Disclaimer: nothing mine. A. N. I know, I know, I can't apologise enough. This was meant to come in late November, but then writer's block happened, and December Sherlock Challenge of Awesomeness, and birthday fics…but this story is finally finished. Please don't hate me! (Or do, you'd be right to.) I can only say sorry, but here it (finally) is! I hope you enjoy! : - )
Season Finale: Meeting the family.
"It's finally time, Mish," Harriet announced, grinning to him over her drink. When she'd asked to meet him – in a bar, why didn't that surprise him – he felt like he had no choice but to go. A rest of self-preservation instinct made him lie to Sherlock about whom he'd be meeting – somehow, he didn't think the two women would hit it off.
"Time for what?" he asked, a bit wary.
"The old Duke of Holdernesse finally kicked the bucket. Enter you as the long-lost son. I've arranged it all already," she declared excitedly.
"No, Harry. I've got a life here. I'm happy," he replied, trying to communicate how true that was. Of course, that had been an old plan of theirs, but…he didn't need a dukedom if he had Sherlock.
"With your pet detective, of course," Harriet recognised, waving it away as if it didn't matter. "But it doesn't even start to compare, Mish. Dukedom. You'd be loaded – and I'd be loaded, the Duke's sister. I want a flat on the French Riviera. Remember how you told me you'd get me one?"
"Why don't you just seduce a fortune heiress? You're charming enough," he tried, hoping flattery would work.
"Thank you for the vote of confidence," she giggled. "Gay fortune heiresses are rarer than you'd think, though."
"Still, I don't want to do this. I know it was in the plans, Harry. But I've changed," the former thief tried.
"Not that much, you haven't. I know you, little brother," she huffed. "And I have told everyone I found you! What am I supposed to say? 'Sorry, he fled'?" Harry pouted.
"Fine. I'll come back to England," he conceded, with a sigh.
She whooped.
"To tell them there's been a mistake," he added sternly. "And then I'll get back. I like being John Watson, Harry."
"I've not watched that movie. Which one was it?" she queried, raising an eyebrow.
"No – Sherlock picked that alias," he admitted, smiling.
"Did she now?" his sister asked, with a penetrating stare. "No matter – I've got the tickets for us. Tomorrow we're gonna be on that plane, Mish. Or I'll hound you down." And she would, John had no doubt.
He went home looking suitably distraught. He didn't like lying to Sherlock, but he didn't want her to suspect he was going back to his old ways if she knew about Harry's plan either. "You know that old army friend of mine I told you I was meeting?" he queried quietly.
"Yeah. Sholto. The one who read about you, noticed your name change and was curious about it. Is he satisfied?" the sleuth queried, something like the shadow of apprehension in her voice. The last thing they needed was someone to come up claiming John Watson really wasn't John Watson – and he certainly couldn't have been for as long as she had claimed to work for him. Still, she didn't look up from the microscope at all, wanting to look as if she placed no importance at all on the matter.
John wasn't blind. There was no Petri dish on the microscope for her to observe. He very carefully didn't call her out on that little act. "It turns out that he had a more serious reason for wanting to see me – but of course, he couldn't say so until he was sure I wasn't just a surprisingly perfect lookalike," he related. He felt rather guilty for dragging his previous commander's name in this scheme, but it had been the first name that'd come to his lips when his partner had asked him whom he'd be seeing.
"What?" Sherlock asked, finally looking at him. This was…unexpected.
"Sholto had gone to my family first, thinking I might live with them, or that at least they'd know where he could find me, and wanting to catch up. He was my commander so he had my files, included which family members had to be warned in the case of my unfortunate passing and so on. That's how he found out. Harry's dying. Apparently the alcohol finally got the better of her liver. She's not expected to last much," John fibbed, choking properly on the last statement. Splendid act, if he did say so himself.
"Oh, John," she replied, and he wished that anyone who'd ever judged her as an unfeeling bitch could hear her now. She shared his pain, and he felt acutely guilty about it.
He'd told her about his early life as an orphan who was many times adopted because he 'looked cute' only to be sent back to the orphanage because of his 'violent tendencies'. The fact that he always got into fight to protect people bullied had never mattered.
Until the time Harriet – his sister at the time – had spoken up, pointing up 'Mish' (he really didn't like the name he'd received from who –knows- who, Hamish, but the affectionate Mish was almost…acceptable) had been helping her against fucking omophobes. Rather loudly and vehemently.
That time, he'd been allowed to stay. He supposed that had really become his family, if he ever could claim one. If only by acquisitive prescription. Harry hadn't even shunned him once he'd turned to not-entirely-legal business. She'd helped him plan, for a time…until they'd realised he worked even better alone.
"I have to go, you see," John concluded softly.
"Of course we have to go – I'll get the tickets," Sherlock agreed, in full organisational mode.
"No, I already did. And – I don't want you to come," the doctor replied. Now came the hard part.
"Why?" she queried, sounding half-wounded and half-panicking (what had she done wrong not to be allowed to comfort him oh my was he going back to England and not coming home anymore she'd done it she'd done it what had she done?).
