"No, no. Under. You're saying the e-r wrong. More like an... Like an 'A', I guess."
"Uh. Under? "
Jennifer and Angela sat in the edge of the room, practicing accents. Angela sounded natural with a somewhat northern Dialect, not much at all like her sister but comfortable in the vowels she slipped on over her original (Maybe?) American ones.
Jennifer, on the other hand, was having a bit of trouble.
"No! It's really not that hard, Jenn, just—"
Tony groaned. He was lying face down on the only bed in the room— Angela's.
"Just let her be, Ang. She's trying the best she can. No one's said anything yet."
She scowled, but let it rest. She got up to make herself coffee, and returned with one for Jenn, too.
They were all tired. They were all showing it in different ways.
Meeting, finally, in Lille was exhausting alone: so many stories from each person, so many strange new scars and facial expressions that had to be relearned. They stayed in an apartment complex, each on different floors: They slowly re-assimilated. They received assignments. They learned bits of French from Jenn.
And now, later, much later, and they've established a sort of normalcy. Angela barely slept, and so was a good room to go to late at night. She started smoking to play a part, she says, but smells of the stuff more and more strongly every day.
"Craig, you should work on yours, too. You sound Irish every so often, which is... Kind of strange."
Craig slumped the other way where he was sitting at the edge of the bed, too tired or hungry or what-have-you to bother about posture. Instead of trying, he opted to mock Angela:
"Well, I'm tryin' the best I can, It's not like I really know what 'm supposed to be—"
"Stop, Craig. Just stop. Jesus."
Mary sat by the windowsill, quiet. She drank coffee from an oversized mug, holding it up to her face with two delicate, dark hands as she drank. She looked out the window onto the street. Her window faced the alleyway, and so it was only in Angela's or Tony's rooms that she could see the busyness below.
Tony, who still would not talk to John. Who would hardly talk to anyone. Whose youngest turned five last week.
His mind would always turn first to the work. Little time for chat.
"What do you think of the City?"
Angela sighed, tired.
"Trite and dirty, like normal. But it's important to remember the protagonist's own mental state may provide an unreliable narration."
"Do you think that the narration is unreliable?"
"No, not like that. St. Petersburg's crowded for all of the characters. But it's tricky to be right all the time. Especially when you're biased."
They'd started using code again: fished out from bottoms of suitcases were dog-eared copies of Crime and Punishment. They didn't need it now— Angela's room was safe, definitely unbugged, but Tony and Angela especially liked to talk about the more delicate parts of the plans without worry.
Mary turned the conversation, filling her corner of the room with sound—
"It's not the reliability of the narration that causes the first anxieties of the book, though, it's the timing. Coincidence."
They chatted some more, trying to work things through— it was boring and white-collar, this job. The other chapter, just out of town, was smuggling exotic animals. At least that would have been interesting.
But this job, there wasn't supposed to be any violence here: Papers sifted through. So far— they'd been getting their instructions daily on this one. These were the most troublesome— the wait for further instruction method of action.
There was something different about this stop. Something unsafe. Word of a group of newcomers travelling from city to city, chapter to chapter, garnering information and replacing members of authority must have worked its way about by now— why weren't they met with more caution? Why were they welcomed in to every super-secretive family of crime with open arms? Had they been expected?
He didn't know what to think. He'd brought it up a few times— the fishiness of the whole thing. Often, a shrugged shoulder or a humoured conversation, shallow and short. When Angela or Tony were involved, a heated conversation that mostly boiled down to 'Don't ask questions.'
Questions only made things difficult. They were so close to the end now.
The last stop, maybe.
No one wanted to say it. To wonder it aloud. They'd do this job, and go on to the next one. Until there wasn't one.
But oh, God, home was so close. It was the right weather for this time of year. It was the right temperature. The tea tasted right.
But it wasn't home. It wasn't London.
It wasn't Baker Street.
He'd thought that, with time, he would learn to stop relating home, that strange, abstract notion, with that comfortable chair by the fireplace, the messy shared space, that kitschy animal head with the headphones that Sherlock was so pleased about— secretly, but still pleased.
He'd never thought that'd he'd be trying so hard to get back home to Sherlock. It still boggled his mind.
Angela and Tony's conversation had devolved into the first plane of reality, speaking freely about tomorrow's plans.
"Tony and I have our plans. Mary and Jenn have tailing to do: Laurence is meeting up with that guy again from the out-of-town chapter, and needs back up just in case something goes wrong."
"Why's Jenn going? She's not going to be any help at all if something does go wrong."
Jenn made a face at Craig. Angela rolled her eyes.
"That's not your decision, Craig. Hell, it's not even my decision. You know how it is: we let them do the thinking. You wanna change something, you ask 'em, see how that goes. What're your plans tomorrow? Gotta be busy."
