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Hello everyone, welcome again to the Marvellous Midyear Fic Exchange for 2016.
This thread is where I will be posting all the fics that were written for this exchange.
Please do not comment on them here, but do use our other thread
Remember, this thread is for the fics and any related pics only
I will start posting stories written by our participants on June 20, and there will be a gap of a day or two between posts to give everyone time to read and comment on each fic.
Enjoy!
ukaunz
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For now I have a little treat for you all.
My 9 year old wanted to write a little Sherlock fanfic, so I gave her the prompt of "Summer" and away she went. I loved her story so much, that I had to illustrate it (see end). So here it is...
Last edited by ukaunz (June 10, 2016 9:59 am)
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Here's our first fic, please comment here when you've read it
(Language warning for those who are sensitive to such things)
This story is for Lilythiell. You gave me some lovely prompts some of which (hopefully) have found their way into the fic.
But it was your last sentence that really inspired me. Having read it, the outline of the story was there at once. Please let me quote you:
"It’s a starry, starry night."
Last edited by ukaunz (July 5, 2016 10:29 am)
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Here's the second fic, it's for Yitzock this time. Remember to comment in the other thread when you've read it
Author’s Note: My prompts were as follows: thunderstorm, the beach, and some humour (I’ll leave it to my reading audience to judge how well I filled that last prompt). Enjoy this story, Yitzock; hope you like it. And thanks to besleybean for beta-reading and Brit-picking my story!
Summary: John is caught in a thunderstorm that triggers flashbacks, while on vacation in Cornwall with his family, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson.
Last edited by ukaunz (June 23, 2016 4:11 am)
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I was inspired to do a little sketch for the story "Thunder and Explosions". I hope Yitzock and her secret author like it
Last edited by ukaunz (June 24, 2016 3:26 am)
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Just for fun
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The third fic is here! I'm sure you will all leave your comments over in the other thread after reading
(Please be aware that this fic has some strong language)
This story is for nakahara. Her prompts were the following five key words: flower, river, book, Sehnsucht, Weltschmerz.
nakahara’s reading wishes are “Case fic, preferably with a Johnlock pairing, or at least with a strong friendly connection between Sherlock and John. Hurt/comfort stories are fine, as well as gentle fluff or a comedy.”
Dear nakahara
As you had a bit of bad luck with last year’s fic exchange, I was willing to give you a story that you would be happy with. But then… case fic… oh dear That’s the one category I had hoped to avoid.
Anyway I tried my best, to create at least a little case for our boys to solve and I hope you’ll like it. With one of your key words, I have to admit, I had to cheat a bit. I hope you don’t mind.
Many thanks to besleybean for beta-reading, especially on such a short notice.
Story tags:
Content Ratings: Teen and Up Audiences
Relationships, Pairings, Orientations: M/M
Content Warnings: mention of child death
Last edited by ukaunz (July 5, 2016 10:26 am)
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Here's a little sketch I did for 'Insomnia.'
Ugh, pillows are really hard to draw!
Last edited by ukaunz (June 26, 2016 5:04 am)
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Welcome to our fourth fic for the exchange; this one was written for stoertebeker. Please remember to comment over there
Author’s note: Thanks for the challenge, stoertebeker. Your prompt was fairly straightforward, but it was still a challenge to get things strung together, though I think I still got some good ideas. I actually had to do a little bit of research, too, which was fun (with any luck I didn’t make any glaring errors for those familiar with the locations). I hope this short story is to your satisfaction, at least that it entertains you, and that you are having a good summer. Prompts: violin, library, silver, Tower Bridge, lighthouse.
Rating: General audiences
Pairing: M/M (John/Sherlock)
Content warning: Mention of murder, but no gory details.
Last edited by ukaunz (June 29, 2016 4:06 am)
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My little contribution for today. I was going to attempt a drawing of Sherlock and John on the Tower Bridge, but ended up with this image instead, hope you like it
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Here is our fifth story, the halfway point of the exchange! Hope you're all enjoying reading these fantastic fics, please do go over and leave a comment here after each one.
Dear Vhanja, here is your fic. Part of our prompt was “Johnlock, drama, angst and happy ending”. I hope you can find all that in this fic. As an additional prompt you gave me the words “coffee, chocolate, library, old books and whisky”. I really hope you like what I made of it.
I am sorry for not making a case fic out of it.
Many thanks to ukaunz for some high-speed beta-reading!
Last edited by ukaunz (July 2, 2016 4:05 am)
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I just imagined Sherlock with the loveliest smile at the end of First Time.
Last edited by ukaunz (July 2, 2016 4:14 am)
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Fic number six is a longer one! Don't forget to leave comments in our other thread
(In case we have any sensitive people reading, this story comes with a language warning)
Dear dioscureantwins,
you gave me this fantastic, ingenious bunch of prompts: "I love the smell of semtex in the morning. Summer is the perfect season for murder, wouldn't you say? Five pips. Racing on the Thames. Sherlock would climb the Eye chasing a murderer."
You also specified that you would love to read gen/friendship, with Sherlock in a starring role, preferably seen from another person's POV and with John as a staunch supporter in any shenanigans Sherlock might end up in. You would love to read a casefic sprinkled with angst and humour and horror and you would not be opposed to some admixture of Greek and Roman mythology in it.
Your deal breakers were alpha omega or genderswap and that abominable wife together with Sherlock’s fake parents.
Your conditions absolutely delighted me and I decided to fulfil as many of them as I could. I was also determined to include every one of your prompts in the story – the plan I managed to successfully complete in the end. Still, this decision forced me to exceed the maximal word-limit by some 3500 words, for which I deeply apologise to you and to the rest of the participants. I hope you’ll enjoy the story anyway and overlook this slip in judgement.
I also apologise that I could not resist and mixed a bit of Johnlock into this tale. But I marked those parts of the story with the cursive, so that you might skip them if you are not inclined to read such things. The story would not suffer from it.
Last edited by ukaunz (July 5, 2016 10:24 am)
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In a few minutes, after a heated argument and a short tracking of foot-prints, we finally halted in front of the large metal gate leading to the hall covered in corrugated iron.
Sherlock carefully positioned himself and looked at me. Very uneasy, but determined, I nodded in approval silently.
At this signal, Sherlock raised both hands high above his head and kicked the gate open.
“I’m here to negotiate! Please, listen to me!” He called into the darkness inside, his voice strong and firm and his articulation slow and precise: “I’m not with the police. My name is Sherlock Holmes and I serve as the private consultant for various clients. I came here to talk to you about the conditions under which you are willing to release an officer who is currently in your hands. I will act discreetly to fulfil it – just name them!”
For a first few seconds, no response was coming. Only our own breath, so loud in the complete stillness around us, disturbed the cold night air.
But suddenly it rustled inside and in the next moment, bracket lamps illuminated the whole interior.
The hall which stretched in front of us was evidently some fish-canning factory that has fallen into disuse. Long metal counter which previously served as an assorting line stood to our left and behind it, an ugly concrete wall leered at us. This wall, however, only went to the middle of the hall. The second part of the hall, placed to our right, was an open space leading maybe to some storage area at the rear side of the building.
Three men and their captive awaited us inside. Two muscular gorillas with their faces still hidden behind black balaclavas sat on a makeshift bench in the open part of this place, slightly behind the concrete wall, but very much visible. One of them demonstratively held Lestrade by his shoulder to let us know he is completely under their power. Greg, pale and bruised in the face, was forced to kneel in front of them with both hands painfully twisted behind his back and secured by his own handcuffs. He stared at us with distressed but defiant dark eyes. By his side, a small brown crate was situated.
Third kidnapper, also masked, assumed a wary pose behind a counter. He stood at attention and bristled, aiming a nasty looking FN Five-seven at Sherlock.
“Sherlock Holmes?” His voice was smooth and carried a distinct foreign accent. “I know the name. You are that notorious London detective, aren’t you?”
Sherlock didn’t move a muscle nor spoke, but only acknowledged the fact with the subtle nod.
The man looked at our drenched, dripping, pathetic figures for a while and then twitched his gun to the side, indicating Lestrade with it: “Do you know this policeman well? Well enough to enter his office if necessary? Do you have access there?”
“Yes.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly but responded without hesitation. “Yes, I have.”
“A crutch.” The man hissed at him. “You will bring me the crutch.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and blinked: “Pardon me?”
“I saw you at the Eye, you were there. The crutch that almost fell at you from the cubicle – I want it. It is currently somewhere at this man’s office. I don’t care how you get it, just bring it here. And no word to the police or else…”
He pointed his finger at the small brown crate threateningly.
“Semtex. Try to double-cross me and I’ll tie the officer to it and let him fly, do you understand?”
Sherlock threw a frowning glance at the packet and pressed his lips together.
“You will have the crutch before 9 o’clock AM tomorrow. I’ll bring it to you as it is, unchanged and undisturbed” He replied firmly, with absolute conviction.
He then slowly lowered his hands and made a slight gesture in the direction of Lestrade.
“The DI has his phone on him. He has me listed as SH among his contacts. When I will be back with the crutch, I’ll call him. You will take him out after that – unhurt – and bind him to the railing outside, leaving him alone there, so that I can glimpse him before I hand you the crutch. If I don’t see him alive and kicking, the crutch will end at the bottom of the Thames… do you accept this deal?”