John could read her, and he was surprised himself to be able to read her, and his guilty feeling tripled. Still, what had to be done had to be done. He hurried to justify himself and reassure her, speaking softly. "Look, it might seem odd, but – that is Hamish's life. And he's had a pretty shitty life. Losing Harry is just the last nail in the coffin for him. I want to get back and find you here and be John Watson, God how I want to be, once I can bury Hamish and Harry together. John Watson is a very lucky man. And if you come with me, your presence will mix the two up and… it might make no sense logically, I'm sorry, I don't know how to explain it better, but it makes sense to me. And I don't want that. Please stay. I'll be back soon. I promise, love."
"I'm informing Mrs. Hudson," she concluded, and went down to their landlady/secretary's flat. But instead of doing what she'd told him, she simply announced to the old woman, "We're going to England, Mrs. Hudson. And with we, I mean you and I."
"Why, dear?" Mrs. Hudson queried – not protesting, just mildly curious.
"Because John is going, and he doesn't want me to follow – but he lied to me," the sleuth revealed, groaning.
"Are you sure?" her second mom asked. John always did his best to make Sherlock happy – even before they were properly together. And he'd told her all his secrets after they started a romantic relationship. So, what was the boy thinking?
"That's the first time you doubt me," the detective complained, sounding actually wounded.
"I didn't mean – it's just – John wouldn't hurt you," Mrs. Hudson said. She firmly believed as much.
"I hope he doesn't mean to," Sherlock agreed softly. "But with a past like his, I simply can't help but worry. I mean, when your significant other starts lying the first thought is that he gained a lover. I wish it could be anything so simple. It could be anything – blackmail, death threats…it wouldn't surprise me if he tried to keep me out of I, despite how illogic it would be."
"He's protective, our John," the old woman concurred, smiling. "That's not bad, you know."
"We're following him all the same, Mrs. Hudson," the sleuth declared, her tone brooking no argument.
"Of course dear, of course," the affectionate landlady nodded.
John wore his nice, tight-fitting black jumper (minus the ski mask, because he wasn't going to rob anyone – covertly at least) and black jeans when he followed Harry to meet his 'relatives'. Three cousins various times removed, while he was supposed to impersonate the long lost illegitimate son of the old Duke. His unfortunate love for John – sorry, James now – 's late mother was one of these romantic tragic tales better suited to a historic novel than to actual life. But as they say, reality surpasses fantasy sometimes… The old Duke had never stopped searching for his lost heir, and named him for the lion's share – and succession to his title, despite his being illegitimate – in his last will.
"Repeat with me," Harry insisted for the umpteenth time, anxious.
"Harry, I told you, I'm not going to play along," he sighed, exhausted.
"Indulge me," his sister whined – and as always, he ultimately caved in.
"There's Angus, the birdwatcher banker, who's forty-something, the twenty-five years old Charles, who wants to start a horse breeding farm, and Gwen, who's about our age and a photographer," he dutifully repeated.
"And we," Harry prompted, still unsatisfied.
"Are not brothers, otherwise anyone would suspect the scam immediately. There'll be time to reveal your status after we get the loot," he finished for her. Really, did his sister take him for an idiot? (Also, he really wasn't going to play along. But she refused to hear that no matter how many times he repeated it.)
Harry introduced him to his relatives – reunited in the castle's hall – with a grin and a flourish. A round of cheery welcomes echoed.
"Thank you so much, but I have to say something first," John – James pointed out, raising a hand to ask for silence.
"Yes, dear cousin?" someone – it had to be Charles, the age matched – asked, clearly uninterested.
"I'm not the Duke's son," the doctor announced, loud and clear. Many reactions he'd imagined to such a pronouncement, but not a loud, general laugh.
"Oh. Such a quirky sense of humour. Just like uncle Sam," the one who had to be Angus chuckled.
"He has his father's nose – it's so cute," cousin Gwen remarked in a high-pitched voice.
"I'm really not," John insisted, not getting why people weren't jumping for joy at his announcement. Did they want him to have their money?
"Hasn't this joke gone on long enough? Miss Ormonde brought absolutely unquestionable documents," a sixty-something old man – that John knew he'd already met but couldn't place for the life of him – snapped, annoyed. Of course Harry had. She'd been planning this for so long.
"And you would be?" the doctor queried, automatically responding with a dose of arrogance of his own to the stern, snooty old geezer.
"I'm Robert Frankland, executor of my dear friend the late Duke, and I must repeat that I'm perfectly satisfied of the evidence, so let's proceed," the old man stated regally.
Oh fuck. Frankland – judge Frankland, who was infamous for the sternness of his verdicts. If John insisted too much – if the man started to suspect that the documents he'd been handed were indeed faked – Harry was finished. The judge would find the way to ensure that she'd end in jail for decades. The doctor couldn't do that to her. She'd forced his hand – he could only play along for the moment.
And as if things weren't complicated enough, that was the moment Sherlock chose to pop out of nowhere. "Love, you should have waited for me!" she chided, her voice half an octave higher than her usual. "Why don't you introduce me?" How did she manage such a grating warble was a mystery. And if it wasn't enough, Mrs. Hudson was trotting quietly behind her.
