This is my story based on the BBC show Sherlock, the characters belong to Sir Arthur conan doyle and BBC. Not much JohnXLock in it, but I tried my best so I hope you enjoy it!
Art by me
I was sitting in my recliner in our flat on Baker Street. We hadn’t had a big case in a while, so Sherlock was feeling cooped up. I heard his phone vibrate on the kitchen table.
“John, I heard my phone go off, check it will you?” Sherlock ordered from the kitchen.
“Why can’t you get it? Your cell is in the kitchen with you.” I called back to him from the living room where I sat in my recliner reading that days paper.
“I’m busy John, now answer my phone. It’s got to be Lestrade, been too quiet around these last few days,” Sherlock informed me, almost desperate.
I’d been defeated, “Fine, I’ll get it.” I got up and walked in to the kitchen, where Sherlock was bent over the sink with a pot full of mud. Several other containers sat on the counter, all overflowing with dirt and sand. “What are you doing?” I started shuffling through all the letters and newspaper clippings on the table to try and find his phone. Sherlock really needs to clean this table off, there are newspaper clippings here from last year. I finely found his phone, leaning over his shoulder I glanced at what he was doing “Making mud pies?”
“I’m working on discovering the effect that different types of wet mud have on various textiles.”
“That’s wonderful, but it’ll have to wait. Lestrade has something we need to check out.” I said, glancing over the text
“What did he say?” remarked Sherlock, busily scrubbing the dirt off his hands. After drying them I handed him his phone.
“Read for yourself.” I told him.
He read out loud, “Stratford, Bombing, no fatalities. Come before Anderson gets here.” Then shoving my phone in my pocket, I grabbed my coat.
“Then we better hurry. Ms. Hudson, we’re going out!” he shouted as we ran down the stairs, out the door, and then into a cab. “This is going to be interesting,” he said as the cab drove through the streets, “I’ve gotten another text from our police informant. He says that the bombers seem to have taken hostages. Two people that were seen at the building that day are missing.”
“Do you think they’re terrorists?” I asked Sherlock.
“It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment." he replied to my question. “But we will have evidence soon enough.” Stepping out of the cab, he walked towards the police tape separating the public from the crime scene.
“I’m sure glad to see you two,” Inspector Lestrade commented as we walked up to the scene. It was an office building. It’s large, maybe fifteen stories or so. Probably holds a couple different firms. It’s made mostly of a grayish brick, lots of small uniform windows all over it.
“Shall we have a look then?” Lestrade started past the other cops and over to the big glass doors to the building, opening them and striding across a large lobby into a lift. We both followed. As the lift doors closed Sherlock bombarded Lestrade with questions.
“Give me info now.” Sherlock ordered him.
“Well, we've got two people missing from the fifteenth floor, no bodies on the scene. No major injuries either.”
“And are there any witnesses?” inquired Sherlock, as the lift dinged that it had reached level fifteen.
“No, apparently the floor where the bomb originated from was being rented by a single firm, and every one mentioned in one way or another that they saw hardly anyone come or go to that level.”
“So there are witnesses then? Where are they?” We all walked out of the elevator.
Lestrade lead us through hallways and past break rooms. We arrived at a corner of the building, where I could feel the breeze from outside. The bomb had blown a hole in the side of the building, only inflicting major damage to the one corner.
“Well, we brought the janitor up here to see if he could tell if anything was taken,” said Lestrade, pointing at an elderly man in a janitor’s uniform who was talking to an officer in one of the less burnt cubicles.
I could see that gray ash covered every surface, and loose wires and piping hung from places in the ceiling.
“No structural damage?” asked Sherlock, getting on his hands and knees to poke around in the ash and dust.
“Nope, not that we can tell anyways. The owners are having some contractors come look at it next week.” He explained, leading us over to where the janitor was standing. Sherlock stood up, clapping his hands together to shake the dust off, and then followed him.
“Just what I’ve been waiting for John, a good bombing! But not just any old bombing. No, this one had reason behind it.” He whispered to me, as Lestrade introduced us to the janitor.
“Remember Sherlock, lives at stake here.” I reminded him.
“This,” said Lestrade, getting our attention, “is Mr. McFlarlen.”