I cringed when I heard his bold words. I stared at the masked up guy nervously. But he didn’t protest, just stated dryly: “I agree. It’s a deal.”
“All right.” Sherlock turned on his heal and headed back to the river. “Come on, John, we have some work to do…”
xxxxxxxx
We managed to complete the same crazy ride through Thames once more.
When we landed near the Greenland Pier at last, I was dead tired, hungry, dirty and probably looked like a drowned dog. Sherlock – all dishevelled, wet and wild-eyed - wasn’t much better off. Still, he paid no heed to his pains and broke into an energetic walk back towards Finland Street the moment he stepped back on dry ground. Too exhausted to do anything else, I followed him docilely.
As we walked away from the edge of the swiftly flowing water, a young man – probably the owner of the jetboat we “borrowed” – flew out of maintenance barrack and looked as if he wanted to yell at us… but one glimpse of our gloomy, awful countenance sufficed to stop him. He chickened out, shrunk back and only stared at us with an open mouth. I gave him a wide innocent grin but he didn’t seem to appreciate it. So I shrugged my shoulders and banished him from my thoughts easily.
We passed along the Greenland Dock and soon reached the warehouse of De Vries where our plight was born some two hours ago.
I have thought we’ll take Lestrade’s car and be off right away but Sherlock unexpectedly headed back to this quiet building. It surprised me, but I did not ask needless questions and just moved after him.
We found the underground studio in the same state we have left it – even the lamp over the entrance was still dully lit as if nothing had happened here in between.
Sherlock drew forward to the podium standing in the middle of the room and reached out for the statue of Dionysus. After a minute of careful manoeuvring, he succeeded in taking god’s thyrsus out of his plaster hand. He then put this decorative metal rod on the long bench placed by the wall of the room, pulled some black plastic wrapping from the sack visible under the bench and neatly wrapped the object into it. When he was finished, he beckoned to me and we finally left but not before we switched off the lights and locked the warehouse behind us.
Carrying the thyrsus over his shoulder, Sherlock then headed to the Lestrade’s car parked in the vicinity. He put the metal thing into it and took perch in the passenger’s seat, clearly expecting me to drive. I slipped behind the wheel and looked at him in expectation.
“Where to? Shall we go to Scotland Yard right away? Or would we stop at Baker Street first? I’d like to change into something dry before we appear at Greg’s office, to be honest…”
“Yes, that’s a good idea.” Sherlock agreed without further ado.
Very much relieved, I kicked the car into gear.
xxxxxxxx
In the following half an hour we became human again. Sherlock used the bathroom first and dressed after that, while I relished the hot water under the shower.
When I came out with the towel cavalierly worn over both shoulders, I found Sherlock engaged in a weird activity. He cut an orange in half there in the kitchen and was busy fishing pips out of it, placing it into the white envelope carefully. I raised my brows at him awaiting an explanation, but he evaded my unspoken question by pointing out that I am distracting him in my current state and that I should hurry instead, for we are busy. Remembering Greg, I complied quickly, but not without a wide smile stretched across my face.
Afterwards, there came the hardest nut to crack. New Scotland Yard.
When we appeared at the entrance of the MET headquarters in Victoria Street, looking respectable and dependable save the wrapped up thyrsus Sherlock ostentatiously held in front of himself, we were let in without any big problems. We were almost regarded as the permanent fixtures there at MET, so the night porter just greeted us politely and returned to the issue of the Sun placed at his little desk.
Things went smoothly thus far and yet I cringed in torturous fear inwardly. The idea of Sally Donovan possibly having a night duty in Greg’s office scared me to no end. I knew I would be forced to deal with it if it came to that - but this certainty didn’t ease my worry in the least. The thought of encountering a woman whom my wife has left with crippling injury was terrifying still.
The rock of the size of Gibraltar fell from my heart when the sliding doors to Greg’s division opened slowly and revealed Philip Anderson sitting lonely inside the bureau.
Once again, I succeeded to escape from her. For now.
Anderson was very surprised when we entered but his face lit like the three hundred watt light-bulb at the sight of Sherlock. His hero worship kicked in with usual force and in an instant, he was all over him, eagerly asking if he could aid him in any way.
Sherlock, completely immersed into the role of the paranoid detective now, sat down heavily into Anderson’s chair, propped the thyrsus against his desk and pulled the prepared envelope out from his pocket. He handed it to Anderson with a breathless request: “I need to speak with Gaston right away! This abominable thing was delivered to me with the usual correspondence today!”
Puzzled, Anderson took the little parcel from Sherlock and overturned it. The orange pips, five in number, naturally fell out. Shocked at the meaning implied by them, Anderson gasped out loud: “Oh!”
“Yes.” Sherlock nodded in a grim resignation. “The message from Moriarty’s organisation. They are threatening me again and I am inclined to leave the town for a while to avoid any trap they have possibly in store for me. But I must talk to Guido first, he ought to know about this. Can you contact him? I tried to call him earlier but he is not responding.”
Anderson’s face mirrored an acute embarrassment. He awkwardly shuffled his feet and confessed: “I called the boss twice during the last hour but he didn’t pick it up. Maybe he turned it to mute for some reason. I’m very sorry, Sherlock.”
During their conversation, I was rambling around the office nonchalantly and surveyed the room together with Lestrade’s private cubicle next door. Glimpsing the objects from today’s investigation, including the crutch, scattered over the table there in their transparent plastic covers and overhearing Philip’s last words, I chuckled in amusement: “Maybe he sleeps at night from time to time, don’t you think? Some of us do, you know?”
At my remark, Sherlock lifted his pale eyes, disconcertingly green like the surface of the marchland and stared hard at me. I licked my lips with provocative slowness and winked at him.
Sherlock sharply averted his face to the side, shook his head and addressed Anderson again:
“Well, can’t help it then. Tell Lestrade about this disaster yourself in the morning. Unfortunately, I can’t risk it to stay in London until that time. Or… can I borrow some pen and paper from you? I’ll leave Lestrade a message at least and explain the situation to him.”
“Yes, no problem.” Anderson, clearly worried, handed both requested items to Sherlock and moved back a bit, keeping a vigil over him while he was writing.
I emitted a very dry, throaty cough.
No reaction from Philip. Hypnotised by Sherlock’s presence, he watched him as in a trance, blind to everything around him.
I repeated the cough, amplifying its noisiness this time and cursed hoarsely: “Shit! It looks like I’ve caught cold near the Eye! And nasty one at that! Do you have some tea at hand by chance, Philip? I could do with a cuppa right now…”
“Uh?” Anderson raised his head and blinked at me blearily. I pointed at his half-drunk cup with question in my eyes.
“Oh, of course! I have the fresh kettle made in the kitchen. Come, I’ll pour myself the new one too.”
“Ta.”
We retired into the kitchen promptly, abandoning Sherlock for the moment.
“How is Sally?” I asked quietly while we were sipping the sweet, refreshing brew.
Philip shrugged his shoulders and sighed: “She acts like the old Sally we knew. Outwardly, you wouldn’t say anything is amiss. But her hand ….the hand is almost completely useless and it gets no better… you know?”
I squeezed the cup in my fingers tightly and bowed my head. We drunk out tea in tense silence after that and the long minutes stretched into eternity until Sherlock liberated me from the unpleasant situation by peeking into the kitchen and announcing that he is finished.
Anderson saw us to the entrance and then returned to resume working. I have warmed up to the man in the last two years, but he was a hopeless detective indeed. He never noticed that the wrapped up object Sherlock carried in his hand became shorter and bulkier in shape during our short visit in the bureau.
xxxxxxxx
The atmosphere in the car changed subtly when we got into it again. It was riddled with uneasy feeling even through our way here but now it seemed to be much thicker, more dangerous, as if an ominous cloud descended onto us. I didn’t like it one bit.
Sherlock resumed the place behind the wheel this time and drew into Silvertown at maximum speed, as if all the devils from hell rode at our tail. That’s why I felt as if no time at all passed between the moment we left the Victoria Street and the moment we sighted the ugly barracks of the dilapidated docks caught in our headlights.
Adrenaline pumped through my veins with such power I was barely aware of the fact that the car has now stopped and Sherlock is calling the kidnappers. I only snapped out of it when the gate of the largest hall opened swiftly and two muscular brutes escorted Lestrade out of the building, handcuffed him to the industrial guard-rail surrounding the nearest hut and left him there while they retreated back into their hiding-place. For no particular reason, the sight made my stomach constrict painfully and I had to swallow around the big dumpling that appeared in my throat all of a sudden.
When Sherlock threw the door to the car open, I reached out for him on impulse and splayed my hand on his chest, exactly over the spot where the old surgical scar lingered, masked by Sherlock’s clothing.
“Sherlock.” I managed to get out despite the fact that every bit of moisture disappeared out of my mouth unexpectedly, leaving it as dry as sandpaper. “When we’ll be inside… be careful, OK?”
Sherlock gave me an odd look: “We? You are not going in.”
“Oh…says who?”
Sherlock squirmed impatiently and avoiding my eyes, tried to speak around the subject: “Just consider, John. You can sneak up to Greg and help him to break free while I’ll be dealing with these people inside. It’s much more rational that way...”