"Yeah, introduce us, Jimmy," Charles piped up, openly leering at her.
"Everyone, this is my fiancée, Lucy Warriner," John – James – told sternly, glaring at cousin Charles. He put a proprietary hand around Sherlock's waist, and she purred softly. Of course, he could have used her true name – she wasn't as famous as The detective John Watson (which was absolutely unfair, if you asked him) – but better safe than sorry.
"And this is my mother, Martha," 'Lucy' added, smiling. "So these are your 'relatives', uh, Jimmykins?" she queried airily, reading the situation at a glance. She didn't actually make air quotes, but she didn't doubt that John would feel them anyway.
'Jimmykins' managed not to choke at his new nickname, and proceeded to gingerly introduce everyone.
"And how much of this is ours?" Sherlock asked naively, like an awed child – a greedy one, for sure.
"I'll take over the Dukedom, so – most of whatever dad left," her partner replied, shrugging. He didn't want any of this, not anymore, and he was certain the detective couldn't care less. Was she trying to determine the situation, make him hated, something else…or maybe all three?
"The castle is nice – might need a bit of remodelling, though. Maybe a bit more Christian Jank-style?" 'Lucy' mused.
John had no idea who the hell this Jank fellow was, and he couldn't imagine why Sherlock even knew about castles' architects (he assumed, at least). Probably it was for a case – he should ask her; it was sure to be an interesting tale. Judging from the general shocked reaction, including quite a bit of choking, he was the only one who ignored that name though.
"You might as well say Disney style," Angus remarked, red-faced in his outrage.
"And what's wrong with that? They're going to have lots of kids, after all," Mrs. Hudson interjected, smiling seraphically.
Sherlock blushed at that, oh-so-prettily.
"What do you say, James, maybe your fiancée would like to see the park," Harry said hurriedly, hoping to defuse the situation before it became even more awkward.
Her brother latched onto that, immediately and gratefully. "Yeah, yeah. We'll see each other at dinner, everyone, yes? After the flight, I need to stretch my legs a bit."
"Fine," his supposed cousins agreed, with various shades of glaring. Even Frankland nodded. There was no rush for him.
Once they were alone in a corner of the vast park, Harry hissed, "Why don't you go s bit further, James. Let me and Lucy have a bit of a girls' chat."
He sighed, certain that was a horrible, horrible idea, but complied. He would explain everything to Sherlock later. She loved him – hopefully she'd believe him.
"Sherlock Holmes, I suppose," Harry said, her voice very soft despite their seclusion, but with a harsh hedge.
"You're correct, Harriet Sacker," the sleuth replied, just as softly but definitely smug.
"What the hell? How did you figure that out? We don't even look like each other," Harry grumbled. Of course she'd used an alias for this venture. Even assuming Mish had told her about his adoptive sister, what had betrayed her?
"I know him," Sherlock boasted, grinning. "And he told me everything about his past. It was a simple thing determining who you were among his past associates – the fact that he mentioned you in his excuse to leave, since you naturally were on his mind, did help," she admitted, smirking.
"I'll give you a warning, sister. He'll get bored. Soon. he's in love with being in love, always has been, but never with the actual girl of the day. He moves on, seeking the next prey of his charms, as soon as you believe you are 'comfortably settled'. I'll give you three months – and only because I recognise that you are bloody brilliant," Harry admonished, shaking her head.
"I'll take the risk," the detective declared, defiant. It was out of character for her. She used to protect her own feelings so viciously, and always keep people at a distance rather than risk getting hurt. But she trusted John – Hamish – James or however else he chose to call himself.
In that moment, they heard an alarmed shout from him – who, to give them the requested privacy, had gone a bit further, beyond a hedge – and both young women ran instinctively forward. They found their loved one legs in the air in a flowerbed.
"Incredible!" he yelled, righting himself. "You didn't tell me we have a murderous ghost, Harry!"
"A ghost?" Sherlock enquired, looking entirely too excited for it to be decent – not that anyone cared.
"There was a – a bloody medieval knight with a spear. He ran that way when he heard you coming. I barely managed not to be run through," the doctor explained, still a bit shocked from the experience.
"A ghost who leaves prints," the sleuth noted, starting eagerly to give chase.
"Oh yeah. I didn't tell you. Everyone will be trying to kill you for the couple of days until you officially receive the Dukedom. They'd share it all between themselves then," Harry explained, as if it was no big deal.
"Then why didn't they simply believe me when I said I wasn't him?" John asked, intensely baffled.
"Because the old man was a bit obsessed with finding his heir and his will is conceived so that they wouldn't be able touch a penny for twenty years unless James was found," his sister added, grinning. Very useful for them. It made everyone else willing complicit in the scam.
"Oh marvellous!" John said sarcastically. It was much better murdering him, wasn't it?
"But it is just for a few days – when you officially receive the title of Duke of Holdernesse you're safe. Because if you are killed after that your 'relatives' don't get anything unless they are in your will. You only have to hold on for a short while," Harry clarified, encouraging.