He was wearing a janitor’s uniform, his grey-silver hair covered only the sides of his balding head. His face was worn with years of working hard jobs, and his thin face was contradicted by the youth in his eyes. His hands looked strong for a man of his age and he seemed to know his way around the building. The old man turned to us and smiled, “Please call me Granduor, or Grant for short.”
Sherlock looked him up and down, “Tell me, Grant what did you see at the time of the bombing? Oh, and I know it must be horrible having family over for so long.”
“How did you know that? But yes, my brother in-law is staying with us, good for nothing bloke he is. Well, I did my usual rounds empting teh’ trashcans and such. When around eleven-thirty or so, I noticed a white van parked outside of the parking garage. So I went inside to ask who it belonged to,”
“Good, good! Asking questions!” Sherlock interjected.
But Grant continued, “But no one seemed to know anything about it. So I went back to doing my job, and I was rolling my cart up to the service lift. But it was occupied and closing its doors on its way up. I only caught a glimpse of the folks inside it.”
“What did they look like?” asked Lestrade, “We can get a sketch artist over here quick. If need be.”
“There was four of ‘em, but that’s all I saw really to be honest.” Said mister Granduor, wishing he could be more helpful.
“That aligns with my observations, I could distinguish four separate pairs of shoes on the less blown up floor areas.” Said Sherlock, nodding.
“Yes, thank you Sherlock. Do you have anything else for us?” Lestrade motioned for the other officer to lead Grant down stairs. “I just realized that was a stupid question, of course you have more than that.”
“That was a stupid question, and I do in fact have more. I can tell by the combination of crushed shell and sand that they have been near the docks recently, they also had a smidge of fresh cement on them too. The only place with wet cement is a seafood restaurant called ‘Sharky’s Seafood’ whose parking lot is being repaved. So John, let’s be on our way.”
“Now just wait a minute here,” Lestrade blocked our path to the door, “If you find them, or find any sort of clue. Call me, okay?”
Sherlock stood there staring at him. “If you say so, inspector.”
“At least call when you need back up?” he stepped aside and allowed us to leave
So that’s where we’re off to. As the cab pulled up and I got my first look at this place, one thought came to mind. Never go and eat there. The place was falling apart, it was covered in moss and cracks ran through the stucco siding. There was ivy crawling up one of the shutters, and the whole place smelled like dead fish. When the cab stopped and I opened my door I could see through the frosted glass that a group was sitting inside, but before we got to the door they had disappeared out the back.
“John, they’re getting away!” yelled Sherlock as the car came round the corner. Sherlock grabbed a motorcycle that was leaning against a stop sign. He revved it up and put it in gear.
What was he doing? I started towards him. “Sherlock?” He straightened out the bike. “Sherlock! Come back!” But it was too late, he had already sped off. I stood there looking defeated. “Does he even know how to steer a motorcycle?” I mumbled to myself. I sat there for about thirty minutes before I went inside and tried to order a drink.
“I’m sorry sir but we’re closed. Said the bartender, making an attempt to make me go away.
“The sign says you don’t close for five hours. The only reason you closed is because that mysterious gang paid you to close early!” I yelled at him, actually getting thirsty.
“Well, you do have a point,” he said, a greedy grin appearing on his face.
“What?” I said, getting his not so subtle hint. “You have got to be kidding me, I will not pay you to reopen after somebody else paid you to close early.” But Sherlock would want me to look where they had been sitting. “Will this do?” I handed him all the cash I had on me.
“I suppose so,” he said, sliding over to the cash register and depositing my cash.
“The things I put up with…” I said to myself, settling down on a bar stool. I looked at the table where the suspects had been sitting. One of them had left his beer. They must be up to something if they are that skittish.
“They got away, John, but I know what he looks like now and I bet our friend the bartender will be most helpful,” said Sherlock, coming through the door and walking past me.
I stood up and followed him to the bar, “What happened to you? You look like you went on a walk through the bad side of town.” It was true, his normally clean coat was covered in smudges and there was a cut on his face. He was also panting and slightly limping. “Tell me what happened, for the blog.” No comment from Sherlock, who was staring at the table they were sitting at with his little magnifying thing.
“Come on, Sherlock, the people want to know how you do these things.” You don’t know how hard it is to try and get him to care about what I was saying.
“The people thought that I was a fake. And for your blog John, you hardly have fifty percent of the real facts or the proper way to find them.” he said, and continued to take in information.
