A/N: No escape room A/Ns scenario, sorry. But we do have escaping butlers, if it helps. -csf
VI.
Two white vans are parked in front of 221B Baker Street. A local plumber's and L. Chandler's Pest Control Services. Sherlock and I have entertained asking the applying butler to fix the broken tap and the plumber to greet the clients or make dining arrangements, but that would scarcely advance our case. So, as the plumber crouches by the kitchen sink in shockingly low waist trousers, two generations of Holmes family members interview the few butlers that applied for a position at 221B.
It seems that 221B's fame has skewed our experiment already, turning away the more sober types. All is still under control, as one of our secret society butlers is here for the job interview. As it is, he's third on the rolling order, for in order to preserve scientific accuracy we have decided to also interview other butlers as controls.
The first control butler left immediately as Sherlock queried a hypothetical scenario where John had left his illegal gun out on the coffee table as DI Lestrade was coming in with another of his annoying drug bust sweeps to the flat. Clearly the correct answer was the butler wannabe would hide the gun under his tailcoats and flush any incriminating evidence (not that there was any) before the DI managed to mount all 17 steps to the flat. A contemptuous huff didn't score any marks.
John scolded us over divulging about his gun.
The second control was therefore a necessity, but he declared he would swallow the microwaved eyeballs before DI Lestrade's arrival, and for a stunned moment neither Sherlock nor I understood the steadiness of his sarcasm.
We are keeping his contact for future reference.
Chandler's agency butler is a meek middle aged man with a nasalated voice and a quiet charm smothered under tons of acquired professionalism.
'Madam, I would flip the cushions so the fake blood on the sofa wouldn't be quite as noticeable. The skeleton, I would toss behind the sofa itself – with my apologies, Mr Holmes.'
I nod appreciatively, while Sherlock frowns.
'Who said fake blood?'
'Naturally, we wouldn't have the inspector assume otherwise if he did notice the blood stains, would we?'
Sherlock smirks. 'John, did you coach this one?'
From the kettle's proximity, John admits: 'Only a bit, you were getting rid of these butlers awfully fast, you know?'
'Willing to learn', Sherlock makes a careful note on a notebook poised on his knee. It's probably John's notebook anyway, and we're wasting time.
'Sir, if I may be so bold as to ask...'
'Go on', Sherlock twirls his pen in the air.
'You don't look the type to have a butler.'
Sherlock smoothens the creases on his silk shirt with obvious hurt pride. The butler corrects his statement:
'Or if you do, he doesn't seem the type at all.' He rudely points towards the kitchen and kettle.
'How would you know that?' Sherlock glances at John, in his best fresh new silk shirt, appreciatively.
'He told me so himself, sir.'
'Please, call me Sherlock.'
'I rest my case, sir.'
'Case, yes, there's a case, Mr...ugh... butler.'
'Oh, I see. A case. How exciting for you.'
'No, don't do sarcasm. Butler #2 was way better at it than you.'
'Then may I ask what this case is about and how it pertains me?'
'I don't know yet. Can you lift your left sleeve and show me the inside of your elbow?'
'I trust this has relevance, sir?'
'Yes, and see here, I'll do it first!'
John has wandered over to our side, I only notice this as he splutters: 'Are those nicotine patches, mate? Why, you were doing so well!'
Sherlock shrugs. 'What, these? They're ancient, John!'
'They don't look like they were there when you showered this morning, Sherlock.'
'Give me a break, John, I'm living with my mother again.'
'Fair enough', the doctor ponders, with a smirk.
'Hey!' I protest warningly.
Having enough of our little family tiff, the applying butler rolls up his sleeve. As expected, a tattoo is present on the smooth skin of his elbow crook.
'I daresay you knew it'd be here, Mr Holmes.'
'Ah, no hopes of being on a first name basis then.'
'Perhaps this is not the time, as you clearly are aware of more about our secret society than you should.'
'Hence the first name basis, frankly.'
'Sherlock.' I cut in, apprehensive. The sudden tension is palpable in the air.
The plumber is the first to talk, by suddenly asking: 'Oi, is this a finger bone stuck in your pipes? What kind of freaks are you?'
John glances menacingly to the plumber at that outburst, Sherlock rolls his eyes at the familiar epitaph, and I'm the only one still watching the butler as he suddenly tries to bolt. A chocked cry as he nearly knocks me down, out of his way, and suddenly John is on him with a great rugby tackle that sends them both onto the dusty rug.
