Disclaimer: I own nothing. I know, I know, this was supposed to be up last week, and today was supposed to be a rerun (if you follow me on tumblr you'd know). I fought really hard with writer's block. Initially I thought this chapter would be just a day or two late, but…well, it wasn't. At least it comes today. Will you forgive me, pretty please? I really had the hardest time with this. I am so sorry, really! Please forgive me, once again!
Episode 8: The geek AE-BE interpreter
John discovered it while he was immobilized. Thanks to Mrs Hudson's teenager nephew. "Wow! You're SteelCapt!" the teen blurted out excitedly. He'd followed his aunt when she'd come up to bring John tea and biscuits since Sherlock was on a case. John had insisted that she took cases again, even if she complained that without him around people's idiocy was insufferable. But months had passed since that unfortunate cruise, and other would go on before he could get back to work. No matter her apologetic resolutions, the sleuth would have gone crazy (errr…crazier) if she only played nurse all the time.
The boy was a welcome distraction. "SteelCapt?" John echoed, curious.
"The new entry in the Kratides superheroes group," his visitor had explained, actually looking very much like John's colleague when she was asked to clarify something she thought patently obvious.
Which of course meant that once Sherlock came back, half an hour later, complaining that the case had been barely a three and that Lestrade was getting more incompetent than usual, she had been sent back out to a comic shop in order to buy the whole series. Still feeling guilty over John's injury, she'd barely scoffed at the request. John wasn't known for needing pastimes particularly brain-engaging (the reverse was actually true) so it made sense.
And when the owner of the comic shop had tried to sell her a set of fake claws, furred cat ears and a tail "because you could make such a glorious cosplay, dear," she'd just blinked uncomprehendingly at him, refused curtly and paid for her comics without even deducing what he used the figurines he sold for, She was behaving.
It all became clear once she brought the comics back to John, because apparently SteelCapt had a girlfriend/associate (pet?) called Blackclaw who was a sort of panther hybrid that looked considerably like Sherlock, if one added the feline features.
"Life would be so easy if I could keep you from being bored just with a bit of yarn!" John had teased gently, grinning while he showed the images to her.
The detective glared at him. "I'd unravel all your horrid jumpers for wool. Actually, that might not be such a bad idea," she countered, smirking. "So? Will you protest with whoever is behind this?"
"Why? It's free advertising, and we're still fighting criminals in this," the doctor replied. He was pretty smug about the whole thing, honestly.
"I'm not an animal," Sherlock objected, pouting.
"Oh, I don't know. You have something of the cat in you, I'd say," John needled her, smiling.
"John!" she protested, outraged.
"The stealth, Sherlock. The stealth," he pointed out quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
The sleuth was mollified. A bit. "Still, heroes don't exist. And I don't know about you, but I definitely wouldn't be one of them. Besides, can you see me in a team?"
"I suppose you have a point. You'd be the solitary knight…Amazon…whatever type. I can't agree with you though. You could easily be a hero. Of course, if you don't want to, I'm not insisting," the former thief countered, looking warmly at her.
"I'm still of a mind to protest. Mrs Hudson should have a character," the detective pointed out, choosing not to embark on a discussion on the respective heroicness – or lack of it.
"Definitely," John agreed, nodding.
For a few months, this was all. John still read Kratides, Sherlock had taken to make the milk disappear not to risk any cat jokes, and that was it. Until Mrs Hudson, when the detective agency finally (after seven eternal months) had regained all its members, introduced a client that was another known face. Known from the comics, that was. "Hello, DarkScale," John greeted, grinning. He couldn't resist the joke.
"Harold Latimer, inker of Kratides. It was just a whim, giving that character my face. Almost nobody would know, after all." He gave John a long look, and pointed out, "I made you taller."
"Yeah, well, ta for that," the doctor replied, shrugging.
"Anyway, I should never have given that blasted character my face. It's a few weeks that whatever happens to him, happens to me too. I wouldn't want to have jinxed you too by taking inspiration," Latimer stated, frowning.
Sherlock scoffed loudly at the word 'jinxed' – as if such an idiotic notion could actually be true – then she demanded curtly, "Details."
