Chapter Five

Mycroft Holmes raises a single perfectly-plucked (Sherlock thinks they are also waxed) eyebrow at the tableau that faces him. He thumps his brolly (umbrella, guys) against the floor once more simply because he can (and it makes him feel so like a proper gentleman)

"What are you doing here?" Lestrade queries from across the room where he's at the coffee machine making a fresh cup.

"My dear dee-eye, where else would I be?" Mycroft deadpans.

They all pretend not to notice Greg's blush.

Wilson, Sally and House's heads all move from Greg to Mycroft then to Sherlock and John. It is pretty obvious even to people who aren't Sherlock that something is going on between them. John rolls his eyes.

"Thought you might be out lobster fishing in the ocean." John says.

Sherlock joins in. (Because he can.) "Or chasing down aliens of one sort or another."

Mycroft arches the other eyebrow. Greg makes a valiant effort not to choke on his coffee, you know, considering where they were a few months ago.

John frowns, thinking about things he doesn't like to remember, then compartmentalizes them fast.

(Narrator breaks in: would you like to know? Go read my collab with my wonderful literary partner lobstergirl, What's Past is Prologue and this whole little exchange will make sense.)

…

(Well, go on. We'll all wait. Won't we guys?) Six heads nod: one grey, one silver, one black, one mostly auburn, one grayish-blonde and one brown. Sally clears her throat. (Ooopss…sorry, Sally. You'll wait, right?)

…

(Would you consider that a shameless plug? I ask them all. House rolls his eyes and I can see him thinking about his guitar. Sherlock and Mycroft ignore me because they truly believe in their little ever-loving hearts that they are the only omniscient creatures in the room. Hate to break it to you two, but I am the narrator!) John smiles and pokes Sherlock in the kidney and the smarmy git gives me one of those looks. Dammit. He's cute. James and Sally look a little concerned and Lestrade has checked out for a few moments, but he is looking at Mycroft…so, you know…)

….

….

(I don't think they are coming back. Maybe that was a bad idea.)

…

"Alright, Mycroft. Out with it." John growls as Sherlock begins to pace. "It would be more polite to let the rest of us in on what's happening."

"Yes, John, in due time."

"No, Mycroft, now." John enunciates his words exactly like Mycroft, which has the effect of making his husband snort and giggle like a naughty schoolboy.

House stares at John. Sally stares at House. Greg stares into his coffee while James stares at all of them and wonders what type of rabbit hole he's fallen down since this morning.

Mycroft and Sherlock stare at each other.

"Enough, guys. Let the rest of us in on it." Greg remarks.

Everyone is amazed to see Mycroft break eye contact with his little brother first. (Including Sherlock who does that nose-wrinkle thing and then looks to John to make sure someone else actually saw that. John gives him a slight nod.)

Sherlock makes a gesture to the room at large and Mycroft begins.

"A man by the name of A. Monk has been kidnapped."

(Collective sounds of surprise.)

Mycroft digs around in his coat pocket until he finds a slightly folded up piece of paper. He holds it out towards Sherlock who takes it and spreads it out on the conference table.

House watches closely and thinks about spreading something else out on the conference table. In unison, Sherlock and Mycroft give him dirty looks over their shoulders as if they heard him say it. House smirks but says nothing, choosing to stay behind his desk at the moment (or until something interesting actually happens.)

When it is all said and done, the paper is a ransom note done in the fashion of kidnappers everywhere: pasted-on letters from magazines and newspapers spell out:

John lets out a giggle. "A thousand dollars?"

Greg snorts, too. "Seriously, is that the best they can do?"

Sherlock points at the letters, one at a time. "Each letter is from a different source."

"What does that tell us?" Asks the Conductor of Light, er, Genius.

"John, it means that even though the kidnappers are asking for such a small ransom amount, they took the time to really plan this thing out." Sherlock claps his hands together and thinks that the annoying aeroplane ride may actually have been worth it.

"I don't understand." Doctor Wilson says. "Who'd kidnap a monk?"

"No, not a monk, the first initial 'A' and the last name 'Monk.'" Mycroft offers.

There's another collective head nod and the scrape of a chair being moved as House joins the rest at the table. He intentionally stands on John's other side so as not to get between him and the detective.

"Why such a low amount?" House asks quietly.

"I don't know." Sherlock intones lowly. "He's worth at least ten of me."

"Sherlock." John says and knocks his shoulder against his husband's. They share a quiet two seconds.

"He most certainly is." Says a gravely voice from the doorway. "And when I find out who and why and how, don't be surprised if I put them all in the hospital, in prison or six feet under."

(Ok, so all these guys keep entering the place the same way. Call it a running gag and let's go with it!)

"Good to see you, Captain Stottlemeyer." Mycroft remarks.

"Right." Stottlemeyer says, tugging open the buttons on his long coat. He turns his strong attention to Sherlock. "Can you find him?"

Sherlock's expression hardens, his eyes glint. "Yes."

That's good enough for the Captain. "Let's get on it, then."

(And the narrator needs a break. I'll be back soon for the next installment!)

Chapter Six

(Ahhh. Narrator takes sip of wonderful rum concoction and peruses tumblr for about five hours even though I swear I only meant it to be like five minutes!)

Here we have left poor Wilson and poor Stottlemeyer in the same room with one Sherlock and one Gregory House. Bad, bad. Now, wait a minute! Before you get all stroppy, remember that Stottlemeyer routinely has worked with one Adrian Monk for years. So, truly, he's got some ideas how things go when you are surrounded by genius dickheads. Of course, of the three of them, Monk is probably the least dickhead, and maybe could even be considered the most levelheaded, even if things that aren't level really get to him.

What a terrible pun.