“feck rational!” I hissed.
I seized Sherlock’s wrist in a steely grip and turned his face to me with my free hand, forcing the eye-contact. I then proclaimed, emphasising every word: “Greg is my friend, that’s true, but you are my priority, Sherlock and that won’t ever change! So I am going in with you – that’s not negotiable! If you think you will expose yourself to danger while I’ll just idle away somewhere, you don’t know you man!”
Visible shadow of distress flickered in his eyes. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Yet faced with my fierce determination, he was unable to oppose me. At the end, he leaned against the car-seat and flung his head back, staring at the ceiling grimly. Then he nodded: “All right, we will go together. And now listen to me, John – it is very likely that as we go in, they would grab and subdue us. If that happens, let them. Don’t struggle and yield to them. Will you do that for me?”
“I will, yes.”
“Come on then. We must not let them wait.”
We climbed out of the car and set out to the dark hall. Sherlock held the crutch in front of his chest reverently as if it was some bizarre relic to worship.
Greg started when we appeared in front of the half-open gate and called after us softly, but we paid him no heed. We steeled ourselves and entered the dark interior.
And just as Sherlock predicted, we were immediately grabbed from behind.
Meaty paws seized me and dragged me through the room, until I was bent over the long metal counter I noticed by my previous visit. The loud click sounded near me and in the next moment I found myself handcuffed against the rail running around the perimeter of the counter. Honouring the word given to Sherlock, I didn’t offer any resistance to this treatment.
Loud rustle was audible behind my back, accompanied by curses in the foreign language. After that, Sherlock’s deep calm voice cut through the darkness: “Is this really necessary? We brought you the thing you requested, after all.”
The light-switch crackled somewhere to my right. And just like that, bright light flooded the entire area of the old hall.
One of the huge gorillas held Sherlock by the throat, thick fingers digging into that frail, milky white column with abandon. Yet Sherlock did not fight, merely looked at our captors with contempt. The wrapped up crutch lay on the ground by the tips of his shoes.
The leader of our captors loitered about the centre of the room. Noticing him, Sherlock gave him a disgusted glance and kicked the crutch to him.
“Take it and leave us alone. I don’t care for any of your shit so I won’t raise an alarm. I will free the policeman only after you are safely away. Now go!”
Man lifted the fallen object with caution, something akin to suspicion evident in his body language.
“You are very eager, aren’t you?” He drawled. “Why do you want us to be off so quickly, I wonder?”
And with these words, he tore down the black plastic cover from the offending crutch.
He raised this aluminium rod to the eye-level and minutely examined its grip. In the following moment, he raised the edge of his balaclava unexpectedly. Unusually pale, almost aristocratic face flanked with black beard and neat moustache slipped from under the mask, coupled with the pair of very dark, fiery eyes. The man narrowed those eyes and inspected the grip and the cuff again. He then clasped the grip into his palm firmly and swiftly screwed it off from the rest of the crutch.
The tension in the room was unbearable. Two gorillas guarding Sherlock whooped in excitement a bit. Strange premonition whispered into my ear that all this proceeds too smoothly for it to be real. Ands so I was not even surprised when the pale face of the leading kidnapper turned absolutely stony after he looked into the severed grip.
The bearded bloke pierced Sherlock with the blazing glare right after.
“So you have decided to double-cross me all the same.” He ascertained in a sing-song voice. He walked up to Sherlock and thrust the empty grip practically into his face, observing his reaction like a skulking vulture: “Was that your plan all along, Mr. Great Detective? To take what is ours then scare us off with some baloney? So that we would run away quickly without checking out first if the ware is in its place?”
Sherlock skimmed the empty shell of the handle mutely. He stood without the slightest move, much more rigid than before and visibly shaken by this sudden twist. Yet his voice sounded calm and self-assured: “Pardon me, but that is not true. I have brought you the crutch in the same state it was in when I took it from the DI’s office. I did not meddle with it, I...”
Slap!
The force of the strike wrenched Sherlock’s face to the side. Subsequently, the gorilla holding him twisted his hands behind his back tautly.
“Hey! He’s telling you the truth! Let him go!” I screamed in terror from the other side of the room.
The bearded bloke gave me an ugly look and started to pace the area like a tiger kept in the cage. The gun sticking from behind his waistband glistened ominously and his hands shook as if he was at the edge of the nervous breakdown.
But in the next second, he was composed and cold like ice once again. He halted in front of Sherlock and addressed him in the mellow, friendly tone that was so fake it forced me to shudder.
“You know what, Detective? I forgive you. I am not a vengeful kind of guy, you see? I’ll set you and the police officer free, safe and sound, without as much as lifting a finger on you... but only if you comply with another request from me. The last one, I assure you.”
The kidnapper put a slim hand on the arm of the gorilla: “Release him.”
And when his accomplice shoved Sherlock to the side in anger, letting him loose, he raised the crutch slowly and offered it to the detective. Clearly puzzled, Sherlock accepted it. The bearded Satan grinned from ear to ear at that and instructed him, relishing every word: “Now you will kill your friend, Dr. Watson, with it.”
Sherlock froze and even from the distance, I saw that his face resumed an ashen colour. My heart leapt in my chest wildly. It then begun to strike against my ribcage in painful pulses.
“I probably must specify it for you, so listen: it’s between you and him. You will end him or you will never leave this place alive. But consider – wouldn’t that be an enormous waste of your talents? It would, it’s evident. So... aim for the head, all right? Hit him the hardest you can until I tell you to stop. The sooner we have this mess behind us, the better.”
Sherlock did not respond nor changed his stiff posture, he merely stared into space blankly, clutching the aluminium rod in a white-grip.
And afterwards – unbelievably – he slowly turned to me, holding the crutch in his fist. His face bathed in sweat and he looked stricken. Shadows cast by sharp angles of his cheeks lengthened. His hollow eyes met mine and he shook his head faintly.
The men surrounding us laughed uproariously. Our main torturer took stand by the counter to enjoy the show and his gorillas resumed the place at their seats in the open area to my left with similar intent.
Sherlock moved towards me and slightly raised his clutch-toting hand.
I nestled against the counter, almost catatonic with fear and shock. Cold shivers rattled me and as everything went blurry, the series of disjointed visions flashed through my mind reeling off before me like the scenes from the movie.
Sherlock, naked and sated after our lovemaking, laying his curly head on my shoulder. Pliant and trusting as a child, filling me with all kinds of sweet pleasure.
Apollo made of white marble, majestic and cold, stretching a bow and following an invisible target with his blind eyes.
An illustration of Hyacinthus in the bulky tome. Young boy’s body thrown into the dust, the stream of blood rolling down his skull and being thirstily sucked by the scorched earth underneath him.
And Mycroft’s malicious smirk and poignant speech, his all-knowing look fixed on me.
“Don’t succumb to him, John. He’s a cruel god.”
I gasped audibly and returned to the present, trying to steel myself for the inevitable. I realised that I always knew this was meant to happen one day. I didn’t foolishly believe that my dealings with Mary will go unpunished. The resentment had to be there, it simply had to dwell inside of Sherlock for a long time – and now it was allowed to flow out, unbridled.
So I will finally pay for all the pain and suffering I caused him through the years.
Like Niobe and Marsyas. They dealt with their god too arrogantly – and it was their hubris that killed them, just like it would kill me in a little while. And I would deserve every bit of it, since he pointedly asked me not to come – and I did not listen.
Sherlock wholly raised up his arm now. He hesitated for a second and then swung it in my direction with devastating force.
I instinctively shut up my eyes.
The blast came without warning. It was so powerful, it literally lifted me up and threw me against the counter in such a manner that I managed to break down the rusty rail running around its perimeter. Falling down to the ground unceremoniously like a rotten apple, I shrieked out in surprise and pain and abruptly opened my eyes once more.
I blinked in confusion. It was a very different room that surrounded me all of a sudden. Huge pieces of corrugated iron were bitten out of the roof and walls of the hall, their debris covering the entire ground inside. Clouds of black smoke surged out of the holes created that way and to my right the blazing inferno was speedily consuming the entire side of the old building. The open space surrounded by flames looked churned up as if the bomb fell on it. I tried not to think about the fate of two gorillas who sat there mere moments ago. I had no time for it anyway since I was coughing roughly, almost choking on it. The air was thick and all but unbreathable, threatening me with smoke-inhalation.
But my personal safety was of little significance to me at that time. For in that instant I glimpsed Sherlock and my heart just stopped beating.
He lay on his back with lapels of his Belstaff splayed to both sides and didn’t move. At the front-part of his white shirt, a dark red blot was gradually expanding.
I yelled in heart-wrenching desperation.
Trembling like a leaf, I scrambled back to my feet and pulled the handcuff off the broken rail.
However, strange loud din disturbed me unexpectedly. As in a dream, I observed the bearded figure with blood streaked face emerging from among some overturned shelves at the far end of the counter. Emitting the roar of absolute rage, the man ran to Sherlock swiftly and kicked my unconscious friend into the temple. I started. Screaming in return, I quickly lifted the piece of debris wallowing near me and threw it after the attacker. The metal shamble hit him into the back accurately and forced him to snap around.