"It started two weeks ago," Latimer related meekly, apparently unfazed by her rudeness, "DarkScale fought that wolf hybrid, and when I went for my usual walk in the park – I have one every day, around the same time, one needs to oxygenate the brain, you know – a rabid dog attacked me. It was literally foaming at the mouth. I ran home and it was just chance that I wasn't rent apart. But I thought, hey, I had a bad day. The following week, Kratides' enemies discovered DarkScale's secret identity, and they tried to run him over while he went around his normal business, and a car didn't stop at the red light and almost did me in. But once again, I didn't think any of it. Maybe the driver was a drunk, or something. But this week, someone cut my brakes – like in the strip. I'd gone on an outing to the Chenango River and I barely managed to jump from the car before it crashed."
"So the question is: who wants you dead?" the detective asked, with her usual tact.
"No one. I have no enemies. Hell, I barely have friends. My social life isn't that – no matter. My work is my life, and I've never had a disagreement with anyone. It's all the comic's fault. I came only because I was worried for you," the inker insisted stubbornly.
"If for the wrong reason, you've come to the right place. Brakes don't cut themselves, and people don't do that kind of thing for fun. They do it in order to murder. You might be sure that you have no enemies, but you've gained at least one, and a stubborn one, apparently, if with a terrible taste in inspiration," she pointed out sharply.
"Terrible? Kratides?" Latimer queried, raising an eyebrow in disbelief, and with a tad of tremor in his voice. Oh my God, he wasn't going to cry, was he?
"My colleague isn't much keen on comic books in general. She didn't mean to disparage your work," John justified, raising a placating hand. (Thank God for his presence and his ability to deal with unreasonable clients.)
"Oh, I'm just the inker. Kemp comes up with the plots. He's got me the job, you know? I can't be grateful enough to him," the man squealed, entirely too humbly.
"Yes, well, we're taking the case. In the meantime, I'd take a careful look at what I ink and take my precautions accordingly, if I were you," John suggested emphatically. This was the first man he'd met who had even less self-preservation instinct than Sherlock. He didn't think that would have been possible, but apparently, it was.
They went to the publishers next, and the secretary, a young boy called Chris Melas, didn't ask anything better than to talk about the artist. He might have, in truth, had more than a little crush on the other man, and for once Sherlock didn't feel the need to point that out.
Chris explained how Kratides had lost popularity and risked cancellation, before the author, Wilson Kemp, found and proposed the new inker. With the new style, and the addition of some new characters, the comic's popularity had soared anew. The credit for it should have gone all to Latimer, but Kemp refused to recognise it and give him the due praise, to the point that he became angry if someone mentioned how wonderful the new art style was. "I would like to be able to say that Latimer became Sophie's – Kemp's wife – lover as some sort of revenge, or to spite him. But truth is, he still worships the land Kemp walks on despite that. I just think he's constitutionally unable to deny anything to anyone bearing the last name Kemp. Sophie wanted him, and she got him," the young man recounted, grimacing in distaste.
Well, that certainly gave Kemp a motive in case he realised that. but one should never stop at the first track. "Did Latimer have arguments with anyone else of his colleagues, to your knowledge?" John queried, trying to think of all the possible suspects.
"It wasn't even properly an argument," Chris remarked, hesitant. "Harold had an idea for a new comic series, and he came to propose it to the manager. Well, he was told in no uncertain terms – and a bit too loudly, if I may add an opinion – that we had no empty spots for experiments, and that Kratides had changed inker once and could do so again. Then the manager added something in Latin."
"Sutor, ne ultra crepidam?" the doctor hypothesized, smiling. That looked like a good bet.
"Yeah, that," the secretary agreed, still clearly puzzled.
"It means do not overstep the limit of your abilities," John explained charitably. It wasn't such a bad suggestion, really.
"Latimer argued his point, and managed to extract a promise that his series would be taken into consideration anew if some other comic series ended. Still, naturally, he was depressed," Chris related clearly sympathetic.
"Did you cheer him up?" Sherlock sneered. It seemed she couldn't keep herd deductions of the young man's wishes to herself any longer.
"Oh no, he wouldn't look at me twice," the secretary admitted, blushing in discomfited embarrassment.
They left the office. "Well, but the manager could simply fire him if he wanted to," John pointed out reasonably.
"Unless he didn't want Kemp to protest, protecting his protégé. Feeble, I admit, Kemp has much better motivations, but we need to gather all the data yet," Sherlock stated, but she looked unconvinced herself. She just found unsatisfying when all things pointed clearly in a direction, and hoped for an alternative. Why had they even been consulted if everything was obvious? Simply because Latimer was too blind to accept the truth?
"What do we do?" John queried, ready to indulge her.
