John Watson waited not far from the Cypress Celeste, a five-star hotel known for its brunch and tea. It didn't take him longer to spot odd activity; far too many people moving in and out of the service entrance. Most of them were law enforcement: forensics, officers, and even Detective Inspectors, all in street clothing.
"They're keeping a lid on the kettle," Sherlock said as he appeared at John's side. "So to speak. The Yard has been ordered not to offend the clientele."
"Ah, so there's no way you're a part of this."
He took a moment to size Sherlock up. The man was up to something. He just had that look about him.
"You said you needed to pick something up?" John asked.
"Yes. As you may have spotted, a crime took place in that hotel last night," Sherlock replied.
"Hang on, you asked me here for a case?"
"No, no," Sherlock said. "As per your request, I will not take you away from your fiancée until after the honeymoon."
"Then why are we here?"
"I need assistance acquiring something. You were best suited to the task."
"Oh, fantastic."
"Half an hour. At the most."
"Seriously, Sherlock?" John asked. "If this is you trying to drag me into a case – "
"Not at all."
"The wedding is in less than three weeks, I can't be running around, dodging bullets or chasing serial killer cabbies or taking pictures of decapitated heads, you understand?"
"You have my every assurance, John."
And with that he darted across the street toward the hotel.
Nick Burkhardt had no idea what he was doing.
He followed coordinates to a high-end hotel, but he didn't see a flashing light or crime scene tape. He hovered outside, doing his best to take in the area.
Suddenly, his eye zeroed in on two people moving swiftly away from the hotel. They were both a little taller than average, and one of them wore a long, black coat.
Nick didn't know why, but he felt compelled to follow them.
"Apparently my calculation was incorrect," Sherlock said.
"Which calculation is that?" John asked. "The one where you added it up and decided that stealing security footage was a good idea, or the one where you though you should ask me along?"
"We're being followed."
John straightened up at that. He had noticed someone trailing them, but he thought the person had splintered off. "You sure?"
"He is persistent. We may need to run."
"Did he start following us from the hotel? Because, honestly, Sherlock – "
The rest of his sentence fell out of his mouth with a resounding OPFFF! as he crashed into the sidewalk. His left thigh ached like it had been crushed.
Nick knew he was following the right people when they tried to shake him. It seemed too effortless; whoever they were, they must dodge people for a living.
His instincts were stuck in overdrive. His peripheral senses gathered information like never before, allowing him to slip through crowds and catch up with his quarry.
They turned down an alley that ran between several close-quarter restaurants. It was cluttered with dumpsters and displaced furniture.
OPFFF!
The muffled cries barely made it to the sidewalk. Neither of the men saw it coming because the assailant descended on them from a rooftop.
The attacker was Wesen, fully woged while attacking. He (or she) moved rapidly and with a great deal of stealth: a Nuckelavee.
Nick didn't have time to think about it; he grabbed a discarded, rusted pipe and rushed in.
Sherlock ducked several punches only to receive a horrendous strike to the stomach. It was only after he crashed on the ground next to John that he realized he had been kicked.
In the micromoments between slamming into the ground and blinking, his mind filtered through all data.
Someone had followed them from the hotel, but he had dark hair and large sunglasses. The follower wore on boots and a brown coat over blue jeans. The attacker, on the other hand, had nearly white-blond hair with reddish highlights and wore black trousers with a beige shirt. Sherlock hadn't spotted him prior to the attack, and with that hair, he'd be hard to miss.
Conclusion: This man wasn't the one following them.
Yet neither John or – more to the point - Sherlock had noticed the man before he clobbered them. They alleyway was cluttered, but there was nothing immediately nearby. So there was nothing for him to hide behind before the assault. The two street exits remained visible, and no one passed by either one. Sherlock hadn't heard any doors open or close. The only remaining entry point was from above.
Conclusion: This man descended on them from one of the rooftops, the shortest of which was three stories.
As these thoughts clicked into his awareness, Sherlock considered the options. He had been in a fare share of fights, including exchanges with professional criminals and elements like the Black Lotus Tong, several of whom exhibited extra-human gymnastic skills. Yet, whoever was attacking them now stood out as incredible in every way. The man literally bounced off of, and between, the walls of the buildings, using them to gain height and force.
