. A waiter gave me this after Miltverton was shot."
She handed it to John, not Mary, who had reached for it. It took him a long moment before he finally took the envelope from her hand.
There was a folded letter, and a Polaroid that spilt easily into his hand.
Two young girls, posing in front of the water on a beach. The photograph was old— twenty years at least. They had to be sisters— one was older, more defined, but they had the same smiles.
Someone had ripped the label off of the photograph, but John knew what he was looking at.
He handed the photo back to Angela, who, with a nod of thanks, stuffed it back into secrecy in her handbag.
"Read the letter out loud."
The paper was thick, and a little harder to pull out of the envelope. He unfolded it with care, staring at the thick uppercased letters, written angrily in permanent marker before reading them to the other five:
"I think you've misplaced some important pieces. I've taken the liberty of bring them back to you. Meet us all at 20 East 76th Street, room 1603 to retrieve them. Hope to see you soon..."
John took a sharp breath.
"Love, M."
There was a crudely-drawn picture in blue ballpoint pen underneath the short note— two stick figures tied to a spit over a small fire, with another stick figure turning it.
"BALD," the man was labelled.
"NERD," the girl.
"KING," the enemy.
Angela waited for it to click, and a little longer yet—
"Oh, shit."
Finally, it clicked.
"He's got Jenn and Tony."