A/N: Monday, I helped with covid testing. Overnight, Lockdown Three came to effect in England. Tuesday, I closed up shop on the main job, waiting to know what work, if any, is happening in the near future. Today, I'm (obviously) oversharing, and it's only morning here.
Eventually I'll integrate the new limitations into this storyline, but— give me time. What a week so far and it's only Wednesday. -csf
3.
'You're back', notices a haggard Scotland Yard familiar face from a drowning tide of paperwork. The unexpected visit would perhaps be more welcome if Sherlock wasn't so obviously wearing that anxious edge he now enrobed himself with so often. And, what's more, he is blatantly alone. On second thought, those two factors are often linked, as John's presence often softens Sherlock's unpolished edges.
With a nervous twitch of a man missing a fix, the incoming consulting detective further looks around in the cluttered office, lingers his mercurial eyes on the battered filing cabinet, and finally alludes, in his best effort at small talk:
'Your office plant is dead. Well, one of the two.'
'Oh.' Greg comments, following his gaze in surprise. 'My ex-wife got the ficus for me.' They finally cross gazes. 'Bin it for me, will ya?'
'Which of the two?' the consulting visitor has the nerve to ask.
Following an undeniable impulse, Greg answers darkly: 'The wifey's one first. The dead geranium next.'
'I could experiment on the ficus, Lestrade.'
'Even better, be my guest to take it with ya.'
Sherlock plonks himself in the vacant chair without handling either plant's exit from the dead end office's top of the filing cabinet.
'Looking for unsolved cases?' Lestrade restarts, closing a file he's been working on. A petty larceny report from his lower ranks team.
Sherlock shrugs, nonchalant.
'Safest bet to find one was to come here. The Yard is ever so generous.'
'What happened to the last one?'
'Solved it. John is lazy, so you may have to wait to read his blog about it. Also emailed you the solution half-an-hour ago.'
'You didn't use to disregard John quite like this', Greg says, brazenly, wondering how much the strung up genius will put up with in the hopes of a case to solve, so he can shove the success in a certain Frenchman's blog.
'I don't disregard John', says the towering consulting detective currently looking behind him in mild confusion, as if he truly expected John to materialise as his faithful shadow from the door.
'It used to freak you out, John's work as an A&E doctor during this covid deal.'
Sherlock looks away and retorts, with a pinch of contempt: 'It's the "new normal", he tells me.'
'Does it feel normal yet?' Greg enquires softly. The younger man shakes his head, mutedly. The inspector feels for him. It's not quite like Sherlock can interpose his cases between a doctor and a doctor's life calling. Any further attempts might just disintegrate the eroded shell of John Watson, a man torn from too many directions.
'Sherlock, this other fellow just gave his mate a car so he wouldn't have to take public transport, I read somewhere.'
'John is a menace behind the steering wheel of a car, it's public service to keep him to the Underground, Lestrade', Sherlock retorts with a reproachful look.
'Yeah, but John would be safer in a car, and you and I know that with your cases John can't ordinarily rack up enough hours to pay for a good car on his own. Parking in London is nigh impossible. But I always reckoned you had a family trust fund or something. I mean, if I were to guess, I'd say your brother's pyjamas also probably come in three pieces.'
Sherlock smirks. 'Possibly, or he just wears a vest to bed. Lestrade, why are you blatantly insisting on this French detective's attention on his assistant?'
'Because I think John could do with a little bit more attention from you.'
Sherlock rolls his eyes, petulant as a child. 'John gets more attention than he craves, the man is practically self-effacing.'
Lestrade sighs. 'That sounds like my wife saying she didn't need an anniversary gift and then getting pissed with me because I didn't get her one. It doesn't mean John wouldn't appreciate it, and, blimey, he deserves it for putting up with you!'
'A car?' The genius is so confused now.
Lestrade is exhausted now, but he valiantly spells it out:
'Never mind the car! Give John some appreciation, Sherlock, or he might not hang around for ever.'
Sherlock audibly gulps drily, before getting up and opening what he knows damn well is the cold cases filing cabinet by his side.
'Grab two', the inspector directs.