Red eyes, mad like raging bull’s, met mine. The man roared for the last time and immediately went after me, his fingers twisted into claws reaching for my throat with murderous intent.
Still, he never made it. I clearly noticed the moment in which he stiffened, his eyes bulging out of his sockets. His mouth opened helplessly and as he gave out a short cough, it filled with abundant pink foam. I barely had time to catch his falling body into my arms and to gently lay him down. He was in his last throes already and in but a second, he breathed out and went absolutely still. There was nothing I could do to save him.
Sick to my stomach, I could only look at the bloodied piece of the broken rail, twisted upwards like a snake poised for an attack, which we both managed to overlook and which pierced his jugular vein mercilessly as he run onto it in his mindless ire.
Staggering forward through the black fog, I reached for Sherlock and knelt by his side, touching him with shaking fingers.
Incredible relief raked through my body when I felt his pulse beating strongly and when I ascertained that no bone of his was broken. The injury visible on his chest was only a flesh-wound caused by the shrapnel which pierced Sherlock’s skin in the moment of explosion. We were both incredibly lucky. I thanked all the saints in heaven for such a close shave and I threw Sherlock’s heavy frame over my shoulder, carrying him out to save us both from suffocation.
Lestrade was almost frantic by the time I appeared, floundering by the metal fence like a trapped rabbit. He cried out in relief when he spotted us and exclaimed: “John! John! What the hell happened? Sherlock… is he injured? And you? Are you all right? Tell me, for God’s sake!”
I put Sherlock down to the soft grass and checked his pulse once again. Content with his state, I sat next to him cross-legged and leaned against the pole of the fence, grinning at the DI.
“Oh, everything is fine, Greg. I had fantastic time in there. I love the smell of semtex in the morning and these guys offered me aplenty. Probably not English, but ideal hosts anyway….”
Greg stared at me as if I had lost my mind. Somewhere in a distance, the sirens of the fire-fighting trucks started blaring in earnest.
xxxxxxxx
“Uh, I’m with the force for twenty years now but I never ever witnessed such zoo before.” Greg resumed a seat in his private cubicle with a deep sigh. Afterwards, he lifted a steaming cuppa from the table and took a soothing sip with deep relish.
We were back in his office at Scotland Yard, absolutely wrung out after the excitement of last night and the subsequent investigations that lasted until noon. We burrowed into comfortable chairs and rested there a bit. Greg and I, we were decorated by a redoubtable set of bruises, while Sherlock sported the white bandage on his head and on his chest which was visible through his partly unbuttoned bloodied shirt.
“What I don’t get is the reason behind these kamikaze’s actions. What the heck did they expect to find in that hollow crutch? Do you have any idea about that, Sherlock?”
Lestrade’s question was merely rhetorical, of course. For Sherlock was already busy browsing the net on his smartphone. Soon, he found the article he was looking for and showed it to me and Greg triumphantly. I found myself unable to supress a faint tremor when I recognised the face of our late kidnapper at once.
“Three weeks ago, an audacious robbery took place at Coster Diamonds, the famous diamond cutting factory located in Amsterdam,” explained Sherlock. “The consignment of the precious South-African uncut diamonds was stolen and three employees responsible for its despatch were kidnapped together with their car. Two men were later found dead, strangled, at the outskirts of the town. The third man, Simon Nijmeijer, captured on this photograph, remained missing.”
“Now, it is my theory that a gang of five people in total were responsible for the crime. With the exception of Nijmeijer and his two butchers, Murray and De Vries were involved in it too. De Vries was responsible for stashing the diamonds in a safe place while Murray helped to get the criminals out of Amsterdam and into another country through his “North Sea Express”. They managed to realise their plan smoothly until they got to the UK. After that, something went wrong.”
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders: “What I will say now is only a hypothesis, but I bet it won’t be far from the truth. In my opinion, De Vries refused to hand over the diamonds for some reason and was hiding from his former accomplices. He only agreed to meet one of them on a neutral ground and so they sent the oldest one, Murray, to negotiate with him and chose the private cubicle of the Eye as their meeting place. In theory, it should be the safest place possible, for it offered an absolute privacy there in the air and yet provided the clear view inside which theoretically prevented either of the men to turn violent.”
“But as we already know, the frail protection of the participants that the cubicle offered didn’t last and De Vries killed Murray in anger with his crutch there. The cubicle was booked on Murray’s name so maybe he hoped to run off quickly after landing, before his crime was properly discovered. He didn’t know that Murray brought the vial containing hydrocyanic acid with him. While he was dying, Murray threw the vial to the ground and stepped on it, changing the whole cubicle into the gas chamber in no time.”
“De Vries noticed immediately that something is amiss and threw open the emergency exit to jump out of it. He kicked Murray’s body together with the now useless crutch out to see how it fares. But when it ended on the edge of the embankment instead of in the Thames, he lost the nerve to follow it. Or maybe he was already too weak and near collapse. Either way, he died there within a hand’s distance from freedom. Very nasty death, no doubt.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin in thought.
“After we were involuntarily dragged into that crime, I immediately noticed the Dutch connection practically leaping at us. De Vries was a Dutch citizen, he owned an enterprise located in Amsterdam and the other victim operated in the North Sea, connecting Netherlands and the other North Sea countries with the UK. The only motive for their deadly quarrel I could imagine was money or some financial dealings between the two, but not of an ordinary kind, because such dealings would hardly require hydrocyanic acid being thrown around. I therefore made a short survey of the unsolved crimes taking place in Amsterdam in the last month and this diamond matter immediately caught my eye.”
Sherlock looked at us, his whole face shining brightly: “It struck me that the storage place full of plaster antique statues could be an ideal place for hiding such small stones. If these were cast-in into one of the sculptures, it would take an incredibly long time since any stranger would discover them.”
“But this was just my estimate, of course. It was just as likely that De Vries hid the diamonds somewhere else or that he wasn’t involved in that crime at all. I therefore wished to examine his warehouse right away to judge if I am on the right track. Little did I know that Murray’s accomplices are shadowing us with the intent of grabbing you at the first chance, Geoffrey. They were seriously determined to force you to give up the crutch you secured at the crime-scene in some way.”
“The rest is history.”
Greg thoughtfully nodded in approval. “That makes sense, yes. But it puzzles me that the crutch was empty after all. Did you know that would be the case?”
I frowned darkly at this insinuation. But Sherlock wasn’t offended, he merely shook his bandaged head: “No, I was completely mislead by their demand and fully believed that the crutch was the hiding-place for the stones. It was too late, only a little while before an explosion at the docks, that I realised my mistake and discerned where De Vries really placed them.”
We both sprung up after his last remark.
“Where he really placed them?? You mean… you mean to tell us you know where they are?” We stared at him, incredulous.
Sherlock smiled shame-facedly and he actually blushed.
“Yes. And I’ll show you right away. But you must promise me you won’t comment on it, OK?”
Sherlock rose out of his seat and casually walked to the wrapped up thyrsus recumbent in the corner of the room. He slowly took the plastic cover off it and lifted it carefully, weighing it in his hand. He then seized the artificial pine-cone placed at the top of the slim metal rod and screwed it off with ease.
Scatter of small stones fell out of the decorative cone when he overturned it above Greg’s desk. The greyish pebbles spread over the surface of the table and lingered there like raindrops. We gazed at them in astonishment.
Sherlock wore a self-deprecating grimace on his lips now: “Do you realise what had happened? The moment I believed I was spying them out of your office, I actually brought them in. That was De Vries’ joke at my expense, I guess. He hid them into the insignia of that jolly fellow Dionysus. And the Apollo’s bow contains the second batch of them, no doubt.”
We stood with our gaze blankly pointed at him. Then we burst into the wildest guffaw this bureau ever encountered. Sherlock tried to shush us but realising it’s pointless, he opened the door of the cubicle and escaped to the hallway hastily.
When I finished laughing, I wiped out the tears of merriment from my eyes and went after him.
I found him in a vestibule, standing in the alcove half-lit by the afternoon sun, the edge of light and darkness passing right through the middle of it. He smoked nervously, tipping the ash into the large ash-bin.
I wanted to apologise and to congratulate him on successfully solved case, but he was having none of it. With his eyes averted to the side, he crumpled the cigarette in his fingers and said quietly: “John, about that moment there at the dock… when they ordered me to kill you…”
I put my finger to his full red lips.
“You don’t need to explain anything, I know you never seriously intended to hurt me.” I announced with unshakable conviction. “I was a bit confused there at the dock, I admit. But once I got to think about it with clear head again, it all became evident to me. So don’t worry about that. You should rather tell me how you managed to detonate semtex in that Silvertown hole.”
Sherlock raised his eyes and pierced me with a sharp inquiring look. Still, his face relaxed a bit and he even smirked a little: “You knew it was me?”
“Well, it would be a very big coincidence if their semtex exploded spontaneously exactly in the moment when it did. And I remember now how you threw the crutch over my shoulder in that last second. I am not dumb, Sherlock. Please, tell me everything.”
Sherlock bowed his head and leaned against the wall of the alcove, crossing his arms over his bandaged chest. He directed a determined glance at me right after.