John put up a valiant attempt, but he barely struck the man's knee before being tossed bodily into the wall and ricocheted back, finally landing hard on top of Sherlock.
The consulting detective shifted him John, trying to move him off, but between the blow to his stomach and the crushing weight of John Watson, he couldn't manage it. His ears briefly registered the sound of heavy, fast steps.
Cacophony. The sound of thrashing and shouting echoed hugely. John jolted briefly out of his stupor.
"Get off me," Sherlock said. "John, you need to get off me. NOW!"
The problem with a Nuckelavee was the combination of speed and stealth. They had an equine lineage that gave them grace, patience, and incredible acceleration. When woged, a Nuckelavee's fists and feet became impossibly dense, like hooves, giving them a powerful weapon and the ability to walk over sharp objects or even fire without harm. In short, the Nuckelavee could bludgeon just about anything to death.
On the other hand, their speed and constant motion could be used against them.
As the Nuckelavee threw the shorter of the two men into a wall, Nick chucked a broken brick at him, which struck his shoulder. The attacker spun around and preened for a moment before charging him down.
Either he didn't know Nick was a Grimm, or he just didn't care. He jumped up and pushed off of the wall, flying into a spinning kick.
Nick sidestepped it, grabbed one of his legs, and yanked down. The Nuckelavee buckled and curled as he crashed into the opposite wall. It was a momentary victory, however, and he came back swinging, nailing Nick in the chest and stomach.
The Grimm retaliated, trying to get the right opening to use the pipe he stashed under his jacket, but the Nuckelavee moved too quickly for him.
Then, out of nowhere, the Nuckelavee screeched in pain; one of the men had crawled over and stabbed something sharp into the back of the Wesen's knee, which buckled.
Nick pulled out the pipe and swiped it across his face. That did it; the Nuckelavee used his hind legs to shoot up –
CRACK!
He dropped the pipe as hard as he could over the top of the Nuckelavee's head. Between the Wesen's attempt at rising and Nick's overhand swing, the force was more than enough to crack his skull. Disoriented and bleeding, he stumbled away, colliding headlong into a dumpster and vomiting. He only made it a few more steps before collapsing.
Either he fainted or was dead, so Nick turned to the two other men in the alley.
John's mind raced. His head hurt. His entire body ached. He tried to focus.
A screech and sickening crack startled him.
"Are you all right?" someone asked.
"Who are you?" Sherlock asked.
"Me? Who are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes. The man on the ground is Doctor John Watson. Why were you following us?"
"It's lucky I did."
"Hardly an answer."
"At the Cypress Celeste, you two seemed suspicious. Thought you might be up to something. So I followed you. Are you okay?"
"Obviously. Surely you can see that."
"What about your friend?" the other man asked. "Can you keep an eye on him and call for help?"
"I can," Sherlock replied. A moment passed before he added, "Will you... will you help me over to him?"
John wondered if this was a hallucination or some kind of weird dream. Sherlock Holmes, asking a stranger for help? Was he that badly injured?
Sherlock interrupted his thought by rolling John onto his back. He caught his first glimpse of the stranger. Hardly a scratch on him.
"Who are you?" John asked.
"Sebastian Cane," the man replied. He turned to Sherlock, "He needs a doctor."
"I am a doctor."
"Your man is escaping," Sherlock pointed out.
The man named Sebastian Cane turned around, and in the blink of an eye, he disappeared.
"Come on, John," Sherlock said, hoisting him to his feet. "The violent American is right. You need a doctor."
"I am a doctor," John repeated. "You should go. Stop the clubbing acrobat."
"Our assailant received blunt force trauma that cracked his skull," Sherlock replied in his 'bored' voice.
He forced his arm under John's armpit in a vain attempt to support his weight. So John put his attention on stepping forward, one foot at a time, for several minutes.
Then it occurred to him.
John asked, "You said he ran off. Couldn't've done with that kind of injury."
"No, he couldn't. Yet he did."
"We already got the Big Bad Wolf. What's this one?"
"Do be quiet. You're so tedious when you're addled."
Suddenly, John found himself being pushed into a taxi, but he didn't recall Sherlock waving one down.
