A/N: Literally literary escapism? Or something along those lines. -csf
2.
'When is Anthea dropping by with our instructions? Is she bringing a spy case that we have to decode to open, or a self-destructive envelope? Which do you think Mycroft will give her for us?'
Sherlock lowers his violin. He's been playing the violin by the living room window nonstop for the past two hours, as John packed them both some essentials, notified Mrs Hudson of their upcoming absence, and insisted on ordering them some Thai take away.
'My meddling brother's personal assistant will not be entering 221B', he states forcefully. John wonders what will have happened before, did Anthea meddle in Sherlock's affairs, surreptitiously drop spyware, check the Persian slipper for cigarettes, or, heavens forbid, did she try to tidy the permanent clutter?
John looks him over. 'Fine, if it matters that much to you. Are we getting kidnapped then?'
Sherlock's lips struggle to conceal a smile. 'Probably.'
'What's her real name anyway?' John hands the detective his posh backpack.
'Which one of them do you want to know?'
'I don't mean her other aliases, I mean her real name.'
'That's what I mean too.'
'What, is she like the royal family, with very long names, longer than their titles?'
'Exactly.'
John blinks. She couldn't be... 'Wait, she could be from a place where folks' names are traditionally long.'
'Exactly.'
'Or she could have legally changed her name to accommodate both Anthea and all her other professional profiles as middle names.'
'Exactly.'
'You're not going to tell me, are you?' They cross their gazes. 'Exactly', John finishes for him.
Sherlock terminates packing his violin with the care of a gentle lover, and then briskly grabs his backpack. 'Come on, John! She's waiting downstairs already.'
'How do you know?'
Sherlock glances at the window by which he stood long time playing the violin, and John understands; multitasking.
'She's been waiting half-hour already.'
'Wait, why didn't you tell me?'
'You were' - he twirls his hand in the air - 'doing your army logistics thing.'
'You mean I was packing your bag?'
'I never asked you.'
'You never expected otherwise. The real question is whether you have been packed any matching socks at all.'
Sherlock's shock sends a shiver down his spine. John grabs his own old army print duffel bag, where C WAT ON is still readable, and with the other gand he grabs his mate. Sherlock follows him with no reservations.
Mrs Hudson comes to catch them on the landing downstairs, drying her hands on her apron, the scent of lemony washing up detergent clinging about her softly wrinkled hands. 'There you go, gallivanting again, Sherlock. When are you going to give your doctor a rest?' she shakes her head without real constriction.
Sherlock's feline eyes settle on her and he hugs her quite unexpectedly. 'Mrs Hudson, you belong in Baker Street. John belongs with me. That's the way the universe goes and I, for one, shall not protest.'
I blink, trying not to take those sentences apart. Overthinking Sherlock's sayings can get you into all sorts of trouble.
I'm fairly sure he does it on purpose.
'Have you some lemon drizzle for the road? I seem to distinguish some real long zest scent among the industrialised substitute.'
'Yes, and I'm handing it to John, he'll keep an eye on it for you', she insists in much too seriousness. She also hugs the doctor for good measure. He feels himself melt under that heartfelt embrace. He starts missing home before he's even crossed the threshold. Perhaps that's Mrs H's magic, ensuring they always return to Baker Street.
Stuffing a foil wrapped loaf of cake into a jacket pocket, John drags himself to the night-time darkened street. There's already an ominous, heavy lines, dark tinted windows car waiting. Sherlock doesn't hesitate as he steps inside and John follows suit.
.
Anthea no longer constantly holds a phone on her fingertips, as an extension of her cold business soul. She is wearing a pair of reading glasses, it seems. She hardly notices the visitors, her eyes slightly off-centre, her irises jittery as she reads and observes short distance. With her gaze unfocused, eyes meeting towards the middle, she reminds John of an earlier patient having minor brain seizures. Completely oblivious, she carries on, reading information out on the glasses surface, information that is completely invisible for the outsiders. Her dominant hand's fingers quickly tap invisible responses on her thigh. John notices her fingers are all ringed by stylish jewellery, presumably in a double function, registering the swift motions of typing and sending her responses off to the cloud. Sherlock is spellbound on her digits moving yet again, John only notices the skirt is starting to trail up and wonders if he'll get slapped for gentlemanly cautioning Anthea about it (his mother's voice telling him to be polite emerges from long lost memories), and if so, slapped by whom of the two others in the car. In the end he decides the safe choice is to mind his own business and look away from her tantalising bionically warped hand, and he elbows Sherlock too. That, of course, is quite pointless. She could be a cold haddock for all the detective notices, his attention caught on the secret messaging rather than the woman sitting an arm's length away. And as such Sherlock elbows John back, as payback for the momentary decoding distraction. He's eavesdropping on a conversation for fun.
John rolls his eyes and settles on the seat opposite bionic Anthea 2.0, like Sherlock.
Anthea suddenly clicks her fingers and her glazed eyes focus on the two men instead. She must have cleared the lense screens, for she finally acts as if she can see them there, waiting on her instructions.
Sherlock opens up the laconic conversation, as business-like as he pleases.
'We're here to save my brother's honour, it seems. Where's John's gun?'