“You and I both know I can’t put half the things we do on there, most of them are illegal.”
“Not illegal, John, just shunned by the public. They are very different things, very different.”
“Like when you break and enter into someone’s house because the police won’t give you a search warrant? We already owe Lestrade about two dozen favors. ”
He turned and gave me one of his, I’m only doing this so you will shut up and I still won looks.
“Fine John, I’ll tell you what happened.” He took a deep breath. “After I jumped on the motorcycle I was able to get the suspects in my sight. Three of them had gotten in the car, while the other had jumped on a nearby motorcycle, most likely to-“
“Why’d he get on a motorcycle? Why not just get in the car with the others?” I asked.
Sherlock turns toward me, slowly, and I knew then that it was probably not a good idea to interrupt a high-functioning sociopath.
“John, if you would just let me finish. Sometimes you would learn so many things if you would listen to the details of the world.”
I rolled my eyes, “Continue, oh master crime solver.”
“I think I will. Now, what was I saying? Oh yes, one of them on a motorcycle, most likely to act as a distraction to me and divert my attention from the car. So I followed it.
“But if it was a distraction, why did you follow it? Isn’t that what they wanted you to do? So you couldn’t find their secret hideout?”
“Because I had already lost the car, due to my slow start, and my only hope was to chase down whoever was riding that bike and interrogate them on the location of the others. So we wove through the streets, me chasing and him running. I do wish that they would repave these old cobblestone streets. They make for horrible bike chases.”
“But Sherlock, they are historical.” I said
“But not practical, John. I will not argue with you right now. To continue, I was chasing him, he was on a slower bike. A dirt bike of sorts, I was on a rather nice racing one as you saw. Both of us nearly crashed multiple times. I was catching up to him, we were both reaching very high speeds. As I rounded a corner, I saw in an instant that he had clipped the curb. I almost did as well. As I came up to him on my bike I noticed that he was wearing a helmet, which had a good dent in it, and sunglasses. I thought for sure that he was passed out, but I was to be disappointed. As I approached him to investigate, he didn’t move. But when I leant over him to check for pulse, he was up and on his feet. ”
I was stunned, “What happened next?”
“He punched me in the face,” said Sherlock casually, dusting for fingerprints on the beer.
“He what?!” Sherlock had walked in and acted like nothing had happened. And for all I know, he could have been killed, or worse, kidnapped.
“John, I do believe you should invest in a hearing aid. And yes, to answer your question he did in fact punch me in the face. Square in the jaw, it’s still sore. He had great form you know, very well trained. If I had been conscious, I wouldn’t have lasted a minute in the ensuing scuffle, had there been one.”
“If you had been conscious? You were unconscious? For how long?”
“John, I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss over this, really. But if you must know the chase lasted about three minutes, and what time is it?”
“It’s three forty five.”
Then I was out about thirty minutes, before I awoke on the street quite stiff and sore. And I flagged a cab back here.”
“You were passed out for thirty minutes?”
“Why? Did it seem longer?”
I sat there going over all of this while Sherlock went to the back of the restaurant with the bartender. He came out five minutes later with a small bag and hastily swept past me.
“Come, John, let us be on our way.” He informed me, not even looking over his shoulder.
I stood up, “So what did you get back there?”
He got out his phone to order a cab, “I convinced the bartender to give me the security footage. He also told me that one of them bought an American beer. But that’s just about all he had for me.”
“I need to update my blog when I we get home. Remind me, okay?” A cab pulled up and I opened the door.
“Don’t count on it, John,” he said as he sat down. “Don’t count on it.”
“Never mind,” I mumbled as the cabbie started down the road.
A thought came to my head suddenly, “Sherlock, I got the plate number of the car they drove away in.” “That’s wonderful, John, what keen sight you have. Only they were almost certainly in a rental, and coming this close, they will have disposed of it by now,” Sherlock sarcastically congratulated me. “Oh, and it’s under a fake name for sure.”
“That makes me feel so much better, thanks,” I said, looking at the scenery flashing by. “So what do we do now?” I asked as we turned on to Baker Street.
“We will wait for them to go back to the bar and ask about who asked about them. Then they will then find my website and my contact info, and the link to your blog which you will just have updated with the new info on the four suspects. They will think I know where they are and try to bribe me away,” Sherlock explains.