"Saint Bart's," Sherlock said to the driver.
The cabbie replied, "If he's hurt, you need an ambulance. No sick people in my cab."
"He's drunk, not sick," Sherlock said tersely. "Saint Bart's. Now."
"Oh, sorry," Molly Hooper repeated for the fifth time.
"It's fine," John replied.
"Most of the people I work with are already dead," Molly said cheerfully. "No flinching or complaints."
"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock said. "And do hurry up. We have a case. Two, actually."
"I'm not supposed to be on one case. The only thing Mary asked me to do is to help her with a few things for the wedding and to avoid major injuries."
"Oh, it's barely a scratch."
"Scratch? Bruised ribs, lacerations on his arms, and bruising is already started in on his back," Molly said. "Not to mention a concussion. He really should get checked in so they can monitor him through the night."
"The concussion was minor," John pointed out. "I just need fluids and bandages."
"I can set that up in this lab, but you'll have to be resting for the whole hour the bag takes," Molly said.
"So long as he is in the lab," Sherlock said as he walked back to his work area.
"You could always sedate him," John suggested.
"He's not as well-off as he looks," Molly warned. "He'll be limping in about an hour."
John wanted to kick himself. He should've noticed Sherlock favoring one side.
"He'll be fine," Molly said. "If you could keep him here for the night, that would be best. I'm going to get a suture kit and lines for an IV."
After she left, John asked, "How did you get this case?"
"I was hired."
"I guessed as much. By who?"
"If you hadn't moved out, you would know."
"Don't start that again."
"It's a simple statement of fact. If you had been my flat mate, you would've encountered the client."
"We weren't going to be flat mates forever," John said. "Generally, married people live together."
"You're not married," Sherlock replied.
"Fine. Don't tell me anything about this case. Or the man who attacked us. Or the man who followed us, then saved us. Not a word."
John walked away and set up a corner of the lab as a makeshift recovery room.
Ten minutes passed in silence.
Molly returned with supplies. She sutured the deep cut on his left arm, cleaned out the cut on his right, and set up the IV drip. It took over half an hour.
And Sherlock remained silent.
John was certain that the consulting detective wouldn't be able to resist showing off.
"Keep off your feet," Molly said. "And relax. I mean it."
"Thanks, Molly," John said.
"Sherlock, you all right?" she asked on her way out.
"Yes, good," Sherlock replied. Then he added, "Thank you."
Again, John wondered if he imagined it.
"Any time," she replied.
John caught a glimpse of her smile before she turned for the door.
"Sherlock? Is this you sulking?"
"Hardly."
"So what are you doing?"
"Cracking the encryption on this phone."
"Whose phone is that?"
"An American detective, possibly agent, though detective is more likely, investigating the double homicide at the Cypress Celeste."
"Where did you get the phone from an... hang on. Is this the man who was following us?" John asked. "Sebastian was his name, wasn't it?"
"He said that was his name, but that was clearly a lie. Weren't you paying attention?"
"Concussion," John said harshly. "How did you get this?" Then it occurred to him. "You asked him to help you over to me. Should've known when you got me to the taxi."
Sherlock said, "American from the jeans and accent. He took several hard blows, but he remained on his feet. He wasn't even breathing hard. So, conditioned for and acclimatized to violence. He described us as 'suspicious,' a word that is incredibly imprecise for most people, except for individuals with a law enforcement background, where the term collectively refers to activity and behaviors that evoke an instinctual curiosity as well as those that are actually suspicious. Then there's the matter of his pockets."
"His pockets?" John repeated.
"Empty. Completely empty, except for this phone. Any kind of investigator would have more than a single phone. Not to mention, were he part of some international cooperation, there would have been dozens of people to our rescue, not just him. So, safe to say, he's investigating illegally, then. Anyone with any kind of sense that's involved in illegal activity knows better than to use a real name. In his case, the false name prevents anyone from connecting him to anything done here, thereby protecting his job and quite possibly his employer should he find himself in any trouble, which clearly he has already. He told me that he saw us at the Cypress Celeste, and given its size and the traffic of that hotel, it would be highly unlikely that another homicide has take place there in the past twenty-four hours."