(Did I just say that? John Watson, I see you nodding over there in the corner. And Lestrade…and Wilson? Fine. Gang up on me, I don't care. I'll just be a good fanfic writer and make you all kiss!)

Sherlock shrugs. John rolls his eyes, Greg doesn't look too disgusted and where the hell did I put Mycroft? (Scrolls back up the word doc…) Mycroft is standing behind Lestrade now with one of those beautiful hands on Lestrade's powerful shoulder.

Oh!

Yeah well. Possessive!Croft is an adorable thing, and I could spend all night talking about those two, but we have a kidnapped Monk to find! Let's see if we can get this thing organized. (I think they all get bored when I take a break.)

(Narrator clears throat, gets an eyebrow-raise from Mycroft. Guys, we have a mystery to solve. Guys?

Guys!

Oh wonderful. Now they are ignoring me completely. How can I play with these action figures here in my sandbox if they won't stay where I put them?)

Sherlock! Over here, pronto! Stop playing with your hair, you are beautiful, darling. Yes, we all know the coffee pot is shiny but it's really not meant to be a mirror.

House! Turn off the porn. (I had no idea you could do that with avocadoes…)

Monk!

Oh wait, he's not here.

…Which is the reason they are.

(Now they're all staring at me again. Fine guys. Let's get back to the letter, okay?)

Wilson hands a fresh cup of coffee to Captain Stottlemeyer (who we are going to henceforth refer to as Captain (not to be confused with Captain Watson!) because I keep misspelling his name. (Dear readers, I can't tell you how many times I misspelled Tietjens!) He walks back around the table where the camera pans over and we get a bird's eye view of the letter and the weird black ropy-thing that came from Mr. Thompson. Sherlock is doing that thing he does and everyone else is watching him.

hound dog

House considers calling in his team, but it's no good. Other than Mr. Thompson going into respiratory failure due to the face it's really hard to breathe when something long and silky and wet is down your throat, there's really no medical mystery here.

(Yes, yes it was meant that way.)

For once, House is thoroughly stumped.

…But he's not about to admit it.

Eventually, he wanders out of the room. Only two people notice and one of them is Sally. Wilson notices Sally noticing and Sally gives him a wicked grin.

Wilson isn't sure what to think…or perhaps maybe he should have an exorcism performed as soon as possible. What he is not going to do, however, is give in and chase House down the corridor.

Regardless, Sherlock bends over the table and picks up the ropy thing and eyes it closely for a moment. John sighs and mumbles something that sounds like glasses but he's ignored by Sherlock. Lestrade smiles, but his looks nothing like the one Sally just gave Wilson-much less predatory and much more three parts exasperated and one part fond. You know, how you look at your favorite kid or niece or nephew or sibling…

(I digress.)

With an exhale, Sherlock peels back the folded petals of the now-mostly dry shape that looks like a lotus.

…A black lotus.

(Get it?)

When he finally gets it open, he exhales and hands over the ropy thing to Captain simply because the man happens to be the closest non-John in the room. He takes it with a frown. The tiny square of white paper that Sherlock is carefully unfolding now is much more interesting. He gets it open completely and it's really no larger than a bean seed but there seems to be some writing on it. He huffs and hands it to John who reads it and shrugs.

Clue #1.

"Clue number one." John reads off to the room.

"What the hell does that mean?" Lestrade asks at the same time that Thirteen pokes her head into the room, looks around the room and wonders aloud, "Where the hell is House?"

"He left a bit ago." Wilson tells Thirteen.

"Seriously?" Thirteen queries.

They all shut up. Wilson shrugs. Thirteen growls between clenched teeth and spins on her heel to head in the opposite direction House was travelling in a little while ago.

"Well then. I need to leave. Urgent matters to attend to." Mycroft offers to the room at large. He gives Lestrade's shoulder another squeeze and leaves.

"Don't start any wars with the Americans, Mycroft, they are quite boorish and tend to be trigger-happy." Sherlock stage-mutters as he flips the little square of paper over in his fingers.

After a moment, Wilson decides that he better go and see what is going on with House and gives the others a nod. Captain stares after him, thinking that it is possible he's the only American left in the room.

(OK, so that leaves us with…'cause, seriously, I keep getting lost. I should draw a picture. Anyway: Sally, Lestrade, Stottlemeyer, John, Sherlock and…that's it.)

"Sherlock, that's not true of all of us." Captain states calmly, moving towards the coffee pot.

"Yes, yes, I am aware. In my experience, however, that's not entirely true…." Sherlock quips.

John suddenly remembers Irene's house and a certain bulging American gunman 'falling' from the window in Baker Street three times. He clears his throat and steps in closer to Sherlock. Sherlock's attention is pulled to John and he looks up from the paper, surprised.

"Sherlock, Captain Stottlemeyer is Monk's friend. Try and take it easy on him." John says.

Sherlock turns his gaze to Captain. "I apologize, you are one of the most reasonable Americans I've ever met."

Sally, virtually forgotten in her corner, snorts loudly.

That's one thing about Sherlock, he doesn't normally actively lie. He may obfuscate, talk around something or omit things, but generally, Sherlock tells the truth. Sally knows this as well as anyone. That truth may hurt, it may cut you deep and drop you to your knees, but it is still truth. She catches Captain's eye and gives him a slow nod. He seems content with this answer and settles back down in the chair he just vacated with a fresh cup of joe.

"Any ideas, Sherlock?" Sally asks uncharacteristically curious.

"Five, at the moment." He uncharacteristically answers. "John, I need to see that patient's room again."

"His name is Thompson, Sherlock." John sighs.

"Doesn't matter, come on." He sweeps out the door with John on his heels, leaving a loud silence in his wake.