“Yes, I took some fulminating compound with me when I left Baker Street,” he confessed with hard edge to his voice. “You may recall that I examined quite a large volume of fulminated mercury last week in order to find extrinsic adulterants in it. When they gave me that appalling order, I merely put that chemical into the hollow left after the severed grip. I then stepped up to you in order to be nearer to the semtex-crate so that I could aim better when I threw the crutch on it.”
“Now, you are probably aware that fulminated mercury is highly sensitive to shock. The moment it violently impacted against the crate it exploded immediately. It was not able to do much damage on its own. However, it was powerful enough to pierce the thin plywood of the crate and to detonate its contents at once.”
Sherlock stubbornly lifted his chin, his eyes steely and dark: “In a way it was me who killed those men. And yet I do not regret anything. I would kill every single one of them all over for your sake.”
It was a dark confession - and yet I never heard anything so touching in my life.
I rubbed my chin absentmindedly, disturbing the prickly stubble already growing on it and asked: “Weren’t you afraid we would be caught in a blast?”
“You never would, John.” Sherlock assured me heatedly. “The concrete wall standing behind you would shield you from it.”
“And what about you?”
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders with disinterest: “I am not that important.”
I immediately lifted my hands, placing one palm onto his sharp cheekbone, the other on his lips sprouting such nonsense. Sharp needles of tears prickled me under my lids but I managed to give him the crooked, watery smile anyway.
“You nutter, you absolutely mad nutter.” I whispered fondly. “Didn’t I already show you how important you are to me? Just you wait… just you wait, Sherlock Holmes. One day I will teach you to hold yourself in a much higher esteem.”
“Hm, if you think so…”
“I don’t merely think so, it’s the promise. The one I definitely intend to keep.” I swore with solemn air and ruffled his dark curls playfully. “But I’ll leave that for later. I think we should speak about some serious matter for a change. So… what about some ice-cream?”
I floored him fair and square. Sherlock was speechless for a while. Still, he noticed my shameless grin and came to his senses just as quickly.
He lifted the corners of his mouth and leered maliciously at me.
“Well, that steak and kidney pie flavour sounded interesting the last time, John…”
THE END.
Source: Wikipedia Commons
Last edited by ukaunz (July 5, 2016 12:55 am)
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This is the seventh fic of the exchange, please remember to post your comments
This story is for SusiGo. You gave me some lovely prompts. To my - sort of - horror, though, I could see that you wanted something historic/Victorian, something I’m really bad at writing. So combining that wish with some of your other prompts (established Johnlock, committed relationship, humor) – and the theme of the challenge in general – I came up with a solution I hope will work for you. It was quite fun to write for me at least! Great thanks to besleybean for beta reading the story (although any errors should be attributed to me, the author).
Content Ratings: Teen and Up Audience
Relationships/Pairings: (M/M) Johnlock
Content warnings/tags: Fluff and humor with some light elements of flirting and a small hint of (not real) violence (not between Sherlock and John).
Last edited by ukaunz (July 8, 2016 6:51 am)
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This time, the artwork is by the very talented GimmeCat. Thank you GimmeCat, for allowing me to use this gorgeous picture for our exchange
Last edited by ukaunz (July 8, 2016 3:36 am)
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Hey everyone, here's our eighth fic! Please read it and go and comment over there
This fic is for Schmiezi. She would like to read some heartwarming Johnlock but has expressed the following deal breakers: "Mary as a good person, major character death."
She had given me two prompts (a) S3 fix-it taking place right after TAB; or (b) John's and Sherlock's first summer holidays as a couple.
I’ve chosen the fix-it one, and I really, really hope you will like it.
I apologise for the ridiculous amount of time it took me to write this.
Content Ratings: Teen and Up Audiences / Mature. (I’m really rubbish at rating, sorry)
Relationships, Pairings, Orientations: M/M (guess who?)
Content Warnings: Violence, mention of drug use
Last edited by ukaunz (July 11, 2016 5:11 am)
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We are onto our penultimate fic! It's another longish one. This one's for The Boss, but I'm sure it will be enjoyed by everyone. Please comment in the other thread when you've finished
Author’s note: Happy Marvellous Midyear Fic Exchange, SherlockHolmes. You asked for a casefic, horses, drugged Sherlock, a mind palace scene and torture amongst other things. I’ve done my best to incorporate these elements and do hope you like what I’ve come up with.
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Greg Lestrade, Tobias Gregson (ACD canon), OCs
Rating: PG, some swearing and non-graphic violence
Beta and Britpick: the wonderful besleybean
Tags: casefic, Sherlock and John are BFF, Greg rocks
Summary: “Gosh, wow,” Sherlock whimpered, eyes wide in a mixture of wonder and fear. “That’s straight out of Game of Thrones, isn’t it, love?”
Completely caught by surprise John almost choked on his beer. The last thing on earth he’d expected was for Sherlock to be up-to-date with this particular segment of mass entertainment. Somehow the notion of Sherlock binge-watching hours of rampant sex, intricate torture and vicious tribal warfare was more disturbing than having him end up in a hospital bed after indulging his taste for various kinds of stimulants and opiates. And this was the man who’d claimed he’d never even heard of James Bond.
Last edited by ukaunz (July 14, 2016 7:11 am)
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Safely outside again John went straight for the jugular. “What the hell were you playing at in there?” he demanded. If it weren’t for the landlord and the two police officials observing them he would have stabbed Sherlock straight in the solar plexus with a very pointed finger.
“What? Why?” Sherlock yelped, having the gall to appear confused. At his usual tone he added: “Really, John, it’s hardly my fault we ran into the UK’s sole pub owner uninterested in a little free publicity. I had to come up quickly with something convincing.”
“Convincing?” scoffed John. “What, by pretending we’re a soppy pair of pansies? This is the first case in ages with no one treating us as an item and you have to play the gay card!”
“For God’s sake, John. No one is interested in your perpetual sexual identity crisis,” Sherlock sneered, underscoring his argument with a massive eye roll. “Sentiment is a weakness that undermines even the most hardened heart. They both fell for it and yielded us a trove of information it would have taken us days to uncover otherwise. Thanks to our little stopover the case is as good as solved. All that remains for us to do is find the perpetrator. On that I’ve got some definite ideas that will give Gregson a chance at proving he isn’t a complete waste of valuable space and air.”
“Solved the case? When? How?” spluttered John, flummoxed as ever by the rash leap of Sherlock’s thought processes. Just as predictably Sherlock’s reply consisted of a pitying once-over, followed by a snooty, “Let’s say I got the answer straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“Wait!” John grasped the sleuth’s sleeve to prevent him from bolting for the car. “Game of Thrones,” he asked with a meaningful twitch of his eyebrow.
“I chanced upon it in your browsing history, John,” Sherlock responded. This time he seemed honestly confused and almost hurt by the implication John had considered the notion of Sherlock voluntarily partaking of the fare. “Why you choose to squander your time watching such utter tripe is beyond me but to each his own. Can we go now? We’ve got a criminal to catch, remember?”
***
When John reached the car Gregson was steaming himself all up to a rant of epic proportions.
“What do you mean, go to the Abingdon station instead of the fourth crime scene,” he hollered, eyes bulging dangerously in their sockets.
“Toby, your blood pressure,” Greg cautioned, with a glare at Sherlock that would have skewered a horse. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, was about to return the honours by a selection of finely honed insults with cherries on top.
“Right,” John jumped straight into the hornet’s nest that until a few moments ago had been a perfectly serviceable family car doubling as a police vehicle. “Let’s pretend we’re all adults here. Especially you.” These last words he directed straight at Sherlock who opened his mouth to protest but – after a quick mental calculus of John’s expression – appeared to acknowledge silence might work in his favour this time.
“Look, Detective Inspector,” John addressed the harassed Thames Valley DI who still sat fuming in his seat. “Sherlock is a drama queen and an arrogant git who likes nothing better than slagging off normal people like me and you. Believe me, I know, I share a flat with him and I feel like strangling him half the time. But he’s also bloody brilliant and incredibly good at what he does and trust me, if he’s telling you he doesn’t need to see the crime scene, he really doesn’t. No one is more interested than him in solving this case, nor more likely to do it.”
“John.” Sherlock shifted in his seat, as if John’s speech had roused the sentiment he always professed to lack.
“It’s all true, Toby,” Greg chipped in. “From the arrogant git part to the bloody brilliant part. The delivery could do with some fine-tuning but he gets you the package and in the end that’s all that matters.”
“I can’t help that you’re all idiots,” Sherlock contributed his tuppence to the dispute, like a defence barrister from hell.
“Not helping, Sherlock.” John stabbed Sherlock in the side with his elbow and perhaps more force than was strictly necessary. Sherlock huffed and wrapped himself tight in the protective chain mail of his Belstaff. The arch of his left eyebrow provided the phrase ‘arrogant git’ with fresh significance. After some mutual glowering Sherlock whipped out his phone and devoted himself to its screen. His whole stance demonstrated he was as mercilessly indifferent to the emotional turmoil raging around his person as the eye of the storm that leaves death and destruction in its wake.
“See what I mean?” Greg said, patting the other DI on the knee.
Gregson grunted. The man’s hands, John noted, were doing unspeakable things to the steering wheel. To the experienced Sherlock-watcher John had become it was plain the DI’s mind was in a whirl, anxiously plunging the depths of his patience in dealing with the infuriating sphinx in the back seat who sat tapping away on his mobile, a secret smile quivering upon his lips.