A foot shorter and a squared foot overall less bulky, John is amazingly gaining quick advantage of the fight on the living room's rug. Yet he's no match to a flying spanner that hits him squarely on the head, immediately causing him to topple over with a muffled grunt.
'John!'
Sherlock is suddenly against two enemies, the butler and his surprise sidekick plumber, as all his instincts call on him to protect me and John from harm.
My son is not afraid of a little tussle, and he lands a good couple of karate kicks on the butler getting on his feet, quickly decking him again. The plumber does not appreciate his quickly dwindling odds and bolts for the open flat door, where he suddenly collides with Mrs Hudson's well placed cast iron skillet, and proceeds to hit the floor, practically unconscious.
Mrs Hudson leans over the fallen thug, jolts him with the tip of her house sleepers, and laments:
'Did you wait until he finished fixing the tap, Sherlock?'
.
DI Lestrade is in 221B, but not searching the flat. As far as I can guess, Lestrade keeps his professional eyes firmly shut when it comes to illegal guns and microwaved eyeballs, or at least diverted towards better objectives. The two criminals in handcuffs rounded up by his team, for example.
On Sherlock's own armchair, John is fussed by Mrs Hudson while she holds up a mirror for John to disinfect his head wound. He seems oblivious to Sherlock's pallor, every time my son takes in the red patches spilled on the doctor's ruined silk shirt. It's a temple cut, not deep nor overly serious, but one that makes the doctor wince anytime he moves his head.
By the time Mrs Hudson finishes nursing the wound, she efficiently gets up and gathers the first aid equipment back into an overstuffed duffle bag. John wouldn't allow for a less encompassing kit, I imagine, with all the scuffles he and Sherlock get into on a regular basis. Promising to tidy up the kit, she hands me John's wool jumper that for now the doctor's refusing to don. It's as if she's handing me the task to mother those two until her return.
Mothering Sherlock is a specialty of mine, and a pleasure I might add, but John is... not like us, and an overall mystery to me.
All Holmeses are a bit scared of John Watson, when it comes down to it. Mycroft will never admit it, though.
DI Lestrade strikes up conversation with the Baker Street duo, temporarily releasing me from my mother hen duties and I'm content to just participate.
'So who called the butlers?' he starts, checking his shorthand notes (or maybe it's the inspector's actual handwriting and it's atrocious).
'I did', admits Sherlock. 'We were auditioning for a position in 221B, a clever ruse to attract our killer butlers.'
'John got knocked in the head with a spanner, not poisoned with strychnine, though', the inspector points out. I find it callous the way they so openly discuss a hundred ways to kill off John Watson, but the army doctor isn't fazed at all.
'That was the plumber, though', Sherlock corrects.
'The one Mrs Hudson called to fix the broken tap.'
'Exactly.'
'So they weren't working together at all.'
'No. My bad. Risky to jump to conclusions. Turns out the plumber was panicked by a misplaced phalange whilst prodding the sink's obstructed drain.'
'What do you mean?'
'He found a finger sticking out of the sink's plughole and he freaked out. Bad timing would have it that the butler was doing a runner and we were trying to prevent it. Anyone observing the plumber's haircut could tell that the man is afraid of B flick horror scenarios. He panicked and attacked John whilst trying to escape the flat from hell, it'd seem by his description. It took handcuffs and mild sedatives to wind him down. And he still hasn't taken payment!'
Greg Lestrade shuts his notebook with a sigh.
'So all we've got on lady Wilhelmina's butler case is a butler that arrived in a pest control van for an interview towards a position in your flat?'
'Yes, Lestrade. You better question him tightly too. These killer butlers are very tight lipped.'
.
John has been wincing throughout our evening in. Of course he's being all polite and contrite about it, apologising if he thinks I noticed a hand going to his forehead or him refusing a second glass of red wine because it messes with the painkillers he's dosed himself with already.
Sherlock and I noticed a lot, of course. The way his hand gripped the tableware a couple of times when we laughed louder making his head hurt, the slight imbalance when he stood to gather the dishes to take to the sink, the overall unreasonable winter jumper while Sherlock has rolled up shirt sleeves.