"John and I are going out of town. Things to pick up in Rose-laire."
"Roeselare. Remember last time you and John had to go out of town?"
"This'll be different. Bad guy's driving us there this time. No secret cabin hide outs."
Angela rolled her eyes.
"Well, be sure to take your time."
The rest of the night spent without occasion, and the rest of the day, too— John woke early and met with Craig and took a car to the outlying town— there were some legal documents that needed to be personally picked up and signed for, and a few faces and names to remember and bring back to Angela to email into Mycroft. They went with Saul, a man who worked and lived with Laurence and spoke with more ease than she did— he was pleasant and funny, but spoke less English.
He and Craig joked the entire way there, standing closely to one another when they waited for the woman on the other end of the bargain to receive their requests. They laughed loudly at things and didn't explain why they were funny— Craig had been good to talk to when it was just he and John, but now that there was someone more in his age group John had obviously been left behind.
It didn't bother him much, barring the feeling he got that he was chaperoning. It gave him some time to sit and think, and no one noticed when he slipped away to answer a text.
Or when his pocket rang with that embarrassingly loud tone.
"Hello?"
It was Mary— Mary was calling him.
She never called him. She was working, too— she wouldn't even text him when she was watching someone. She needed her full attention.
John's heart leapt. Emergency.
"Mary, Mary what's wrong—"
She interrupted him. She was fine— she was not afraid, she was not hurt. She was panicked, though— very urgent.
"It's him."
John's breath hitched. Him. John's first thought went to impeccable suits, slicked-back hair, that nauseating scent of pink bubblegum.
"I— What? What do you mean, Him?"
"Sherlock. John, Sherlock's here."
They're in John's room this time. It's bare, more bare than Craig's, or Angela's— they liked to settle in to a place, leave trinkets on desks, let the television stay on. In John's, there were barely enough places for people to sit— three people crowded on the bed, leaning up against the wall with feet dangling off the side.
Mary let Jenn sit on the only chair in the room— she herself sat on the floor, chewing her nails.
John, leaned against a wall, rubbed the side of his face with one of his hands.
Angela had her cell phone in hers. She had news of her own.
"M? Just M? That's all Laurence said?"
"Just M."
"And he was on his way? From where?"
"No idea. She said he'd be in by the end of the week."
"But— it can't be— it can't be him, can it? Moriarty? I mean, we know it can't be him."
"I know."
They all sat quiet for a long moment. Finally, Craig asked:
"Then— Then, who is it?"
Angela shrugged in response. Her expression was grave.
"I'm thinking that M might just be a title. The next Moriarty could be anybody. But just as dangerous— we can't forget that. Laurence and them, they're so tense, trying to get everything ready for him. That's why I'm calling our employer. They have to know about this."
John shook his head.
"He'd— They'd already know. If Moriarty or his next best was here, I can't see how they wouldn't know."
Angela narrowed her eyes.
"That's not why you want to hold off on calling, though. Is it, John?"
John scowled. They'd been through this before, just minutes ago.
"No. This has nothing to do with Sherlock."
"Something that we should call about, too. Might as well send two birds back to England with one phone call."
"Who's to say that they don't already know about that, too? If Holmes is out of England, I'm sure that our employer knows. They're out tracking the entirety of Moriarty's empire. They wouldn't just let Sherlock Holmes waltz around without surveillance."
Craig had kicked his shoes off and was sitting crossed-legged on John's pillows, drinking something loudly out of a paper cup from a fast food chain. Angela glared at him.
"Our employer would not allow this to happen. John faked his damn death, Craig— they wouldn't just let Sherlock be in the same city as he was while it's still necessary. Laurence wants John to keep watch the next meeting they have, did you know that? Just him and I. How're we gonna get around that?"
There was a silence. It was difficult to remember that Angela and John were the only person who know who our employer really was— why it was impossible that Mycroft would have ever let Sherlock get this close.
Unless he had need for it. He'd done it before— call in little brother to do work that once seemed trivial, but turned to much, greater importance. Can't have been coincidence. There are no coincidences with Holmeses.
Tony spoke down at his phone.
"We should call. It's only going to make it more difficult for us if we have him around. He needs to be removed."
Angela smiled at him— he was the only one that agreed- well, verbally.
"It's much too delicate of a situation. Everyone's already on edge— those unrelated crackdowns on chapters that we'd already neutralised. That must have been Sherlock. If we let them see that it was all from one person, they might round on us, next."
Mary spoke, letting her opinion be known— but meanwhile she was sending John texts that said the opposite.
Received: 16 June 2015 20:28
Selfish.
He looked up at her to get some sort of non-verbal cues as to what the hell she meant, but she was still arguing with Tony. Their arguing was different than any other combination of the six of them: more history, more murky layers the spectators had to wade through to figure out if they were really angry, joking around, or just doing business.