"Talk once again with Latimer. I'll text him we're coming," she decided, hoping to unearth something, anything that made this anything but the most classic adulterous drama.
If John hadn't been a doctor, Sherlock would have never forgiven herself that text.
Mr Watson is of British origin right? I'll put on the kettle, Latimer replied to her message. Which was why, when he didn't answer his door, John had no qualms picking the lock, his partner winking approvingly at him for always bringing the trappings of his previous job. The loud hiss of a kettle could be heard, but the kitchen was full of a sour smelling gas. Bitter almonds smelling gas. They dragged the unconscious Latimer out of the room, Sherlock grateful for her scarf which automatically filtered the air for her – if only a bit.
Once the young man was out of his apartment, John checked the man over and deemed him not gravely poisoned, taking the intervention of the case. Thank God they arrived in time – he had to have breathed it for no more than a few seconds.
Latimer came back to consciousness coughing harshly. "What happened?" he queried weakly, voice still hoarse.
"Cyanide capsules. In your kettle. So as soon as you heated it the gas would get free and poison you," she explained curtly. Hopefully that'd wake him up from his self-delusion.
"Fucking strip. Darkscale faced poison, too," the inker complained as loudly as he could. He couldn't still believe it was some…supernatural influence of the comic, could he? Nobody was that idiotic.
"The comic's not out yet," John remarked quietly.
"No, I was inking it right now. I just received it," the young man said, nodding. "You might have seen the illustrated boards in the kitchen table – the kitchen has the best lighting so I always work there."
"You know what this means? That Kemp is your murderer wannabe. Did he come round recently?" John asked sternly. The man needed to face the facts.
"He's been here yesterday, to ask about how I was faring after all the recent accidents. He was afraid I might refuse to collaborate with him any longer. See? He cares for me. he can't be the one," Latimer replied stubbornly.
"Oh for God's sake you can't be so blind. You fucked the man's wife behind his back, if he's discovered it it's no wonder he wants you dead. He can certainly find another inker," Sherlock blurted out, scowling.
Latimer blushed, and stammered, "No, it's not like that. Sophie – she told me Wilson, well, Kemp didn't care. About it, about her, about anything. That he wouldn't mind."
"Oh please. And you believed it?" she replied, rolling her eyes.
"I would never do anything to hurt Kemp," the inker bleated. No man could be that much of an idiot, could he?
"Anyway, we need to call the police," John interjected. They would present the case and let the cops deal with it. It was obvious, so Sherlock would probably agree that not even them could botch this up.
"No! I – please. Not yet. I'm sure this is all a huge misunderstanding," Latimer pleaded. Really, was the man suicidal?
"The strip the aspiring murderer followed aren't even published yet!" the former thief pointed out sharply, unable to comprehend such attitude. The lemmings had more self-preservation than this man!
"Well maybe he talked about it with someone. Why don't you look into that? I'm sure he has. And if you're sure…at least give me awhile to come to term with things. A day? I need at least a day, please," the young man countered, eager to find another explanation.
"I'm not sure I trust you to survive another day," John grumbled tiredly. From the look Sherlock was giving their client, she agreed with him.
"Please," Latimer insisted, and they gave up. At least now the man was warned, and should be able to take care of himself for twenty-four hours.
…Or not. Latimer called them that evening, overexcited like a pup who just received a treat. "Kemp said that if someone is using the strip as inspiration to hurt me, the only thing to do is remove Darkscale from Kratides. And he wants my input on how to do it! Mine! He's never asked my suggestions before! See? He's looking out for me. You can't be right!"
"What? No – you can't go! Are you that stupid?" John yelled into the phone, but to no avail. Latimer countered, "I can't lose this occasion," and then he hung up on him. He actually hung up on him!
They searched for Kemp's address and ran over there, but when Sherlock and John arrived evertìything had already ended. A dead Kemp, shot by his own gun, and a shocked Latimer, who babbled about being attacked and managing to turn the weapon's muzzle against him. "Will you explain to the police? I didn't want to, it's not my fault, it's not…" he whined pitifully
John reassured him, promising they'd go to the police the following morning. They had friends there, and would be heard out. Latimer thanked them with the same overeagerness he seemed to do everything.
"A silly tale, but a happy end one at least," he commented when they left the crime scene.
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," Sherlock countered, frowning.
"Why?" the former thief queried, taken aback.