"Yeah. Of course. Easy," he sighed, already starting to feel weary. Why had they ever thought it was a great idea?
"A murder attempt! And more to come! Oh, love, that's great. We're staying," Sherlock declared, still on the track of the ghost. Figures she would want to solve any case she came across. There would be no help from her in making Harry reason and bring John home asap.
Unsurprisingly, following the hoofprints of the ghost they reached the stables.
"Welcome, Sir, ladies," said an old but brawny stable hand, very politely obstructing their path, in contradiction with his words.
"Not yet a lady," Sherlock pointed out, going around him as if he didn't exist – or trying to, but still finding him on her way. She glared.
"Have you seen someone coming this way?" the supposed heir inquired kindly, thinking this would be a better course of action.
"No one, Sir," the man replied simply.
"Are you lying, blind or were you asleep?" the detective spit out angrily.
"I beg your pardon?" the groom uttered, his face the very picture of affronted innocence.
"These hoofprints – they lead here," she snapped, pointing them out to his attention.
"Of course they do. These are the stables," the man countered, not adding a 'lady' or 'miss' or anything anymore. Not that Sherlock wanted that.
Harry couldn't help it – she snickered. Her brother glared at her – this was not the moment. Sherlock was in fire with the investigation, and would not appreciate any giggling at a crime scene she didn't take part in.
"They are very fresh," the sleuth objected, her voice practically a growl.
"Yesterday's, in fact," the stable hand boldly stated, "we always make the horses exercise daily."
"We've seen it coming this way – the horse, and his rider," John said sternly. Enough of this nonsense.
"I don't know what to say, Sir. I swear, no one has come this way," the man insisted, following Sherlock – who'd finally managed to get past him to snoop around – and starting to heap straw in a corner with a pitchfork.
After a few moments, the consulting detective huffed, "I'd say we have all the data we can gain here – we might as well go back." Unsurprisingly, both siblings followed her obediently.
Mrs. Hudson welcomed them back at the castle. "Your relatives are so nice, Jim, dear," she cooed. And nice of her to remember John's new alias. "We had a great fun chatting – we swapped so many stories. Do you know, Lucy, love, they're not the only heirs. An equal part of it once Jim's share is taken out will go to the local Beekepers' society. It seems that the old Duke was very worried about the bees' dwindling numbers, and what it means for the environment and so on. Such a wise man, he was. " She remembered Sherlock's new name, too. Oh well. She'd known her longer than her 'fiancé' had, and the detective had undoubtedly gone undercover during that time.
"Really mom? How interesting. Now that you mentioned bees I really want to taste some honey, though," 'Lucy' remarked airily.
"Well, you're in luck, my dear," cousin Gwen replied amiably, "it's almost dinner time. There'll be dessert, and I have specifically requested honey orange upside down cake. I'm quite fond of it myself – it's delicious, I assure you."
"Oh, good," the sleuth replied, as if cake was all that interested her at the moment (and frankly, her appreciation sounded almost obscene – she'd insist she'd copied Mycroft then).
"And you'll have a special surprise, Jimmy," Charles said, winking at him.
John (or Mish if you want, but he'd really rather be called John) managed to valiantly mask his apprehension. Any surprise could only bring more trouble than it was worth.
He was right, of course. The surprise – coming after a dinner that he was too anxious to really taste, though he was sure it must have been great – was nothing good. Another cooing, middle aged woman, on the portly side, exclaiming, "My Jimmy! Do you remember 'not-mama Viv'? You were so cute." and then hugging him abruptly.
"We found your old nanny, Jim," Angus declared, looking smug.
"Well, to be honest she found us," Gwen pointed out, smiling.
Oh fuck. Bloody buggering fuck. He wouldn't be able to deceive her. Harry's scam would come to light, and the judge would have her hide. Maybe even Sherlock's and Mrs. Hudson's hides, if he didn't come up with something pronto (he didn't care about himself – never had). So sorry, Harry. Sorry, everyone. He gingerly hugged the woman back, murmuring a vague assent.
"Do you remember Shadow?" the nanny was querying, horribly cheerful.
"Yeah," 'Jim' replied, secretly terrified, "course I do. Dear old Shadow! How could I forget it?" What the hell was that? A cat? A dog?
"Your favourite cock-horse. You'd ride it to new conquests every day. Such an imagination you've always had!" the old woman explained fondly. She couldn't be fooled, could she? And if she was… he'd surely slip anytime now.
"And look what I've got there!" Viv declared, revealing a somehow battered teddy bear with a white jumper reading, in red bold letters, 'Bletchley Park'. "How did you call him?" she queried, as if her memory didn't serve her well anymore.
This was going to be his downfall, surely. "Alan?" the supposed heir guessed, internally praying, "Please, let it be Turing. Let it be Turing, please!" Hopefully the others would interpret his interrogative tone as, 'Is it really my old toy?' and not as, 'I have no idea what I am saying!'
"Right! Alan! You can have him back. I'm sure he missed you," the nanny said, thrusting the old toy in her old charge (at least theoretically)'s hands.