“Right,” the tormented police officer puffed at last, addressing a spot somewhere on the far horizon. “Right. I’m trusting you, Greg. You’re a good man and the best police officer I know—”
Here Gregson fell silent and John fully expected him to ignite the motor and drive them off to the Abingdon local police post, when Gregson gripped the steering wheel even tighter, as if his hands were latched around Sherlock’s neck rather than an innocent assemblage of plastic and faux-leather. At a louder volume he took up again. “—so if you say I should put up with this fucking big headed prick I’ll do it. For the sake of the victims and their poor families, I’ll do it. But, by God, Greg, I swear, if you don’t whisk this uppity sod out of my frigging sight the minute he’s caught the killer I won’t stand for the consequences. I might bloody well murder the little shit myself! And you know what? They won’t even throw me in prison for it but give me a knighthood!”
“I sincerely doubt that,” Sherlock remarked offhandedly from deep within the folds of his coat. “I know the man who assembles the lists.” As an afterthought he added, “Unfortunately.”
“Erm, I’m afraid he really does,” John interjected hastily, mouthing Mycroft at Greg in the rear-view mirror.
“Eh, yeah, Sherlock’s brother,” Greg explained to his seething colleague. “He’s something terribly secret and important in the Government, all very hush hush.”
“Oh.” Gregson deflated visibly, like a toy balloon landing on a rose bush and meeting an untimely end. “I see,” he said, though his puzzled demeanour indicated he really didn’t.
“Best go to Abingdon,” Greg advised at the gentle tone of a nurse talking to a patient still fuzzy from anaesthesia after major heart surgery. “I’ll contact the team and tell them to wrap up the scene. Look at it this way, we’ll be able to hand over the body to his loved ones much faster than we’d reckoned.”
“Remember to remind forensics to first sew the head back on, Gerald,” suggested Sherlock. “Or the family will be in for a nasty shock.”
***
To describe the vibes that held sway inside the vehicle as ‘off’ would be putting it mildly. During the half an hour Gregson needed to guide them along the A420 his gaze remained steadily fixed on Sherlock’s reflection in the rear-view mirror.
If he dreaded another firing ambush of infra dig barbs he needn’t have worried. The instant the car started Sherlock switched off his mobile and, tenting his fingers in front of his mouth, retreated into his mind palace. Rather than try to explain to Gregson what was happening John decided to enjoy the relative peace and quiet while it lasted so he dedicated his attention to the beauties of nature that sped past the side-window at a steady fifty miles an hour.
The Phony war ended as the car drew to a halt in front of Abingdon police station. In full flourishing fashion Sherlock flung open the rear passenger door and dashed from the car and into the building, leaving the three of them to fumble for the clasp of their seatbelts. Greg was muttering under his breath but Gregson had let go of previously erected constraints in a new bout of white-hot vexation.
“The devil take that sodding piece of scum. What’s he up to now?”
Inside the bewildered-looking (decidedly fit John couldn’t help noticing) PC peopling the front desk pointed them to corridor that branched off the lobby at the left.
“It… he… that way,” she wheezed, throwing a belated ‘Sir’ after them as they hurried in the direction she’d specified.
The corridor led to an open-plan office that showed a remarkable similarity to those inside New Scotland Yard’s Broadway premises. Packed with humanity and the sounds and smells produced by too many people in a room too small to contain them all, crossing its threshold felt akin to entering Wembley stadium at the precise instant Man United scored the decisive goal during penalty shoot-out.
Walled off at the far end of the place was a tiny cubicle, which, going by the NSY floor plan John reckoned to be Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson’s personal dominion. The nameplate on the glass wall beside the door validated his deduction. Not that he needed the sign. Gregson’s harsh snort of outrage at the sight of the world’s only consulting detective seated behind the ancient steel desk and hammering away at the keyboard was just as conclusive.
“That computer is password protected!” the DI fell upon the personification of everything he’d quickly learned to loathe over the past few hours.
“Please,” scoffed Sherlock, features doused with such an abundance of derision John considered ferreting around for a mop in case it gushed onto the lino. “123456. That’s not a password, that’s an invite.”
“Listen, you…”
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock paid this injunction – issued by a police officer on duty – no attention at all, preferring to switch it instead to the photograph on proud display in a neat silver frame.
“No, you listen,” he smirked. “If you’d possessed as much as an ounce of creativity you might have come up with something more challenging like Linda20 slash 06, or Whitney31 slash 10, or even Amy05 slash 08. Those might have deterred me – for all of three seconds at the maximum – but still.”
Greg’s quiet groan of exasperation put John straight into the picture. The photograph, he grasped, depicted Tobias Gregson’s nearest and dearest and somehow – though the how was beyond John, but then according to a certain someone he was an idiot – Sherlock had deduced their names and birthdays and, because he was the universe’s greatest show-off, decided to toss this intelligence into the DI’s face.
“Jesus, Sherlock” he muttered, shaking his head disbelievingly. On impulse he laid a steadying hand on Gregson’s shoulder. The DI’s weathered complexion had turned puce and his rapid pants indicated he was close to hyperventilating.
“Try to relax,” John implored. “Follow Greg’s example, he’s been putting up with this for years.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Gregson rasped.
“I understand completely. How about a nice cup of tea instead?”
Meanwhile, Sherlock, bored with going the extra mile at riling hapless members of the National police force, shifted his attention back to the computer.
“There you have your chance at making yourself useful at last,” he said. “What can you tell us about Crazy Horse Ltd, Stables and Fun Events, newly established at a Knighton road.”
“Huh,” was Gregson’s eloquent reply.
“Crazy Horse,” Greg said, thought lines furrowing his brow. “Odd name. Isn’t that protected or something?”
“What?” Sherlock’s perplexed expression disclosed the investigation had reached that critical stage where an ignorance of the ins and outs of popular culture dragged down the consulting detective’s formidable deductive powers like a lead balloon. To John, on the other hand, Greg’s mention of the band’s name opened a can of almost forgotten memories of his father, reverently lowering the family stereo’s needle on the latest vinyl proof of musical genius.
“Didn’t they break up a long time ago?” he asked.
“Rumours have it they’re back in the studio,” Greg answered. “Still. ‘Everybody Knows this is Nowhere’ remains the best thing they’ve done.”
“Yeah,” Gregson accorded heartily. “ ‘Down by the River’. Remember Greg?”
The DI’s exchanged a look and then, to John’s amusement and Sherlock’s utter astonishment, lined up for a gig of perfectly synchronised air guitar that would easily have earned them first place at the UKAG championship. If John had been on the jury he would have awarded the pair bonus points for technical merit, mimesmanship, stage presence and airness. The vocals – admittedly – left something to be desired but their reproduction of fretwork, chords, solos and technical moves was one in a million and they held their improvised stage with a charisma that would have rocked the Royal Albert Hall. Loud whoops and catcalls from the admiring audience at their backs accompanied the performance. Phones were whipped out to record this unique event and by the time the ace duo took a bow they were trending on Twitter.
Physically exhausted but mentally rejuvenated the DIs spun on their heels to confront the Commonwealth’s sole figure (though John conceded this may be a moot point as his grasp on Mycroft’s views regarding air guitar as an art form was nil) unable to appreciate the enormity of the event he’d just been privileged to witness first hand.
“Well, that was most enlightening,” Sherlock dismissed their collective explosion of creative ingenuity. “You two have just proven beyond any reasonable doubt what I’ve always contended, that the British CID forces are made up entirely of the biggest morons walking these isles. Are you done now? Can we get on with the case?”
“Yeah,” Greg replied sullenly. Both he and Gregson shuffled their feet like schoolboys caught shoplifting chewing gum.
“Crazy Horse Ltd,” Sherlock resumed fixing Gregson with a death-dealing glare. “Man and wife apparently. Bought the farm three months ago.”
“Hmm. Oh yes, I know.” Flurried by being one up on Sherlock at last Gregson pointed his finger in the air. “Young couple. They organise children’s birthday parties. You know, pony rides, bouncy castles, cupcake contests. Detective Sergeant Gove’s youngest celebrated her eighth birthday there. A huge success, apparently.”
“Good for her. Still, given population statistics it strikes me as a weird location for such an enterprise. Not all of Oxford’s indulgent parents will want to be locked up for almost an hour in a car with a party of overly excited children.”
“I’ve known worse,” Greg duly muttered not quite under his breath, a remark that Sherlock just as duly disregarded.
“Looks like they’re branching out,” he spoke to the Thames Valley DI instead. “They’ve been buying horses, four in just over a month.”
That slice of information had John prick up his ears. Naturally, Sherlock picked up on the resulting slight shift of the hairs around John’s ear lobes and rewarded him with a complicit grin.
Not having visited the pub Gregson was at a disadvantage in judging the data’s possible relevance, choosing to complicate matters by concentrating on vacuous trivia.
“Just how…” he began, his countenance twisting under a vast variety of emotions vying for precedence . “Look here.” His voice veered to pleading. “That’s my work computer, all right? You can’t just use that to… Not without a warrant. The Director of information will have me by the balls.”
“Hardly likely,” flouted Sherlock at his haughtiest.