“That’s funny, you remembered,” I chuckled to myself as I walked in behind him.
He started up the stairs, then stopped and turned around, “What do you mean John? Remind you about what?”
“You reminded me to update my blog, like you said you wouldn’t?” he pivoted around on the landing
“Did I now?” he squinted his eyes at me, his inner clock spinning away at the case, “back to the case John, there are more important things at work here.”
I continued up the stairs “And what if they don’t do exactly as you proclaim?”
He opens the door and starts up the stairs, “They will, John, they will!” Sherlock shouts as I follow him through the door.
“What are you two yelling about? Don’t fight please,” came the voice of Ms. Hudson from somewhere. I followed him up to our flat, setting my jacket down on the coffee table. I booted up my laptop and settled down in my recliner to start on my blog.
Sure enough, we’re sitting in the flat just waiting for something to happen. Sherlock is in his usual deep thinking position on the couch zoned out, when his phone buzzes.
Sherlock swings off the couch and grabs the phone, “Blocked number,” he mumbles. I walk over and lean over his shoulder to read what he’s typing. They had sent the message, Where do you want to meet? He texts back, 221b Baker street, bring your three friends with you. –SH
I was skeptical of giving bombing suspects our address. “Sherlock, are you sure it’s a good idea to invite them here? One of them did punch you.”
“John, just think for a moment, actually think. Why would they want to expose the current location? They’ll be trying to keep a low profile. Besides, are you scared to get your hands dirty?”
I sat down in my recliner again, “If you say so, I suppose.” Because you never argue with Sherlock Holmes.
“They’ll be about thirty minutes,” he says and stalks off into the kitchen to conduct some ungodly experiment.
CHAPTER 2
Sam and Jesse meet up with Michael and Fi, and they are discussing what do to with the prisoners. Sam of course needed a beer after the long flight over the pond so the found a lonely little seafood place that had something on tap. The bar tender had just brought it to the table. When suddenly, Michael saw two figures approaching from the parking lot.
“Guys, be quiet. There’s someone coming.” He warned them, slowly get up out of his chair. They all turn to look. Why is there someone coming? They paid off the bartender to close early. Maybe it was just a confused costumer? But the person knocked again.
The bartender walked in from the kitchen. “Who is it then? You make my close me shop and then you won’t open the door?”
But they had already left.
The back door was their only option. They just couldn’t risk being seen. Who knows if there was any security footage recovered from the blast? It could have been the FBI at the door. Or MI6, or the CIA. Whoever it was, they didn’t want to stick around and meet them.
Closing the door behind him, Michael got the three of them into the rental car. “You guys go on without me,” he pointed to a bike then leaned down to hotwire it. “I’ll divert them on this bike.”
“You sure about this?” Sam asked skeptically.
“Yes, now go.” Mike said and jumped on the bike, making sure that the two dudes saw him. After about twenty seconds of driving they heard another bike roar and speed off. They drove around to make sure that no one was trailing them and finally they went back to the bar to see who had asked about them.
“Who asked about you? That’s what you wanna know? Well he’s quite famous ‘round here, es’ name Sherlock Holmes.” Said the bartender.
“But why would you tell him about us?” said Fi, still worried about where Michael was.
“I owed him a favor, he ‘elped me out ‘o prison a few years back.” The bartender continued cleaning glasses. “Great bloke he is, one ya’ get over the cold attitude.”
“Hey guys, what’re you doing?” Michael said as he limped in to the restaurant and sat down in a chair.
“What happened to you?!” exclaimed Jesse, looking at Michael’s bruised elbow.
“I’m fine, I got rid of our pursuers. Go on Fi, what does it say on the site?”
“Here’s his website it’s called ‘The Science of Deduction’ it says that he is the only consulting detective in the world. Oh and there’s a link to his friend’s blog. Who documented his cases. The most recent case was just updated ten minutes ago.”
“What does it say?” questioned Sam.
“If you would let me finish, it says ‘We have found more info on the bombing suspects’ the article read, ‘Sherlock and I have just nearly missed the suspects at a bar near the docks. They got away, but left some evidence behind. He knows that they are from America and one of them is highly trained’ “Michael, how does he know these things?” Fi worriedly exclaimed. Looking at the others for help.
“I don’t know, but his contact info is on the website right?” said Michael.