"How cute!" Sherlock, in her dizzy Lucy persona, remarked, taking it from John's hands. She made a mental note to self to ask Harry later about her lover's true favourite childhood toys after the conclusion of this case.
Actually, she might get to discover it sooner rather than later, because Harry tugged her away from the table and claimed that they needed a bit of 'girl talk'. Gwen perked up and made to join them, but Mrs. Hudson asked her something inconsequential about the history of the castle and effectively stopped her. Sherlock dropped the toy bear back on John's lap and kissed him on the cheek before following his sister out.
Harry guided her to a bedroom and turned on the radio in there – rather loudly. There'd be no overhearing them, casual or otherwise. Clever Harry. "You can't keep him, you know," she declared, smirking.
"Are you so sure?" the sleuth replied sternly. She'd always been afraid that such a thing might happen, but John seemed so in love – but he'd lied to her – but…so many contrasting buts. She needed to trust John.
"Oh, I am sure. I know my brother. He might not seem like it, but he gets bored easily. He conquers and moves on. New girl, new identity, new playacting. Though he hasn't left you yet, so I suppose you're doing something right. But even should you bring him back home with you now, a few weeks tops and he'll disappear. Unless…" the con woman trailed off, a challenging glint in her eyes.
"Unless?" the detective echoed in a soft breath, despite her hate of repetition.
"You're a good actress, I have to give you that. Apt to play a role making things up on the spot, and that's useful. And you have sustained – created – a lie yourself, and for so long, too. I know everything about you," Harry praised, with a smirk.
"I highly doubt that," Sherlock cut in, grumbling.
"If you want to keep Mish, follow him. You might be good associates," the hustler stated, ignoring her protest.
"We are already good associates," the world's only consulting detective pointed out flatly, raising an eyebrow that clearly asked, 'Are you stupid?' though wordlessly.
"In your field. You need not to smother Mish. He won't appreciate you trying to keep him chained, and I really think you might become a good addition to the team. Follow him on his vocation – it really is one, even if he discovered it rather late – and he won't leave you behind. We might be great, all three of us," Harry said, grinning invitingly.
"I could be a great criminal," the detective agreed, and the other woman smiled even more. "But I think you'll find that a detective's life has enough thrills in it for your brother not to want to change it," she added, defiant.
The con woman shrugged. "Consider it a standing offer. Especially when Mish will get tired of John Watson and disappear on you again. Come to me, and I'll find him back for you – so you can show him you're willing to let him lead you in your new career," she said, handing her a calling card.
"I will, thanks," Sherlock replied, putting it in her purse. Because she knew that she was taken enough with one John Watson that, should he flee, she very much risked throwing her own career down into the sewer to – pathetically, she realised that – try to get him back, just the way his sister had suggested. She needed to trust him not to force her to do that, though. He loved her – loved what they did together. Didn't he? It couldn't be entirely an act. Nobody was that good.
John joined them then. "Harry? What are you doing in our bedroom? Not seducing my girlfriend again, are you?" he queried, raising an eyebrow.
"That was the one time, Mish," his sister replied, sighing exasperatedly. "And no, I'm not. I'm giving her good suggestions, actually."
"Well, give us a bit of privacy, will you? We'd love to retire – and maybe spend the next few hours enjoying not enduring murder attempts," he huffed, shooing her away.
"Not that we wouldn't enjoy a murder attempt," Sherlock piped up, with a smile.
"Yeah, well – good night. Sleep as little as you can!" Harry said, with a cheeky wink at her brother.
She'd just left when someone knocked – they almost thought she'd forgotten something. But no, it was Charles, holding a couple of glasses. "Thought you'd enjoy a night cap, Jim. I always have one."
"Undoubtedly," the sleuth remarked, with a judgemental look.
"Thank you so much, Charlie. Lovely idea. Good night," the pretend heir countered instead, elbowing her lightly, taking the glasses and laying them on a table. Cousin Charles went, and he was just kissing his fiancé (might have to really ask her to marry him), when another knock interrupted them.
This time it was Angus, with glasses of his own for them. "This was uncle's favourite port. He never went to sleep without one last sip. Said it made wonders for his rest – he'd drink it, and not open his eyes until next morning. I thought you might like it too," he explained.
"How thoughtful of you," 'Jim' thanked between gritted teeth, while his beloved openly glowered at being interrupted. The liquor joined its equal on the table.
John tried to get back to the kissing, but the detective stopped him. "It's not ended yet," she said. "Might as well wait it out."
"Do you think?" he queried, not wanting to believe that.
But sure enough, only some moments later Gwen knocked. At least she was more original. On a tray, she brought warm milk and chocolate biscuits. "It's the best way to end a day – our cook's special recipe chocolate biscuits. Maybe they'll bring up some sweet memories," she murmured.
"I'm sure they will. Thank you so much, Gwen. But you're limping! I have a bit of a medical training – maybe I should have a look at it," he offered kindly.
"Oh, thank you. I went for a bit of a ride this morning and that damned horse kicked me. I'm afraid I'm not a true Amazon," she countered, laughing throatily and sitting on the bed for John to examine her with more ease.