“Oh, please,” he elaborated when the capillaries in Gregson’s cheeks were filled to bursting for the umpteenth time that day, “not for the reasons conjured by your primitive little mind. No, compared to your so-called Director of information John here is a computing genius who could take Alan Turing himself down a few pegs. The Titanic was better equipped to pull through a collision with an iceberg than your so-called intranet is against the hacking attempts of a determined toddler who’s just been given his first I-Pad.”
“Never mind.” Heroically risking life and limb, John jumped between the warring parties and raised his hands. “That’s enough,” he admonished Sherlock in tones that brooked no argument. “And you too,” he accosted the flabbergasted Gregson next. “Remember, we’ve got a killer to catch. Possibly a pair of them if Sherlock is right.”
“Of course I’m right,” sniffed Sherlock. “I’m always right.”
“Shut up!” John barked.
“There’s no need to shout,” Sherlock countered with the hurt aspect of the most reasonable man on the planet.
“Listen, Sherlock,” John tore into his friend. “Could you for once in your life try stop pissing off every single person in a five mile radius and Shut The fucking Hell UP!”
He accompanied his command with a glower that, in the best over-the-top Hollywood tradition, would send a swarming host of cruel and bloodthirsty aliens from some as yet undiscovered galaxy, hell bent on dealing death and destruction to terrified humanity, scampering for their outer space high-tech invasion fleet. The vermin were about to escape unscathed when the unassuming but fearless, jumper-clad hero saved the day by ambushing and eliminating the aliens in in an eardrum-shredding finale that would leave the audience craving the sequel. All the scenario lacked was a pretty lady who’d swoon into the leading man’s arms over the smoking corpse of the aliens’ commander. And no, in spite of the virulent gossip making the rounds of NYS's offices and Mrs Hudson’s most fervent hopes of show boating her own pair of married ones Sherlock didn’t fit that particular bill. Even though he was currently gazing at John with the awestruck expression he generally reserved for feats of his own genius.
“Jeez’, John,” Greg commented, impressed. “Do you do lessons? If you did, half of Greater London would be clamouring at your doorstep. You could charge them, you know, live high off the hog in no time.”
“Very funny, Gavin,” Sherlock made himself heard, but his bearing had lost its usual brazenness so John let it go.
“What’s the plan?” John changed the subject back to the why and wherefore of their get-together inside the tight confines of Gregson’s office.
Sherlock’s smile surpassed even the most supercilious, stuck-up smirk John had ever seen on his hoity-toity elder brother’s face for sheer superior smugness.
“It’s brilliant,” he said.
***
For all its brilliance Sherlock’s plan sported at least one serious flaw and John was presently stuck slap-bang in its centre. The clump of nettles Sherlock had selected for an observation post had wriggled its way into John’s clothes to stroke his skin with a fiery passion John had seldom encountered before. It took every last shred of willpower and military training not to jump up and break into a mad warrior dance that would have put John Travolta to shame.
To make matters worse the nettles’ torment, which was driving John nearly insane, had no apparent effect on Sherlock. The git had probably unburied some ancient tantric yoga technique from his mind palace that helped him pretend he wasn’t sprawling on their itchy hiding place but the familiar bumps and dips of their old sofa back at 221B Baker Street. Or perhaps, thanks to on and off stints of ingestion of every sort of upper and downer nature’s generosity and human ingenuity had produced his system was permanently insentient to tactile stimulation.
John sighed and, with the silence of an adder slithering across the desert floor, shifted in search of a spot with less antagonistic leaves.
“John,” Sherlock hissed instantly.
John sighed again, wishing half-heartedly he’d left Sherlock to his own devices and stayed with Greg and Gregson who were probably clinking their glasses for their first swig of The Fox & Hounds mouth-wateringly delicious ale right this moment. Not that he’d sling his hook from Sherlock’s side but every now and then the notion looked tempting.
An hour earlier the DI’s had dropped them off at a distance of two miles from the farm and gone on to set up base at the Uffington watering hole. Sherlock had dismissed their offers of assistance, stating that John and he best worked alone. After a brief verbal tussle Greg had yielded but not until he’d extracted Sherlock’s promise not to do anything stupid and call for intervention the minute the situation required police assistance. The DI must stock lashings of faith in humanity in general and his consulting detective in particular to believe Sherlock would heed his pledge. Or maybe he was just hoping for the best.
Night’s canopy had descended completely during their walk to shield them from wary eyes during their reconnoitring of the farmyard. The farm’s windbreak served as an excellent cover but unfortunately it didn’t run around the whole property, hence their current off-putting position.
One particularly belligerent stalk embarked on an incursion in the vicinity of John’s belly button.
“Christ,” he muttered, escorting the expletive with a dead-glare in Sherlock’s direction, promising a close encounter with John’s fist if he so much as dared to comment. Quite apart from the fact their vanguard spot left much to be desired the necessity for being quieter than the family of field mice roaring happily somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear struck John as unnecessary. The farmyard lay slumbering silent and serene beneath the starry sky, the contours of its outbuildings blending in with the surrounding black hills. For the half an hour they’d been surveying the empty wasteland not so much as a stalk of grass had moved. Not a beam of light peeked from behind the farmhouse’s drawn curtains, the owners presumably carousing in the Land of Nod after a long day whiled away decorating cupcakes with a crazed band of chattering and giggling pink-apparelled eight-year-old girls. John heartily felt for them. Nothing in the peaceful scene indicated the Apocalypse was about to erupt.
“Ssshh.” Sherlock held his forefinger to his lips. Now John heard it too. The low rumble of a heavy vehicle, still far off but steadily approaching. He looked over his shoulder. Their position gave them a clear view of the only road that led to the farm but his eyes didn’t discern the yellow band of the vehicle’s headlights he expected to see. Beside him, Sherlock nodded, eyes glinting with wicked glee.
“And there,” he whispered.
Indeed a lamp sprang to life on the house’s first floor, soon followed by a trickle on the lower floor until the farmhouse was a blaze of radiance. John’s light-deprived eyes were still adjusting to the sudden influx when the front door was thrown open wide. Against the yellow backdrop stood a man’s silhouette. After peering left and right he walked down the yard, guiding himself along with the aid of his torch and took up position at the head of the driveway.
A few minutes later a medium-sized van trundled up the driveway. With its black paint and its headlights and tail lights switched off it was nearly invisible in the darkness. It halted close to the large outbuilding nearest to John and Sherlock’s surveillance post. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t chosen so badly after all for when the driver jumped out of the van and the men greeted each other they could hear every syllable of the ensuing conversation.
“See anything?”
“Nah. Some out of the ark geezer walking his dog near Woolstone and a pair of pissed feck wits in Ashbury.”
“Hhmm. Do you reckon we should ride again? Scare the living daylights out of those geeks once and for all?”
“Not now, no. There’s always dipsticks don’t have the frigging brains to get the hang of what’s good for them. Chop off their flaming nut and they still don’t get it.”
“Yeah. Best lie low for a patch. Every booking for miles around has been cancelled so we’ve got rid of those bleeding hikers and day trippers.”
“Day trippers. Hah.”
“Any headache dumping the load?”
“Nah, that old mine works like a charm. We’ll be living the life of Riley long before we’ve filled the shaft.”
“Belting. Well, come on in. Grub’s all set.”
“Ta, after lugging those fucking vats I could eat a scabby horse.”
Together the men went into the house and the front door fell to behind them with a loud thud.
“Well,” Sherlock said, his baritone warm with smug relish. “That was most illuminating. Almost as good as a confession.”
“Yeah, brilliant. Except for the total lack of evidence of whatever they’re up to. You heard them, whatever it was they gave it the bum’s rush so Gregson won’t find a thing when he alights with a search warrant.”
“John.” Sherlock sounded sincerely disappointed in John’s cognitive abilities. “Their lingo, though offensive, was plain as day.”
“Fine.” Briefly, John debated the benefits of grabbing Sherlock by the uppity neck and scrubbing his swaggering gob through the nettles. Huge as those rewards towered in John’s mind, luckily for Sherlock common sense prevailed and he settled for gritting his teeth and heaving yet another deep sigh instead. “Fine, Sherlock. It may be plain to you but it sure as hell isn’t to me. Could you come off your high horse and explain. You know, for those whose last name isn’t bloody Holmes.”
“Just Holmes, John. Come on, I’ll show you.” Sherlock leapt into a crouch and slipped into the night as stealthily as a tiger patrolling its territory before John had a chance to stall him.
“Come on, John,” his whisper was rapidly disappearing.
Swearing under his breath John blundered to his feet and hurried after Sherlock. Free from the nettles’ scourging stalks at last the marks they’d planted all over his skin began itching worse than ever. Half round the twist with agony John nearly bumped into Sherlock who’d ground to a halt behind one of the numerous buildings that littered the edge of the farmyard.
“Listen,” Sherlock said. Shielded from the sparse moonlight as they were in the building’s shelter John could still see the grin on the sleuth’s face through the glee that laced the word.
John listened. After a while he heard a thump, the reverberation of a kick against wood and a loud snort. They’d ended up behind the stables.
“So?” John turned towards Sherlock. “Surely, you didn’t buy that senile plank’s ravings. Do you really expect we’ll find the four horses of the Apocalypse in there?”