John started to ask a question, but Sherlock cut him off. "How do I know he's investigating a homicide? Because, John, most crimes require some level of inquiry. If a bank is robbed, how much was taken? If a person is kidnapped, were there any witnesses or signs of a struggle? But if someone is dead, their body is evidence enough. Assuming that he arrived in London today, which is reasonable given his state of his clothing: wrinkled from sleeping awkwardly. Likely, he took the red eye to Heathrow and slept against the window. So, he heard about the murders last night, very nearly to when they occurred, depending on which part of America he flew from. Furthermore, while plenty of crimes can attract international interest, there are few that would prompt an individual to risk his life and livelihood."
"Cheers," John said as he started to remove his IV. "What about the drive you stole from the hotel? Is there anything on that?"
Sherlock didn't reply.
"Sherlock?"
"I don't know," Sherlock replied harshly.
"What do you mean? We nearly got our heads smashed in for that. Was it damaged?"
Again, Sherlock didn't reply.
"He took it, didn't he? The American?"
"You made a deduction," Sherlock replied. "Statistically, it was bound to happen eventually."
"I've done it before."
"And as ever, you are wrong."
"So it was damaged?"
"No, the man who attacked us took it."
"So after all that, we've got nothing?" John asked.
"I should hope not," someone else said.
The speaker, a man in his forties, stepped inside the lab and shut the door.
"Who are you?" John asked.
"Ah, you managed to convince Doctor Watson," the man said.
"Convince me? Of what exactly?"
"My name is Lawrence Creevey," the man replied. "I work for Mrs. Elizabeth Pound, who asked me to hire Sherlock Holmes on the matter of her brother's death."
"Her brother? He was one of the people killed at the hotel?"
"Sir Alvin Thomas Wimble," Lawrence replied. "He was murdered alongside a woman with false ids. Plural. My employer wants to know what happened to her brother."
"What's this, then, about you convincing me?" John asked Sherlock.
"Mr. Holmes informed me that you weren't working on cases at the moment. But I insisted you be part of it."
"You smarmy bastard," John said to Sherlock. "All that was, what, something to reel me in? We were nearly killed!"
"I don't mean to interrupt," Lawrence said. "But I must insist."
"You've given me the details already," Sherlock dismissed. "There's no need for you here."
"Elizabeth didn't ask me to hire you," Lawrence replied. "She did want her brother's death investigated privately, but she would've had anyone do it. I was the one who picked you. Both of you."
"And why is that exactly? You want me to blog about this case?"
"Because it's the only way I can get a detective and a doctor in to see her."
"What does that have to do with anything?" Sherlock asked.
"Mr. Wimble believed his sister was being poisoned," Lawrence replied. "But the doctor has diagnosed her with Parkinson's. Any time I try to bring in a second opinion, the doctor is thrown out or suddenly refuses to examine her."
"Parkinson's is terrible disease," John said, "but you can't poison someone with it."
"She was diagnosed with Parkinson's, but that doesn't mean she has the disease. There's no family history. No genetic marker. And no chemical exposure or head trauma. Nothing."
"So you want us to diagnose her?" John asked. "Why not just bring her in to the doctor?"
"I've been trying to do that for the past year, even since she's showed signs of dementia. But with her husband dead, her brother is her legal guardian. When he's out of the country, he leaves her care to her lawyer, who handles her estate affairs as well. Five days ago, Alvin returned to the country and made arrangements to bring Elizabeth to a clinic for a second opinion. It was all set for next week. Half a dozen doctors running tests."
"But now that he's dead, he no longer has legal guardianship over her," John said.
"And her lawyer canceled the appointment for a second opinion, saying it was just going to torture Elizabeth for no good reason."
"So you hired Sherlock to, what, smuggle me in to see her?" John asked. "You seriously believe that will work?"
"Two renown detectives hired to investigate a murder. Doesn't seem out of place to me," Lawrence said. "Please, this is her only chance. With her brother dead, the lawyers will have power over her medical choices and her entire estate. It's only a matter of time before they fire me."
John wanted to punch Sherlock across the face, but part of him was intrigued by the entire situation.
"Fine. Just this case."
Sherlock jumped to his feet. "This is brilliant. A pervasive illness and a double homicide. The game is on!"