Author's note: Hi everyone!
Sorry for the wait, but I have finally finished a hectic script-writing period at work, hurray! *Does little happy dance*
So now I have a lot more time to continue with this story. Those who have read my other fics might notice a little link if they're perspicacious, I wonder if anyone will spot it.
Again, please forgive me for the delay, I will try to resume a more regular pace.
I own Sherlock as much as an ostrich owns the sky: in longing only.
Have a great day, thanks for reading!
Feralandfree
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"Sherlock, it's been 6 hours straight. Could you please stop?" John begged wearily, rubbing his forehead while his roommate played his violin, as he had been doing ever since they had returned home.
"I'm waiting." Sherlock stated simply.
Was it John's impression, or was the violin playing even louder, now?
"Waiting for what? You know, I don't even care! Play as much as you like, I'm getting out of here." John cried in exasperation, grabbing his coat and keys before striding to the door.
"While you're out, get some tea; There's none in the tin."
John had already left.
Sherlock lowered his violin and looked at the cords.
His fingers hurt.
.
.
"Hello?"
"Doctor Hooper..."
"Mr Holmes, we've already discussed this. I am sure there are many doctors who are far more qualified for this than I am!"
"You have cooperated with Sherlock in the past, with excellent results. Not many of your peers can claim the same..."
"Maybe, but that is in the past. I'm sure Sherlock would agree, things have changed."
"Doctor Hooper, I have found your presence to be...A good influence for my brother. I am confident your assistance would be most beneficial..."
"Does Sherlock know you contacted me?"
"Doctor..."
"I bet he told you not to; am I right?"
"Sherlock doesn't always know what's bes..."
"Good day, Mr Holmes. I'm very sorry. Good luck."
.
.
"For Pete's sake! You're still playing?" John cried out.
He had spent hours away from the flat, hoping his friend would tire of that blasted violin, but when he had come home that stubborn idiot was still playing. In desperation, John had resorted to heavy-duty earplugs and a pillow over his ears. Now, still in his pyjamas, he stared in amazed frustration at his friend.
"I played slower music during the night, you should be grateful."
"You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry"
"Sherlock. Please. Stop. "
"I told you, I'm waiting."
"Fine. I give up. " The Doctor sighed, sitting down on the sofa. " What are you waiting for?"
Sherlock smiled slightly. "The next victim. This is a serial killer, and she hasn't finished yet."
The Consulting detective's phone began to ring. John picked it up and looked at the screen.
"It's your brother."
Sherlock stopped playing and ran to his flatmate, grinning.
John started, brow raised. He didn't usually grin when Mycroft was calling...
"Another one?" Sherlock said as he answered. "Good. Where? What? Fine, but you're paying. First class, of course. No, not her. Not her, Mycroft! I mean it. An hour."
John stared questioningly at his flatmate as he hung up.
"What was that about? Was another ambassador killed?"
"Yes."
"Ok, let's go!" John shrugged, turning to the door. He was very tired and would rather have liked to go to bed, but...
"You'll need to pack."
"What? Why?"
Sherlock walked to his room as he replied "The Ambassador was killed in France."
Shortly after, Sherlock and John walked out of the flat to find a black car waiting for them.
The driver opened the door for them, and a voice came from inside the vehicle.
"Allow me to give you a lift, little brother."
The two men sat down in front of Mycroft and the car took off.
"Gentlemen, as the murders have become international, the situation is more , the French have consented to allow a British doctor of our choice to inspect the corpse. Your plane leaves in thirty minutes. I believe the doctor will be waiting for you at the gate. "
Sherlock and Mycroft's eyes met, and held each other's gaze for a moment. Then the younger brother leaned back, looking out of the car window.
" You will liason with agent Bonlieu, he will pick you up at the airport and take you to the hospital Hôtel-Dieu, where the body is. "
Mycroft leaned in.
"Sherlock, John...I cannot guarantee your protection in Paris. As it was an Ambassador who was killed, we're not only facing the French Police, but also the DST, DCRI and the DPSD as well."
John nodded, as if he knew what those abbreviations meant.
"This could cause serious political repercussions...The British and French governments will be walking a tightrope, we cannot appear to be overstepping, so please be discreet..And careful."
As the two men left the car and walked to the airport, Mycroft dialed a number on his phone.
"Ils sont en train de partir. Garde-les. Bonne chance."
With that, he hung up.
"Take me to the club, Hobbes." He commanded quietly.
The car drove off, heading east, to London and the rising sun.
.
.
The airport was as busy as ever, brimming with people coming and going, welcoming and bidding farewell.
Within the crowd, individuals gave way to a dark-haired man with a stern, determined expression, followed by a cheerful, smiling bloke.
"So, do you think there is only one killer, or is it a band of assassins or something?" John inquired.
Sherlock shook his head. "I'll know when I see the body." He replied, narrowly escaping contact with a toddler, one grubby-ice-cream-and-crayons hand gripping his mother's skirt, the other grubby-ice-cream-and-snot hand reaching out in front of him as he hobbled along.
His flatmate panted slightly and smiled at the endearing child. Sherlock strode forward, and John almost had to jog to keep up.
"We're on time, you know, there's no need to run, Sherlock."
The consulting detective did not slow down, but kept marching to the gate, pulling up his collar and runningg a hand in his hair.
"Who do you think the doctor will be? One of Mycroft's chaps, perhaps?"
Had Sherlock just started walking faster?
"No. He is trying to be discreet, remember? The doctor has to be a common civilian."
Finally the gate was within view. Sherlock's eyes scanned the area briefly.
He suddenly slowed down, and breathed out.
John breathed a small sigh of relief and looked up. Waving at them from the gate was Doctor Paten.
Of course, John mused, he was a sensible choice. He was an experienced, skilled doctor, known and well-respected abroad, thanks to lectures and papers written over the years. Doctor Paten also knew Sherlock well, but had never reacted to the young consulting detective with anything other than good-natured acceptance.
The two men reached the elderly doctor.
"Hello, gentlemen. Allons-y, and all that, right?" he smiled.
"Good Morning, Doctor Paten." John nodded back. " It's good to have you with us!"
Sherlock didn't say anything.
Doctor Paten excused himself, pulling out his phone to make a call before the flight.
The two friends stood at the gate, waiting to board, and John grinned at his flatmate as he cried out:
"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are going to Paris!"
"Was that quite necessary, John?"
"No, not at all. But it had to be done."