She smiles coldly, and takes two seconds to strip any feeling off her mellow voice to finally say: 'Carrier bag, to his side. I trust a Sig will do?'
John boggles at the plastic carrier bag's contents. If he were a cat he'd be purring. Sherlock rolls his eyes and elbows John, who hurriedly recovers, saying hastily: 'Fine, it's absolutely fine, thanks for the ammunition too.'
'Next?' Anthea prompts.
'What do we need to retrieve?'
'A lost Rembrandt. Originally a tryptic, but it got divided during World War Two, in central Europe. One of the three scenes was destroyed in a museum fire in the 1960s, the other two are now in the hands of private collectors, none of them overly scrupulous on how they were obtained. Either will do. Insurance will compensate the current owners most adequately as they are private investment hedge funds, no emotional attachments, doctor Watson. I trust you can accept this choice is a generous concession to any moral objections you might have.'
John asks instead: 'Which of the two remaining pieces are we supposed to get?'
Sherlock cautions: 'It's up to us. Part of the fun. We may cross paths with the opposite team.'
Anthea rehearses a smile. It's as dead as the previous attempts. Mycroft's mentorship, most likely.
'The work's name and info can be found on page 95 of the current Paris travel guide by the Pidgeon Publishing House. Notice Paris is an additional clue. The hunt starts at midnight tonight from whatever location in London you choose. There are four items to be retrieved altogether. Good luck, gentleman.'
'No, wait, how do we contact you?' Sherlock inches forward, crowding the short blonde woman. She doesn't seem phased.
'Morse code on a 147 hertz long wave frequency radio. You can use it to request your next trophy to hunt from anywhere in the UK or Europe. Do the same when you're done with all the quests.'
'Very old school', Sherlock comments.
Her smile turns deploring, she clearly can't help herself. 'So is a scavenger hunt, I've been assured.'
John suddenly feels comparatively very old, even though he's not entirely sure of Anthea's age.
Either way, Anthea clearly loves her gadgets, she doesn't make much of going off grid in bustling European cities.
'I'll collect your phones, bank cards and other electronic devices now', she drones tonelessly. 'Land travel only, no GPS locating devices, no modern technological aids. No recruiting agents, no backup, no contact with the opposite team members.' She literally hands Sherlock a leaflet. It reminds the doctor of the leaflets for most ailments lying about in his surgery. He never realised how much it made the receiver feel like he's nondescript and just an anonymous part of the healthcare machinery. 'It's all explained in there. I thrust you'll have no questions.'
Sherlock hands his phone without a fight, much to John's surprise. The army doctor follows his lead, with much more reservations. He can't quite understand why he's giving up modern advances and going back over a century. Apparently a gentlemen duel needs to be true to Victorian fashion. What happened to good old fashioned pistol shootings twenty paces apart at sunrise and in front of witnesses?
For the Holmes name, the doctor reminds himself. Nah, scratch that. For Sherlock. The skinny detective needs a hand to keep himself safe. And because being by Sherlock's side is never boring.
'Oh! Give us a sec!' John rolls down the dark tinted car window and beckons over the Thai food delivery guy. Sherlock is immediately in on it, and takes the bag, unpacking the chopsticks. He tries to hand over something to Anthea, who looks very much like someone chucked cold water out of a bucket on her.
Again, she's starting to look a lot like Mycroft. Must be all the time spent together planning global strategies.
'Who are we up against?' John asks, enjoying the expert lemongrass and ginger balance. Sherlock knows the best places in London, and all seem to owe the detective something too.
She scoffs. 'I'm not telling you who is on the other team. Bye, doctor Watson.'
Sherlock nudges him off the parked car. John grabs on tight to the Thai street food and the gun. The night is still the same awaiting them outside the vehicle, but it feels brighter in the electric lights shine, full of a new sort of intrigue and possibilities.
By his side, Sherlock is thrumming in coiled energy. 'John, the game is on!'
'Not until midnight.' He's immediately glared at. 'In any case, not till I finish this.' Someone needs to be the sensible one, John reminds himself.
.
'So... not a bottle of expensive perfume.'
Sherlock smirks. 'Mycroft, like all powerful leaders, has a knack for underestimating his employees.'
'It's a high stakes art theft, Sherlock. Maybe even a heist.'
Sherlock looks down on the slowly panicking doctor. 'Surely not a heist, not dressed like that, John.'
The banter refocuses the doctor. 'Oh, shut up!'
'I'll think of something, John.'
'Is that why we are on the Underground, on our way to nearest train station?'
'No, that's so we can discuss our situation much more freely than in the back of a cab. Expect spies from the opposite team.'
'What, no! Anthea said no recruiting agents.'
'Your trustworthiness is one of your most attractive qualities, John. Leave me to think of the ways in which those rules we were given can be easily sidestepped, by us and by them. For instance, it appears that we are being followed already. Keep an eye on the competition, they say?'
John shuffles on his seat, unconsciously sitting up straighter.
'This better be about something more important than an insult over Mycroft's umbrella handle or his silk pocket kerchief.'
Sherlock's lips tremble, but this time he can't quite avoid the sharp chuckles that echoes in the packed underground carriage. John grins.
.
TBC