Fi checked the screen, “Yes, but why would we need it?”
“We have to contact him, try and get him off our trail. Or at least try to reason with him. Sam how much cash could we get together?” asked Michael.
“Not much I’m afraid.” Said Sam in reply
“We might have to meet with him directly then, find out who he’s working for, what his objective is. Convince him where the good guys.” He explained.
Jesse stood up, but Mike, this guy chased you through the streets, caught up to you even though you had a good lead, and maybe could have beaten you up had you not gotten up first.”
“Speaking of that, are you sure you’re okay Michael? You had a pretty nasty fall.” She said, looking at the dented helmet.
Michael looked at everyone with his really serious face, “It’s the only way.”
CHAPTER 3
Sherlock then decided that they would take a while to figure out what to do, so in the meantime we should investigate there history and background
“Sherlock where are we going again? You said we needed to do some research, but that usually means something illegal, right?” I asked over the road noise, wondering where the cab was taking us.
He didn’t take his eyes off the passing buildings, “I said that the man who I chased on the motorcycle was highly trained, did I not?” Sherlock said as he directed the cabbie to turn left.
“Yes,” I said skeptically. Not sure if this was some kind of quiz or test, “I do remember you saying something about that. Why do you ask?”
I asked because I thought that you might have been able to figure it out on your own. Obviously I was wrong.” The cab came to a halt.
“Sherlock, why do you always have to be so rude? Never mind, just tell me okay?” I grabbed my jacket off the seat.
“He was highly trained so not typical police force, and American tactics at that so not MI6. Also very tan. So southern United States. His skills were sharp, he must practice every day. Or in fact may just have to use them out of necessity often. He was very alert, and had finely tuned senses, otherwise a normal person would have crashed at the speed he was going around all those people and cars. He was able to control his breathing to appear unconscious and fool me. He was most likely carrying a firearm of some sorts. I saw him reach for it in the split second as I came up to him after he had fallen. But he decided against it and holstered it. This means he has some sense of moral, which crosses out a simple terrorist bomber. He also could have made the fight last much longer and enjoyed a victory. But he made it quick and clean. He also did not take me captive, which means he was confident that I had not seen him. Little does he know that I need only the smallest encounter to get sufficient information. To deduct a great many things from someone. So all this can only point to one option.
“And what would that be?” I asked unsure what this overload of info could mean.
“John, must I explain everything? It’s so obvious! Anyway, he worked for the American government in the past, is now running from them and had good reason to bomb that building. If he’s running from the U.S government then he’s most likely running from all governments.”
By then we were standing in front of a tail building, with steps leading up to the front door which was made out of some expensive wood. I didn’t recognize the address, “Sherlock, what are we doing here? Is this someone’s flat?” I questioned, racking my brain, trying to remember if I had been here before.
“No John, this man is an enemy of the British government. So we are going to see the British government.”
I think I’ve got it now, “So were going to see Mycroft?”
“Yes John, where going to see him.” Sherlock knocked on the large silver knocker.
So that’s why we were here, to see Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. One of many place’s Sherlock hates to go. A man in a suit with a clipboard answered the door, “Where does the Queen eat her breakfast?”
“Onboard a yacht on the Thames” Sherlock answered the weird question without hesitation.
The man with the clipboard asked another seemingly random question.
“And when would she like her tea?” he said, waiting for Sherlock reply.
“At three forty-two exact.” Sherlock took a step forward.
“Thank you, have a nice day the man said, and opened the door wider. He lead us though hall ways and corridors. There were paintings of important looking people and a lot of turn offs and side doors. Sherlock told him something and he took a sharp right, spoke to a secretary behind a desk and opened another door. He motioned for us to go through as he held it open.
“Come John, inside.” Said Sherlock as he swept past the guy with the clip board, I saw him make a face at Sherlock. I turned around in time to see Mycroft standing at his desk mouthing ‘Help me’ to the guy holding the door. Sherlock missed this exchange though, and turned around to see his brother smiling his best political smile and holding out a welcoming hand.
“Ah, yes I’d forgotten.” Mycroft sighed as Sherlock rejected his offer. I just then noticed that Sherlock had brought in a bag. He swung it off his shoulder and pulled out two VCR tapes, set them on the table and looked at Mycroft.
“And what would these be exactly?” he said, raising an eyebrow and picking one of them up. Then looking over it.