"I should say, since you didn't undergo mastectomy," Sherlock sneered.
"What?" Gwen queried, blinking owlishly.
"Never mind… I don't think that's very bad. I do suggest a massage," he diagnosed. When it seemed that Gwen was going to get more comfortable and take that as an offer to perform one himself, ignoring his fiancée[U1] 's glaring, he quickly added, "Or a long, warm bath. Actually, that might relax you better."
"Oh," she uttered, clearly a bit disappointed, but left.
"And now…" he said, turning to his beloved with the full intention to get back to at the very least some snogging (well, hopefully more). She nodded, smiling invitingly at him, but just then another knock at the door frustrated them. Who the hell was it?
Nanny Viv, still holding that thrice-damned toy bear, and chiding him – the nerve of the woman! "You left Alan behind, Jimmy! He was going to be so lonely after he finally found you back."
"Sorry nanny. Thank you, but…well, I'm a bit grown up for toys," he remarked pointedly.
"You're never too much grown up for sweet memories," the old woman declared, placing it herself on the bed, sitting among the two pillows, and then leaving with a soft, "Sweet dreams, Jimmy," and yet all the airs of a queen.
She'd just left when they started hearing an ominous ticking sound. "It can't be…can it?" John wondered. "I mean, the thing wasn't doing this in the dining hall…"
"It doesn't mean that someone didn't add an explosive afterwards. If it was abandoned, anyone could have…" Sherlock pointed out, frowning at the apparently innocuous toy.
"Right. I was a soldier. I know how to deal with explosive. You just have to be…delicate…" he uttered, gently getting on the bed and trying to feel under the padding a switch, or wires, or anything…when he couldn't, he started hurriedly ripping the poor bear apart, but still without success.
It was nothing more than a jolt seen out of the corner of her eyes that made the sleuth look upwards…and that lead to her leaping to move John out of the bed. The poor Alan had been innocent. The ticking had to be the mechanism who'd first lowered the heavy chandelier and then sent it crashing onto the bed (and on John if he'd been there).
"We might still find the one responsible! Come on, love!" she said, running out of the room. They crossed a startled servant of some sort, clearly not used to running into these corridors, and gleaned from him directions to the attic in the above storey, as the mechanism had to be located there.
The place was empty – it was too much to hope that their murderer would have lingered – but they hadn't met anyone on their way…so that meant to explore alternative exits. John found a trapdoor and used it without a second thought…only to end in Gwen's bathroom. Where Gwen was taking the suggested hot bath. Well, that might solve the question of their murderer – or maybe not. She certainly looked naked in there, would she have been quick enough to disrobe while they were hot in pursuit? Or would she have maneuvered the mechanism stark naked?
"Don't bother to knock," she said, with a cheeky grin. She didn't seem very embarrassed.
"I was just…" he stammered.
"Exploring. We couldn't sleep and decided to go explore. Of course, we had no idea we'd end here – sorry," the detective concluded for him. Cousin Gwen glared noticing her presence at 'Jim' 's heel.
"Yeah. Sorry. Of course, we'll just…leave you to it…" the pretend heir uttered, only to be interrupted by someone's scream.
They left the room running, leaving a scared Gwen to her bath, only to find a commotion in front of their own bedroom. It wasn't like they left it. There was a body on the floor, face contorted in a tortured grimace, a now-empty tumbler rolled from his hand. Angus. "I'm afraid he's dead, Your Grace," a butler (what was even the butler doing here? did the others call him to dispose of the body?) said oh-so-politely.
"Well, why would he poison my liquor and then drink it himself? Solve me this, Lucy," 'Jim' asked, baffled.
"Maybe he's not the one who poisoned the drink. Both Angus' and Charles' offerings were rather similar-looking. Or maybe a third party poisoned all the drinks while we were in search of the perpetrator of the earlier attempt," she replied, shrugging.
"There's no need for a third party," Harry – of course she'd run here too – declared loudly. "All the attempts to his grace – Charles, you're the one behind all this!" She pointed at him like a vengeful fury. She was more protective of her brother than Sherlock would have deemed her.
"What? That's absurd!" the accused man yelled.
"Do you have any proof?" the judge – of course he'd hastened there too, as much as a man of his age and dignity could hasten, at least – queried sternly, as if he were sitting in court.
"This morning, his grace was attacked by a 'ghost' dressed up like a medieval knight, actually riding one of the horses from the stables – and we all know who has a penchant for horses," Harry stated, glowering.
"That's ridiculous! We all know how to ride – it doesn't implicate me more than it implicates judge Frankland here!" Charles objected, taking a threatening step forward.
His accuser's look clearly said, "Bring it on, you weakling!" Harry actually smiled at him. Sherlock had always thought that John's angry, you-better-run-now smile was an effect of his army service, but it seems brother and sister share the trait. "And you all heard Lucy – it must have been the drink Charles brought his grace who was poisoned!" Harry insisted.
"You're all mad! I'll press charges – press charges, I tell you! This is slander!" the young man shouted.