Sent: 16 June 2015 20:32
... Selfish?
The phone buzzed in her lap. She took a quick, dismissive look at it, and started typing even while she spoke.
Received: 16 June 2015 20:33
You. Selfish. You know we should just call the employer and get him out of here.
Received: 16 June 2015 20:34
It's weird enough that no one's said anything about us for so long. Whatever's going on above this, we're expected. He's not. It could prove very dangerous for everyone involved.
He gaped at her, unsure of how to respond over a cell phone when what he really wanted to do was yell. How was this a productive means of talking to each other? They were in the same room.
Sent: 16 June 2015 20:39
Then speak up. Angela will call if you say so. Nothing I say matters in this.
Received: 16 June 2015 20:41
No.
Cool.
The temperature outside. The iced drink he was holding, leaving rings on the cardboard coaster. Angela's wry smile as she tried to keep him from distraction with simple conversation.
John felt cool. He was very calm. He sat straight in the folding chair in front of the tabac, both hands on the table. His eyes were trained on the patio of the restaurant on the opposite side of the street.
Twenty feet. Maybe more.
Sherlock Holmes.
He'd cut his hair: it looked like he had shaved it all off a couple months ago, because it was growing back wildly. Long enough to curl but too short to weigh itself down. Otherwise, he looked fine: not thinner, not gaunt. No injuries. The same old Sherlock Holmes.
He was eating silently with Laurence. It was protocol for any important exchange of documents to happen over the course of three meetings: the first two to decide on the trustworthiness of the collector, who would be given blank pages instead. The third to finally give them the document.
Laurence didn't trust Sherlock yet, but he was giving her no reason not to. Lots of changes, she'd said to them earlier this morning. He passes all tests, but I do not want to trust him. But I will trust him.
It was almost time, now. Angela kept looking at her watch, impatient. They were unseen. If they did things right, they would continue to be unseen.
Angela was tapping on the table with the four fingers on her left hand. She was drinking her coffee quickly. She was nervous, too.
It was time. Laurence had handed him the envelope. They were to sit and eat for a little while longer, and she would leave. There were exact minutes involved, but John could hardly be bothered to think about that right now. He was having a hard enough time trying not to look over there too often; the last thing he wanted was eye contact.
John tapped the heel of his foot to the ground. Just once, twice— it turned into a nervous hammering. He couldn't stop. He took a sip of his cola: it tasted different. Different from the coke in America, in Guatemala, in Australia, in Côte D'Ivoire, in Canada.
Angela shifted in her seat, alert. It was almost time. It'd almost be over.
"John."
He looked up at her, but she was already getting up— she was hitting his forearm repeatedly with her shaky fingers to spring him into action.
"He's coming this way, fuck, fuck, fuck, John, we've got to go, now."
She whispered harshly, and pulled him from his seat— he looked over to the table across the street, Laurence's mildly confused expression as Sherlock walked away from the patio.
He had a limp. So slight— but it was there. How had he been injured? Was he okay? When had it happened? Had he let it heal properly? Had it happened in England, where there were people to look after him, or had he been away?
He chanced one look at Sherlock's face. Their eyes met— ice meeting sea, blue on icy blue. John stopped in his tracks. There he was, Sherlock Holmes. The Great Detective. His Great Detective. He looked haunted by some ghost. Maybe he had been.
With one sharp breath he turned, ducking into the people on the pavement, following Angela. She grabbed his hand and pulled him through the crowd.
Then, behind him, he heard his name— so familiar a sound, so close a voice in that harried, frightened called out. It was a question- John? It was a command. John! It may have been something of a last wish.
"John!"
Angela pushed their way through the people on the pavement, in and out of the crowd, earning glares and scowls. She was gripping on to his hand tightly— she didn't trust him to follow her. He didn't know if it was unwarranted.
She turned a corner, then again to a tiny back alleyway. Barely wider than his shoulders: it wound between all of the buildings on the block, leading where it may.
She let go of his hand, and pushed him forward, into the darkness.
"You— run. Get back home. We'll figure out what to do from there."
"Angela—"
"Someone has to stay here. We can't have Laurence knowing something is wrong. Go."
He had no time to answer— she sprinted back into the streets. John stood, longer than he should have, waiting— waiting for a voice, a face, a long coat and a scowl.
He couldn't wait, though. Those things weren't there anymore to wait for him. If they were— if things had been the same, if three years hadn't passed without incident, running about London in petty, simple, disconnected crime— if things had been the same they wouldn't have to wait. John would have never had to take that fall. Sherlock would have never had to live with it.
He couldn't wait for Sherlock to run around that bend in the street, to find him here. Not like this. Not when he couldn't explain.
Not when he had work to do.