“There security footage tapes from a Seafood restaurant.”
“And why would they be of importance to the British government?” he asked Sherlock, probably not wanting to waste time on something that would not benefit the UK.
Sherlock stood up and started running his hand over the cabinetry, open drawers and things, “Just go and get the key or will I have yank this open?” he demanded, pointing to what seemed like a random cabinet on the wall.
“What do you mean, I might ask?” Mycroft got up and strode towards Sherlock.
“The player, the TV, is it not in here?”
“Oh all right, you win. I’ll go and get the key, it’s kept down the hall.” He started to the door, but stopped before closing it, “Do not, I repeat, do not touch anything while I’m gone. Understood?” And he softly closed the door and left.
I let out a breath, which always happened when Sherlock and Mycroft where in the same room. Sherlock had gone over to Mycroft’s desk and was shuffling around in the draws, looking through his top secret documents and what not. I took this chance to actually look at the office around me. The door we had come in was directly behind the chair I was sitting in. Mycroft’s large oak desk sat to the front of me, and roughly in the middle of the room, with his chair backing up to a dark wood paneled wall with an oil painting of Hyde Park. The wall to my right was full of shelves. Crammed full of books and maps. There were also a few file cabinets against the walls. To my left was the door that Mycroft had left through. “Sherlock?” I said, wondering if he was listing, “What was that thing you did with the clipboard dude?”
“John, be more specific please.” He continued to be ignorant of what Mycroft had told him about not touching stuff.
“You know what I’m talking about, the ‘When does the Queen eat lunch’ thing, at the door?
“Quite simple really, secret code the government uses. Made up of questions and answers that change weekly.” He moved on to one of the file cabinets and began to snoop some more.
“But how did you know what it was then?”
“Mycroft always was horrible at passwords, he uses the same one he used for his locker in school. I always check his E-mail before getting in touch with him.”
I again was stunned at Sherlock lack of respect for privacy, “You check his e-mail?”
“Or more appropriately, hack it I suppose if that’s what you prefer to call it.” He spun around quickly and shoved the files he was looking at back where they were, “Ah, grab some popcorn my friends and settle down for the show.”
“Yes, Yes Sherlock do look through everything in my office I don’t mind. But that’s beside the point now isn’t it?” Mycroft said with a helpless chuckle to himself. He walked in to the office past me in my chair and over to where Sherlock had pointed out where the player was. He pulled a key out of his pocket and slipped it in to the key hole. Turning it quickly to one side he opened the carved wood doors too either side. Mycroft then stepped over to his desk and picked up the tapes, all the while Sherlock was staring at him expectantly. “Let’s see what secrets you hold my little friend” he said, slipping the tape inside the player.
I turned around in my chair to get a better view of the screen. It fizzled to life with bars of black and white static.
“Let the game begin.” Sherlock muttered, barely audible.
The screen came to life with a shot of an empty restaurant, tables and booths, all empty. Just out of the screen one could see the bar with stools up against it. Some time went by and nothing happened, but then off-screen a door opened and a group of four walked in. Three of them sat down, but the tall one stayed standing there. The bar tender came up to him, and the tall guy slipped him something and he left. The tall guy was wearing a white collared shirt and khakis he acted like he was in charge. His back to the camera, he strolled over to the windows and gazed through the blinds, then closed them and went and sat at the table with his friends.
“Nothing out of the ordinary this far.” Mycroft observed.
“I didn’t notice anything when I saw it either-“I started, but Sherlock butted in.
“Shut it! Both of you! This is the good part,” rebuked Sherlock.
“Fine, have it your way.” I murmured. We all turned back to the screen in time to see all four of the persons at the table suddenly stop their conversation and turn sharply to the entrance.
“Is that when we pulled up?” I queried, glancing at Sherlock.
“John, just shut up please.”
“Sherlock there is no audio! What are you going to miss if we talk?” I reasoned. But Mycroft had had suddenly grown tense.
“Both of you, stop talking right know.” He said quickly,” that man, there at the end of the table,”
While we were arguing the tall guy had looked straight into the camera.
As he spoke he pointed to the tall guy, “I know that face… He is supposed to be dead.”
“Dead? He’s supposed to be dead? Was there any proof of death?” quizzed Sherlock excitedly, knowing Mycroft hated telling Sherlock government secrets. “I spoke to someone who was at his funeral, and I saw the death certificate.” Mycroft was still feeling faint at the sight of this man.