"And you studied Engineering, that trick with the mechanism of the chandelier would be a piece of cake for you!" Harry concluded. She might as well utter a triumphant 'ah!' given her smug expression.
"I was going to press charges, but I'm seriously considering forgetting you're supposed to be a woman first," Charles growled, closing his fists.
At which point John – with the ease no doubt born from a long practice – took a step forward himself, saying placatingly, "Now, now, Charlie, let's all take a deep breath. She might have spoken hastily, but we're all gentlemen here, aren't we?" In the meantime, he'd manoeuvred himself between the incensed man and his sister, who had moved a couple of steps further afar and to the left, leaving a space for him to act if needed. He wasn't threatening at all, but Sherlock did not doubt that he would easily subdue 'little cousin' if he didn't relent. She was half-tempted to egg them on, because John fighting was always a sight, but that'd be unappreciated.
"You know what, fuck off, Your Grace!" Charles grumbled, walking past John and not-so-lightly shouldering him. That put him on the way to where John had originally stood – and that was the reason an arrow that had (casually? accidentally? Oh, who were they fooling) been shot by a crossbow laying on the mantle of a hearth like some sort of trophy (which sort of people put hearts in their corridors?) pierced him. In the heart. The arrowhead came out from Charles' back, and he died with a stunned expression on his face and a tiny mewl.
"I think we can safely say he was innocent," judge Frankland pronounced, looking with obvious blame at Harry.
"I…guess," she replied, still a bit shocked. "But this solves the case, doesn't it? Angus is dead, Charlie's dead – the only suspect left alive is Gwen. And her share gets bigger with each co-heir she kills. Let's go get her!"
"Let's not be hasty once again," Sherlock interjected. "The Beekepers association is as invested in this as any of Jimmykins' relatives were – and that crossbow was rigged with a timer, we don't have any solid evidence."
"Oh, come on! Do you really think a few old farmers would start a murderous spree?" Harry huffed with contempt.
"Let's. Not. Be. Hasty. Lucy's right," His Grace (Sherlock was so going to tease him about it for months!) seconded, voice stern.
"I think we'll look into the association, won't we?" the sleuth purred.
"Of course, love. It'll be a fun way to spend the night," John agreed, grinning. "Oh, by the way, Martha – my nanny hasn't come around despite the ruckus. Will you check she's not incurred in any accident of her own? I'm a tiny bit worried."
"Obviously, my dear. Do not worry – I'll take care of her," Mrs. Hudson assured, with a maternal smile.
"Oh fine – I'm the only sensible person. I'll deal with Gwen on my own," Harry huffed.
"Please, promise me – tomorrow. Let us have the rest of this night to investigate," John pleaded. He so didn't need to deal with his sister now.
"Oh, fine," she agreed, with a shrug.
The group split, and Mrs. Hudson – as she promised – went to check on nanny Viv, armed with chamomile tea she obtained in the kitchen.
The other woman looked fine – but she was wide-eyed and slightly trembling. "My Jimmy! What happened to my Jimmy? I heard –" she lamented.
"Now, now, my dear, don't worry. I've brought you a bit of chamomile – is it fine? Or do you need something stronger? You seem awfully anxious," Mrs. Hudson reassured, with the ease of long experience.
"I need to know about Jimmy! Where's Jimmy?" the other woman insisted, still distraught-looking.
"He's fine, I promise. I told him I'll look over you. Won't you take a sip?" Mrs. Hudson comforted her.
"I will – if you tell me everything," the nanny conceded.
"Oh dear…" Mrs. Hudson sighed.
John and Sherlock, in the meantime, went to the (now closed, given the antelucan hour) location of the Beekepers' Association. A shared look, and John hurriedly picked the lock. "I should have named you Ruth," he commented offhandedly.
"Why?" the sleuth queried, curious.
"Because there's a chance that I could quote Fried Green Tomatoes to you before the case is over. 'Ruth, there's some bee person here to see you'," her lover explained.
"You and your movie obsession," she groaned, without heat, while she checked the records of the association.
"Found anything?" he queried.
"Nothing special, just a change of President year and half ago – but the new President joined the association three years ago, at the same time they were notified of the Duke's will. Apparently because she finally became a widow and so she didn't need to deal with her misanthrope husband's opposition to joining any association, but the coincidence in timing is a bit too close for my tastes," the detective recounted, speed-reading through the documents.
"Well, who's the new president?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.
"One Vivian Langridge," Sherlock read aloud.
"Oh fuck…" the doctor swore earnestly.
"Nanny Viv!" they declared together, aghast.
"But she'll need an accomplice – she can't be the ghost knight," John points out.
"What if she's not a widow, after all? She was the Duke's son's nanny – who more at hand than the wife of one of the servants?" the sleuth hypothesizes, on the way back – they need to get to Mrs. Hudson!
"Right, but which one?" her lover asks.
"Who was there when we followed the ghost knight? I bet on the stable man. He was brawny."