"Oh, some odd details. For example: in his kitchen there was a particular blue pencil. The details one add with it won't show on print. Why would he do that if he's just the inker? He's not supposed to toy with the images. Let me check some things, would you? I think we've accepted too many statements without double-checking the facts. There might be more than helpless stupidity at play here," she replied, with a clearly hopeful look on her face.
"How can I deny you anything when you look like that?" John agreed, smiling.
The first order of business was, apparently, checking if the cut brakes attempt and – much more – their client's survival from it was credible. The experiment involved driving along the same road he'd taken without using the brakes once. As much of an adrenaline addict as he was, it wasn't long before John started to plead with her to slow down. He didn't fancy particularly dying in a car crash after surviving a war. It looked…anticlimactic. And unsightly. Yeah, that was the word. Unsightly. Sherlock, however, claiming with what might be a slightly hysteric laugh "For science, John!", continued driving crazily, barely keeping them from colliding with other passing cars or going off the road. Until even she gave up, survival instinct stronger than scientific interest, and she braked brusquely.
"We're still quite far from the place he said he had an accident. I think we might agree that that attempt on his life stemmed from our client's imagination," John concluded for her. It posed a mystery, of course. Why would their client claim attempts being made against his life when it wasn't true? Well, it was true – the cyanide attempt had happened, they could vouch for it – but then again, the man in the best position to mess with the kettle was Latimer himself…
An investigation to the post office (or, well, breaking in and helping themselves to their documents, as it was already closed), then, revealed that Kemp had never sent anything to Latimer. Not once in the last month. Rather, their client regularly sent Kemp things. The comics, obviously. The complete comics – if he created them from scratch, the presence of the invisible-on-print pencil in his house made sense.
"But how – why – it doesn't make any sense," John complained, more to the air than his partner.
"Apparently the new and improved Kratides was entirely Latimer's creation," the detective explained, huffing.
"Yeah, ta, I got that by myself. It still doesn't explain why Kemp got credit," he replied, snarky.
"Kemp discovered him, and must have trapped him in a straitjacket contract that allowed Kemp to take credit for his work, probably for a number of years. No wonder Latimer wanted him dead," the sleuth elaborated, shrugging.
"And we were supposed to persuade everyone it was self.-defence. He planned this since SteelCapt and Blackclaw came along. Three months ago," John realized. This was…a twisted sort of plan. Latimer flattered them by inserting them in the comic only to dupe and use them easier.
"Yes, well, he underestimated us," Sherlock declared smugly.
"You, you amazing genius – I'd fall for it," her partner admitted.
The detective didn't mean to, but she blushed. Really, no matter how commonplace it was becoming, John's eager praise never failed to warm her heart – and often her face, too. "We need to talk to the publisher," she decided then.
John luckily managed to persuade her to postpone until the following morning – he doubted that the publisher would be very incline to hear them out if they dragged him out of his bed at this hour.
They welcomed him in his own office, the day after – Sherlock couldn't believe how late the man appeared (well, not very late, but to an impatient sleuth the last few hours had seemed eternal) and had let herself in once again. Of course, John had followed her – and somehow managed to smooth over the man's feathers, ruffled by the invasion, assuring him they had very important things to discuss about Kratides.
"Kratides?" the publisher had replied, taken aback. "Kemp's dead now, and Sophie – his wife – she owns a share of the publishing company, and she agrees that Kratides should be put to rest with her husband. And Latimer has that new comic ready…it could work. I mean, it wasn't such a bad idea, even if I yelled at him – I wanted him concentrated on our bestseller, obviously."
Sherlock didn't reply to that, but opened a tab on the man's pc. "Here. Sendai," she said simply.
"And what's that?" the publisher replied, looking puzzled at the screen.
"She's a fanfiction author. I don't have to explain to you what fanfiction is, do I?" the sleuth announced haughtily. For someone who hadn't known what it was until that night, and whose plan had been abundantly fleshed out by John, she managed to behave as if ignoring it would have been ridiculous.
When the publisher nodded, she added, "In her stories, she's brought Kratides over to United Kingdom and added a bit of new cast. Just take a look at her plots – they're wonderful. You would have many stories already ready for publication, and I'm sure she wouldn't be against offering more. There is no need to end Kratides."
The publisher read speedily through a couple of stories, and grinned. He shook their hands, replying gratefully, "Thank you so much. I wouldn't have thought of this. Kratides is my most popular series, and I was worried about seeing it disappear, but with Kemp gone…and now I don't have to. I wouldn't have thought that among fans there could be such gems, that's why I never looked that way. We're definitely adding the Leprechaun to the cast!"