In the end I ordered John to return to the table and took the dirty dishes to the sink myself. John looked adorably chastised as he kept to his seat at the table, like a toddler waiting to be dismissed to go out and play ball.
I had Sherlock come over to the kitchen to help set out dessert, some silly affair with fresh strawberries, cake and cream.
'Is John alright?' I ask my son directly. Bless him, Sherlock looks absolutely puzzled.
'Why wouldn't he be?'
'He looks worse for wear, dear, since he got beaten up by a butler's helper.'
'Technically it was a spanner, no matter who tossed it.'
'I don't believe concussions differentiate between killers and momentary sidekicks, darling.'
'John is fine. He's never complained.'
I sometimes wonder how my sons can be so observant and miss the rather obvious staring them in the face.
'You will let John rest, Sherlock', I coach him. Sherlock is petulant enough to roll his eyes – when he thinks I'm looking away. 'Do you hear me?'
I glance at my son, but he's already trying out the strawberries. Quality control, he's always called it. Drove Mycroft insane, during Myc's frequent diets.
'John, dear, it's time for you to go to bed, I absolutely insist.'
The blond doctor splutters excuses, trying both to negotiate his bedtime and appear in prime health.
Sherlock sighs and deduces: 'John, even with medication your muscles are tensed indicating a degree of pain, your heart rate has picked up, your cheeks are flushed, your fingers are less than dextrous, and your movements are unsteady. You are underperforming and we shall give you the rest of the night off. You may go to your room and rest.'
John chuckles, carefully holding his head.
'Fine, you want to have personal conversations with your mum, I get it. I'll leave you both to it.' With a disarming smile, John gets up from the table and politely wishes me Good Night. He further tells me where the kettle is, offers to get me more blankets, tells me how to navigate the fridge around Sherlock's leftover experiments and promptly runs out of energy, nearly keeling over. Only then does he realise he can't go to his room, their staying guest has taken over.
He and Sherlock exchange a long look.
Sherlock hastens to walk him over to his own room, down the corridor. It's funny to see the two of them, so coordinated like that. Reminds me of my husband and I. Who would have thought Sherlock could have been domesticated? Or was that John, being domesticated, I further wonder, eyeing the strawberries and cream affair.
.
'This is tremendously exciting! We're breaking into a secret organisation's lair in order to ascertain their ethos and gather incriminating criminal evidence. Wait until my cooking club ladies hear about this! Which reminds me, dear, we're doing Stolen Bread and Butter Pudding next week, and I must practice. Are you amenable to host my practice attempts at 221B? It seems I practically live in your flat now, Sherlock dear. Oh, and I might just order a new mattress for John's room, I like my mattresses soft. John won't mind, will he? Or I could speak with Mrs Hudson, rent one of the empty rooms upstairs, the ones that are probably full of her old stuff from America. Or even that basement flat, the one with the damp, I don't need much when I come over to visit you, after all, and I could come over so much more. Whenever I felt like it, and just bunk up with my youngest son, wouldn't it be lovely?'
Sherlock mutters, distractedly: 'Don't stop talking, Mummy, I'm not listening anyway.'
'Really, Sherlock... Anyone would think Mycroft is the only one who listens to me.'
'No, no, of course I'm listening. I've got all ears on you while I bypass the security system, Mummy. I've only got 5 more seconds to do it. Ample time.'
'Really, Sherlock, shouldn't you be done with that by now? I think I can hear those guard dogs approaching fast.'
'In that case you might want to climb the tree for safety, just in case I— Ah-ha! Get in. Fast!'
The warehouse door bangs shut behind us, and is rocked by the walled advances of the savage dogs outside. I grab onto my son's arm in the dark echoing industrial space. He lays a soothing hand over mine, and we advance forward. There's hardly a return now. We are trespassers and even that nice, if misguided, greyhound inspector would have great difficulty whitewashing our actions on a police report.
That's alright, Mycroft can press for another secrecy act if need be.
'This is so exciting! Now what do we do, Sherlock?'
'We walk around, look for clues.'
'Really? That's it?' I'm unimpressed.
'What now?' he snaps back.
'Now, Sherlock, don't be terse with me. I'm just saying, should you really leave it all to chance?'
'Gaah! I miss John!'
'There, there, dear. I'm sure your doctor misses you too.'
.
TBC