Sherlock did sit down for a lecture, of course he can have a bonus case. And a potted plant.
.
It's nice to see a familiar face, an anchorage at the end of a long shift. It helps ebb away the surreal contrast between the efficient medical rush in filled wards and the slow paced world outside. As if worn out regular folks were doing their best to sustain the status quo, intent on ignoring how everything has changed, nothing can really be as before. Or can it? People are so resilient. It's just that right now we're in the thick if it, and I get to watch it from one of the many epicentres, a front row view to the most difficult parts of this pandemic virus. I'm sure there are good things too; families rallying together in supportiveness and looking out for one another, neighbours that check up on each other and offer support in a conversation through the front door or a supermarket carrier bag full of groceries, parents that no matter how tired still read bedtime stories portraying magical worlds where their children can find respite from the dark news they overhear through closed doors. Even the selflessness of folks bored out of their wits, refusing to engage in risky activities so to ensure their nearest are kept safe. Like Sherlock, who must be secretly amused by now, that his brain has not turned into mush from the crumbling ennui.
I'm surprised he's doing so well too. He's managing it by keeping his mind alive to the best he can, and by focusing his attention on his flatmate. I'm really lucky.
'Mrs Hudson lend you this old thing again?' I ask jokingly, as I reach the top brand car.
Sherlock glances at me with cat-like eyes, before balling the highly creased newspaper from this morning. The one carrying the sketched portrait of the French super sleuth. The worn down paper hardly creaks in protest anymore.
'John, do get in. May I remind you that we're late?'
'Late for what exactly?' I frown, climbing inside the car. My body instantly melts into the above average seat. It will take a scraper and a very motivated consulting detective to get me out of here.
'To solve a murder; obviously, John.'
Or that. I can get out on my own for a nice, escapist case alongside the mad detective. I exchange looks with a green eyed man awaiting my consent.
'Go on. Step on the gas. And tell me all about it. Start with who I may need to shoot.'
Sherlock's smirk is a proud, defying, adventure filled response. 'John, you were gone for ages!' he reproaches, as the slick car gains speed.
.
Sherlock Holmes is a right pain to many people, but never so much as now, as he steps out of the shadows in a dark, long warehouse, butting in on a private drugs lord's successful shipment arrival after-party. Five thugs immediately spin on their heels and point menacing knives towards the tall, imposing figure in the long dark coat.
Outside the warehouse, the night is quiet on a small dock where a speedboat is moored. Only the mournful, distant blare of a fog horn is heard from time to time.
'Oi, watya doin'ere!'
The men scramble around to face the uninvited newcomer, uttering fowl language curses and grabbing an impressive array of weapons to hand. Pacing imperturbable into the spotlight under the only sharp overhead light, the tall, avenging figure utters in clear, posh, derisive tones that seems to bounce off the dark angles of the sharp cheekbones:
'I'm Sherlock Holmes, I trust you heard of me. This area used to be Little Joe's territory. He's now living cosily in the nearest Her Majesty's High Security Prison. Little Joe and I go way back.' A gelid, sneering smile spreads about the sardonic expression of the man keeping his shoulders back, hands nonchalant in deep coat pockets, jet black curls disarrayed glinting the white electric light from above.
One of the makeshift thugs steps back involuntarily – former fisherman, widowed, 2 college age sons, just lost his house and moved in with a female family member, probably a sister, who he resents financially – the others close ranks with a thirst for violence.
'Why'a'ere?'
Holmes sighs and shakes his head reproaching.
'Why am I here? It's rather obvious, don't you think? Or did you expect to get away with your fish and chips van business model as a cover for the side condiments? I didn't have to follow the drugs, I followed the used frying oil trail. It led me here. Me and half-a-dozen stray alley cats which I will treat with your spare fish once you give yourselves up to the police.'
The thugs look bewildered by the lecture, and turn for answers in a rough fisherman character keeping quiet.
'Ah, the new boss!' Sherlock smiles. 'Yes, I see that now. The sophistication of a man who hides drugs parcels between strata of battered haddock is patent in the polyester blend of your polo shirt. The pepper encrusted batter was a nice, if childish, way of deterring the maritime police force dogs from picking up the scent of your secret recipe. Tell me, did your car mechanic eventually fix the oil leak?'