"Latimer won't be happy about that," John pointed out, with a lopsided grin, when they left the building.
"That's what I count on. He'll attempt something – and we'll be ready for it," the detective countered, smug. She doubted that the police would figure out the truth about Kemp on their own – Latimer was a fantastic liar. But if they could prove that he never hesitated to kill – or attempt to – in order for his own comic to be published, even Gregson – which Sherlock had been informed had taken the case – should understand that their wasn't baseless chatter. The inspector had been reluctant to believe her in the past, which was why Lestrade's career had been considerably quicker.
"Can I suggest a joke?" the former thief asked, a mischievous look in his eyes.
"And what would that be?" Sherlock countered, looking interested.
"That's not a job for John Watson. He's almost fallen for Latimer's plot. SteelCapt, on the other hand, wouldn't. and he'd be pissed at a villain trying to use him," he quipped.
"You're not a superhero, John," she reminded him with a sigh.
"I can be. Let's get the costumes. Come on," her partner cajoled.
Sherlock had no idea why she ultimately agreed. This was supposed to be work, not play. But when John got so enthusiastic about a project, it would be downright cruel to deny him. There was a boyish side to him that was…no, don't say adorable. Don't even think it. But if not that, what?
She knew this was a terrible idea. For one, a stakeout shouldn't be a time for giggling. But just glancing at each other made them snicker quietly at how ridiculous they looked. And – well, such a stupid costume shouldn't make her pupils dilate, but – no, no, it wasn't that at all. It was the dark causing the dilation, nothing more. And her blood sang for the excitement of the hunt, not – not that damned, rigorously only self-admitted military kink of her – it was a ridiculous fake uniform, come on! And the same went for John, certainly, and his appreciative glances were only her imagination.
Anyway, they were decidedly too distracted for a stakeout. So much so that if Latimer hadn't been obscenely loud in his coming (he wasn't a very capable assassin, after all) they would have probably missed his arrive. But they didn't, and John – sorry, SteelCapt – left their hiding spot, gun in hand, stopping him while he was trying with evidently poor skill to pick the lock of the publisher's home.
Latimer threw a look at him and rolled his eyes, blurting out, "Oh, come on, that's ridiculous!"
"That's what I told him too," Blackclaw agreed, joining them, "but I have to admit that I admire you. You're considerably cool in front of a gun aimed at you."
"That doesn't come with the costume?" Latimer whimpered, in a high-pitched squeak.
"You've never seen a true one? Not even as research for your drawings?" It was John's turn to roll his eyes. Honestly, this man.
"Anyway, police captain Gregson is almost here, and you'll have to give him some explanations," Sherlock pointed out sharply.
"I just wanted to play a prank on my boss," the murderer bleated.
"Hard to sustain when you'll be found with a lethal weapon on you, don't you think?" she countered, smirking.
Latimer's face twisted in a grimace of impotent fury, but with John's gun still calmly trained on him he dared not do anything.
"Even Gregson should be able to understand your plan now, and we'll explain all about Kemp – the actual truth of it, not the one you fed us so carefully," the masked sleuth added smugly.
"You were supposed to be on my side," Latimer complained in a whine.
"We're not actually your characters, you know? I'm giving you one good suggestion you should recognise, though. If you're good at something, don't do it for free. It would have saved you Kemp's murder," John countered, unsmiling. (Which meant he wasn't that angry at the poor sod, probably pitied him, but Latimer had no way to know that.)
Then Gregson arrived, and he took their prisoner away. He looked at the both of them twice, raising an eyebrow, but – to his eternal credit – not laughing.
"We'll explain all the details of the case tomorrow morning…after we've changed," John told him, now looking mildly bashful.
"And that was for?" the police captain inquired, puzzled.
"Dramatic irony. And maybe a form of contrapasso," Sherlock explained, apparently perfectly at ease in her costume.
"What?" Gregson asked, not understanding the last word.
"Never mind, Gregson, we have to go. Any decent dictionary can solve your doubt," she huffed impatiently.
John gave the policeman a nod in apology, and followed her. He knew he was gaining a reputation as a pushover among the police forces, but didn't mind in the least.
"We deserve a reward, I'd say," the detective stated once they were alone, walking in search of a cab who'd take two ridiculously dressed people.
"Oh yes," her partner agreed.
"Are you still interested in that weekend in Paris?" she offered, a twinkle in her eyes.
"God yes!"