Sherlock was – as usual – always right. Mrs. Hudson – despite her numerous talents – had been caught off guard by the apparently harmless Nanny Viv. The woman – and her accomplice – had rounded up her, Gwen and Harry and, with the considerable cogency of a gun, led them outside, to a potting shed. On the way, Mrs. Hudson managed to make the both of them admit to their crimes – all of it, poisoning, crossbow-rigging, everything – but she doubted she'd ever be useful as witness for the prosecution.
The shed contained a menacing wood chipper. "Let's get on with it – I want it all already ended by the time my dear Jimmy comes back home! Start with her!" Vivian said, pointing at Harry.
Well, it wasn't the first time someone tried to bully Harriet, and she knew how to get herself out of a pinch. She 'accidentally' stepped on a rake, sending it hitting her captor's arm, which allowed her to twist free – and with another couple of moves (which no referee would judge loyal) managed to make the gun fly out of the man's hand. "Run!" she screamed, but vainly, because all the others dived to search for the gun in the straw.
The burly man had been enraged, though, and he managed to shove Harry head first into the chipper. That was going to leave a huge bump – assuming he didn't manage to push her into the infernal machinery.
Despite her fighting, he would have probably done so, but Sherlock and John had arrived to the rescue, and her brother jumped on the assailant, taking him off her and then proceeding to dislocate both the man's arms for good measure. The former army doctor dumped his adversary in a moaning mess and went to check on Harry, who'd slumped a few paces from the goddamned chipper. "You fine? Harry, please. Speak to me," he queried.
"Fine," she replied, her voice higher than her usual. "Thanks, Mish," she whispered. "I owe you one."
In the meantime, the hunt for the gun had been won by Nanny Viv, who covered the other two with the weapon. She hadn't calculated Sherlock's intervention, though. With a cloth hose wielded as a whip, the sleuth managed to make the criminal drop the gun – and with another hit from the hose, she sent the weapon flying and then falling at the feet of the group formed by John and Harry. The former arm doctor took it automatically, and a simple gesture was enough to persuade Nanny Viv to kneel in the straw. The one who holds the gun is always right, after all.
Judge Frankland arrived, papers in hand. "His grace? What is happening here? The investiture is in ten minutes," he pointed out sternly.
"For the last time, judge, I'm not the heir of the old Duke," John sighed, his gun not wavering. The last thing he needed was the criminals trying something again.
"I don't know why you insist with this nonsense – I have poured over the documents, and there's absolutely no doubt possible," the old man chided, frowning.
'You doctored these papers admirably, didn't you?" John asked her sister with only a look.
She gave him a small smile. She didn't do things halfway. He wouldn't throw her to Frankland, would he? The judge was worse than metaphorical wolves.
John smiled back. "Without these papers, there's no proof for my claim to the dukedom, is there?" he queried conversationally.
"Well, no, but they're plenty enough," Frankland replied, uncomprehending.
"Then, if you please…" the doctor took the papers from the unresisting judge's hand…and fed them to the chipper.
The old man looked at him in shock. Harry groaned aloud. All that hard work, wasted! What had Mish been thinking? Her brother offered her only a small apologetic smile and a pat on the shoulder.
Later, criminals consigned to the local police, John, carrying his and Sherlock's bags, found Harry loitering in the hall. She smirked at him. "You've become more high-maintenance since the last time, Mish," she joked.
"Harry, we need to talk," he stated seriously.
"Later, Luckwearer," she said, waving away his worries and using the childhood nickname.
"No, now, Harry," he insisted, holding a ticket to her. "Take this back – I'm not coming to France with you."
"You aren't? Why? I mean, you've already had your little detective, haven't you?" his sister queried, baffled.
"I have. And this one, I want to keep, Harry, She's the one. I'm reformed – well, we still regularly break and enter, so maybe not much," he laughed "anyway, I'm going back to New York with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. But you'll always be my favourite sister, and I'll be there for you if you're ever in trouble. And Sherlock will, too."
"I'll what?" the sleuth asked, entering the hall. "Our cab's here, John – you coming?"
"You'll make him happy," Harry answered, though it sounded more like an order. "And if you two don't invite me to your wedding, I'm going to haunt you."
The consulting detective blushed, and she looked so delectable John couldn't help but kiss her immediately. "Oh, we will," he assured afterwards. "Come on, now. We don't want to make the cab wait."
Gwen entered the hall immediately after, and found Harry still brandishing the ticket and misty-eyed. "Everything fine, my dear?" she queried softly. After Harry had fought so bravely and saved them (with a bit of help, fine, but not-Jimmy really hadn't answered to her flirting and she knew how to take a hint) she admired the other woman. If she were honest, she had developed quite a bit of an instant crush on her. (So she was bi. Problem?)
"Fine, fine – it's just…they grow up so fast," Harry sighed.
"Oh well. But now's not the moment to be blue. You have a ticket for Nice. You can go and party! French Riviera!" Gwen cheered her up.
"Actually, that's an extra ticket. I've been stood up. How do you feel about making me company there? I promise to make you dance – and who knows, maybe we'll find the actual Jim Holdernesse there," Harry proposed, winking at the other woman.
"With such an invitation, how can I refuse?" Gwen grinned.