'What?' the mastermind is derailed by the influx of knowledge this man has. 'How d'ya know about the car?'
'I'll take that as a No, given the car engine oil smears on your cuffs. I wager you haven't even taken the car to the mechanics yet, trying to save a buck or two. Tight fisted, aren't you?'
'What d'ya want?' the boss violently asks among limited but repetitive expletives.
Sherlock smiles like a beatific priest before a christening.
'I want you to give yourselves in to Scotland Yard. More specifically to detective inspector Lestrade, he works well with me.'
'That ain't 'appenin', loser! Boys, get'im!'
Sherlock sighs, imperturbable, as a parent lamenting his child's bad decision not to eat the greens on the plate. He even seems to ignore the rushing crowd of violence unleashed his way.
An acrid shot rears them all in. The thugs immobilise their knives, crowbar, and taser. The leader turns around holding a bloodied arm, a gun dropped by his feet. A mere scratch, a warning bullet. Sherlock raises keen, round eyes to find the former army captain contortioned out of a small crate.
'You don't point a gun at my friend. That was just the start. The next bullet severs your spinal chord in two places, it's a tricky shot but it can be done if you know your human anatomy... Guys, kindly drop the weapons. Sherlock, next time you go in the box, you git; did you need to take so long lecturing these idiots?'
The detective shrugs. 'You could have come out any time.'
As an echo to his words, several police car sirens blaring are rapidly approaching the warehouse.
John Watson rubs the small of his back. 'I won't fall for you're smaller than I am ever again. And you knew very well I wasn't going to shoot until you were in immediate danger!'
Sherlock shrugs. 'You're just upset Lestrade's men will think you are pocket sized.'
'I'm pocket sized? I can't believe you just had the nerve to say that to my face! I'll let you know—' a very red faced captain splutters to a sudden halt. 'I'm confiscating your skull until you apologise, Sherlock.'
The detective finally takes heed, looking hurt. 'That was to be expected, the skull usually takes your side anyway, I know you're pals!'
The warehouse doors come crashing open and several police officers bust in the premises, led by a bemused DI Lestrade. In 60 seconds the scene is under control and the criminals whisked outside to a police van, forensic investigators coming inside to gather evidence. John takes the forensic team through the drugs packets under the fish batter with military composure.
Lestrade stands by the Baker Street detective for a moment. They slowly start pacing their way to the pitch black night outside, pierced by flashes of blue emergency service lights and sterile white car headlights.
'I got your message, Sherlock.'
'Naturally, inspector, you know I prefer to text.'
'What if I hadn't read your text?'
'John had it all under control anyway.'
'With one handgun?'
'I've seen him do more with less.'
'You risked it, Sherlock. You could have got yourself and John killed!'
Sherlock dismisses the thought with a contemptuous huff. Instead he redirects the inspector's attention:
'Did you know John is a very flexible man? I was thoroughly impressed with John tonight. We had a great time.'
Lestrade thinks of all the weird implications of that statement, and decides the consulting detective is still paying Lestrade back for that are-they/aren't-they betting pool at the Yard.
'Why are you telling me this?' the inspector retorts.
'You may want to inquire that French sleuth friend of yours if his doctor is just as flexible as mine.'
'What?'
'Just a thought. You didn't think I could fall for the internet angle, Lestrade! I know he's your friend, that's how you got the inside scoops, like the assistant's suspenders. I checked every post, article, comment and review, and no one ever mentioned the assistant's suspenders. Conclusion, you have access to restricted information the internet doesn't. Deduction, you are in contact with Lupin. Do me a favour, will you, Lestrade? Tell him I solved this case. It's his turn next.'
'His turn?' the inspector seems to gulp dry after repeating the words.
'His turn', Sherlock insists, inexorably. 'You can be the middle man, Lestrade, if he's too shy to contact me except through a typed letter in the post.'
'Yes, well I— alright. I think.'
'Always so eloquent, inspector', Sherlock coldly mocks, keeping cool and collected as the drugs smuggler colourfully insults everyone as he's being shoved into the police van outside.
.
TBC