“But who is he? You still haven’t given a name.” I asked again
“That man is a government’s worst nightmare.”
“Name? And was there a body?” said Sherlock
“There was not a body found, no.”
“Well then of course he’s still alive! Now his name! What is it for God’s sake? Sherlock exclaimed.
Mycroft had a faraway look in his eye, “His name is…Michael Westen.”
CHAPTER 4
“Do you have files on them? Of course you do, go and get them!” Sherlock demanded, ushering a still dazed Mycroft out of the office down the hall where he got the key.
“Could you be a little ruder to your own brother?” I said sarcastically, feeling bad for Mycroft.
“The government is used to dealing with people like me.” Sherlock harshly declared. He stood in front of the TV screen and stared at the fuzzy image of the tall guy-Michael Weston.
I stood up from my chair and stretched, “Shouldn’t we be getting back to the flat?”
“Americans are used to big open highways and simple street layouts. Plus being able to drive one’s self is quite different from communicating with a cabbie.” said Sherlock mater-of-factly
We both turned as Mycroft reentered his office with four manila folders, he laid them out on the oak desk. Two of them had the words ‘closed’ stamped on them. Mycroft saw me reading the labels.
“That’s what I meant when I said they were dead. There files have been closed, mortician’s signature and all.” Said he said, jumping as Sherlock grabbed the one labeled ‘M. Weston’ and started devouring it.
His eyes moving rapidly back and forth across the page, he didn’t say anything for the whole of five minutes that he read all there files. I was waiting for him to finish, Mycroft and I stood there staring at each other. So finally to break the awkward staring contest, I reached down and grabbed the file labeled ‘S. Axe’ and started reading it. “It says here that this guy is or has been a Private Investigator, Spy, Navy SEAL, and FBI Informant.”
“They all have credentials like those. You wouldn’t believe the havoc they caused together in America. I thought I had washed my hands of the two of them a year ago.”
“Which two do you mean?” I asked, flipping through the pages about some mission called “PROVIDE SUPPORT’ in Columbia.
“These two,” he said pointing to Michael Weston, then the only lady on the ‘team’ as it was referred to in their files. “Weston met Ms. Glenanne on an operation in Ireland a couple years back, which is when I had to deal with them. Glenanne was robbing banks for a living and Weston was here on CIA undercover thing. They had an on and off relationship until both their apparent deaths outside of Miami almost a year ago.” Mycroft sat down in his chair and started reorganizing the papers that Sherlock had knocked everywhere.”
“Could you two stop babbling? I’m trying to take in information here.” Sherlock scolded us, putting down one file and picking up the next one.
“Well I don’t want people that are supposedly dead, and bomb experts, knocking on Ms. Hudson’s door!” I pleaded with him, worried for Ms. Hudson’s safety.
He continued reading and ignoring my concern, “John I told you before, they won’t be there till later.”
I knew that there was no point in trying to get him to act like a real person. “Fine, sorry for being worried for someone’s life.”
“Thinking about those things only slows down the thought process, John.” He slapped down the file he was reading, “I think we’ll be on our way.” He started toward the door and grabbed the tapes on the way, “Come along John, like you said, we wouldn’t want a superspy showing up at Ms. Hudson’s door would we?”
“You go out and get a cab, I’ll catch up!” after he had left down the hall, I turned to Mycroft, who was mumbling about how everyone always stole stamps out of his draws. “Sorry about that, I suppose you’re used to him by now.”
“Why can’t anyone ever buy their own ghastly stamps?” he mumbled, digging through a box full of paper clips.
I wondered why people would not just buy their own stamps. Must not be a very nice work environment. “Uh, thanks for the help and all. Sherlock is very thankful for you resources.” Knowing full well that Sherlock would never in his life, thank his brother. “Bye then.”
As I left his office I heard him mutter, “Good God I need a holiday.”
As I left his office I started down the hall, but the dude with the clip board found me and told me to follow him down a different hall. This apparently was the one that led to the door. He was right, he opened the door and I silently descended down the steps. Sherlock was waiting for me in a cab, I opened the door and sat down, “So back home, right?”
He gazed out the window, then to the cabbie he said “Yes, 221b Baker Street.”