Rather than meeting the challenge Sherlock quirked one eyebrow so eloquently a blind man would have noticed. “Let’s have a look,” he suggested and quick as lightning he was off again, darting around the structure on feet as nimble as a fairy’s in some ancient dark tale, leaving John the choice to follow or fend for himself.
“Christ, you nutter,” John cursed but scrambled after Sherlock nevertheless, steering his way along the structure’s walls with his left hand. Upon encountering a gap his fingers groped until he grasped this was the entrance. He sneaked inside and pulled the door to behind him. Soft snorts greeted him.
“Sherlock,” he called out as loudly as he dared.
“Over here, John,” Sherlock replied, his voice coming from somewhere down the stables.
“Easy boy, easy,” John heard him say next in an uncommonly gentle tone. “Yes, you like that, don’t you?”
As John walked down the passage he was surrounded by the warmth of bodies packed close together. The aroma of horses was almost overwhelming but it was a clean and healthy smell, warm and comforting. Clearly, these stables were mucked out regularly and the animals well taken care off. Which really didn’t coincide with one’s general ideas about ruthless criminals.
At the end of the stables Sherlock was standing in one of the boxes, patting a horse on the neck and letting it nibble something from his palm.
“Sugar,” he explained. “Lifted it from Gregson’s desk. He could do with some dieting advice from Mycroft anyway.”
“Are you saying Mycroft’s diet is working?” John asked disbelievingly.
“Oh, he’s still fat but he was gross before. Don’t snitch on me, will you?” Sherlock answered. “But first I want you to meet the red horse. Yes, you’re a lovely horse. Just wait until John sees you,” he added. John surmised the last two sentences were addressed to the horse rather than his person.
The beam of Sherlock’s small Maglite lit up the horse’s left rear leg to reveal its glossy chestnut coat.
“He’s in his prime,” Sherlock said. “Beautiful animal. But they all are. Look.” He ambled out of the box and, after carefully shutting the door behind him, proceeded towards John, shifting the torch’s beam to illuminate the white horse, the black horse and the pale horse – a magnificent grey beast – successively. From what John could glimpse these four horses were the crowning glory of an assortment of so-so nags and bog standard ponies, several of which bared their teeth at him in passing. Not that John was very knowledgeable about horses. The closest he’d ever come to them was when he was thirteen and kissing Bonny Prince – who was pony mad – on her bed beneath a wall that was papered from top to bottom with pony posters and photographs ripped from girls magazines.
“And to top it all off…” Sherlock’s tone had just redefined the meaning of the adjective ‘patronising’ and imbued it with formerly unimagined significance, “…behold the murder weapon.” He angled the beam upwards and let it glance off a scythe that hung from a hook next to the door. The curved, wickedly sharp steel glittered forebodingly.
“Still, this doesn’t prove anything,” continued Sherlock in a sobered up voice. “They keep a very clean stable. That scythe will have been scrubbed to within an inch of its life. Forensics won’t find as much as a fingerprint on it. Suspicious in itself but mere conjecture won’t put anyone behind bars. For that we need motive. And I know just where to find it.”
Before John could blink Sherlock had dashed past him out of the stables and across the yard.
“Jesus, you daft twit, could you stop doing that?” John grumbled, chasing after his long-legged flatmate as fast as his far shorter legs allowed him. Sadly, he wasn’t fast enough. Something heavy whacked his lower back and he nose-dived straight into the mud. The earth’s black surface surging upwards to meet his face was the last thing he remembered before darkness engulfed him completely.
***
“…coming round. There the sucker is. Wakey, wakey, dick wit.”
Groggily, John tried to pretend he was still unconscious but he must have twitched an eyelid or done something else to give the game away for the voice laughed cruelly.
“No use shamming. Attaboy, show your Uncle Keith those peepers.”
And there was the other major flaw in Sherlock’s brilliant scheme. Somehow it never was the consulting detective but always his flatmate who ended up bound to a chair with a crackpot psychopath looming over him threatening to rip out his nails, crunch his bollocks, slit his throat or subject John’s physique to some equally dreary but highly unpleasant form of torture.
Eyes still firmly shut John weighed his options. His ankles were tied firmly to the chair’s legs with duct tape, a substance he loathed for its tendency to cling to and wrench any stray hairs. Indeed, the thugs had neglected to pull down the hems of his trousers over his socks before winding the tape and he could feel it tugging at the sparse hairs covering his luckless ankles, which had only just recovered from the arrant vegetation attack. What John had done to deserve this, apart from serving his Queen and country, saving the lives of numerous people at the various hospitals where he’d worked, helping old ladies cross the street and collecting his flatmate’s suits and shirts from the dry-cleaner’s, he’d probably never find out.
The state of his hands, joined as tightly together as a bunch of asparagus in Borough market, and tethered to the back of the chair with what felt like approximately a mile of duct tape left John in no doubt Uncle Keith & Co knew their – unsavoury – business. If Sherlock was right – and, given John’s present position it looked like he probably was – these heavies had also cold-bloodedly sent five people to meet their maker before their time was up. Perhaps it was best to confront them with his eyes wide open. Besides, he wanted to know if they’d got hold of Sherlock as well.
To his immense relief the room he was sitting in contained but three people: himself, Uncle Keith, whose overall appearance didn’t improve upon closer acquaintance, and a seedy individual with a ferrety face who was snarling insults into a mobile.
“I clocked another geezer, you bitch. He’s out there I tell you. ’Course he’s not hanging around. He’s doing a runner. Get on that nag and go after him.” He disconnected the call. “Scatty cow,” he muttered to himself.
“No rush.” Uncle Keith chuckled; a gruesome noise Count Dracula would have been hard pushed at besting. “Candy’s a jim-dandy cunt but an ace with that sickle. That gormless fucker is as dead as a doornail.”
“Yeah, but what was he snooping around for?” ferret face spun round and invaded John’s personal space at distressing speed. “Who are you?” he snarled, his close proximity to John’s nose unveiling he suffered from a severe case of halitosis.
“You don’t really expect me to answer that question, do you?” John replied. Hearing their side of the phone conference had got his hopes up considerably. Sherlock was alive and free and if anyone in the Commonwealth could outrun and outwit a fiendish scythe-wielding murderess it was the great Sherlock Holmes himself. Or so John briefed himself for the alternative was unthinkable.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Uncle Keith grinned and dug the steel-reinforced heel of his boot deep into John’s toes, which was a decidedly unpleasant experience.
John shouted, giving it all he’d got. Hopefully the agonised yells together with John’s unassertive countenance hoodwinked Uncle Keith into the belief he wasn’t dealing with a battle-hardened soldier but a faint-hearted wimp. If he managed to ride out the storm he would buy Sherlock enough time to come swooping down with the cavalry hot on his heels. The alternative John simply didn’t bear contemplating.
After a good forty-five seconds John let the screams dwindle to a whimper he kept up for another half a minute. By then Uncle Keith was displaying signs of mounting impatience so John shut up.
“Well,” Uncle Keith threatened.
“Well, sorry and all that but I won’t,” John said. This time Uncle Keith ground the heel as well.
John quickly tired of the game, which had never been one of his favourites to begin with. Worse, Uncle Keith’s limits of restraint turned out less formidable than John had wished for and the nail-pulling stage impended as an option all too soon to John’s liking.
“Wait!” Ferret-face raised his hand. He must have had uncommonly sharp hearing to have discerned anything over the din John had been producing.
“What?” Uncle Keith switched his attention from John’s kneecaps to his companion. “What are…”
Presumably he was about to ask what his criminal associate was about. John never found out and frankly, he didn’t care a hoot. All he cared about was the distressed countenance of his friend that bobbed white as a ghost above the surge of the Firearms Response Team that fell into the room.
***
“I’m sorry, John. I’m really sorry.”
“Can I have that in writing?”
***
Perhaps that had been too much to ask for, John contemplated as Greg drove them all back from Wantage Community Hospital to their hotel. Sherlock had gone as far as to give his permission for John to refer to the apology in his blog.
“Your writing style is as clear as mud,” he’d sniffed. “Whereas mine is concise and to the point. It won’t do to have people believe I’m fallible.”
“They’ll believe you’re human, Sherlock, just like the rest of us,” John had replied but decided to let it go, concentrating on getting the knack of his nice, new crutch instead. Greg had chuckled as John came hobbling out of A&E and remarked on the irony of Sherlock’s actions first freeing John from his crutch and then shackling him to one again.
“Uncle Keith, you mean,” John corrected.
“Pardon, yes, Uncle Keith,” Greg admitted. The tired lines round his eyes softened. “Well done, you two,” he said.
And well, given the fact that Sherlock barely escaped from a mad dance with the scythe-swinging Candy by climbing into a tree, after discovering the UK’s biggest MDMA factory to date, John considered the compliment pretty befitting.
***
When John doddered into the breakfast room the following morning he found a morose Greg staring gloomily at his mobile.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Something wrong with the evidence?”
“Huh, what? No. It’s Sherlock, isn’t it? That evidence is as good as gold. They’ve already confessed, all three of them. Apparently, one of them has a great-uncle who knows all about the White horse and he provided them with the idea. They wanted to scare people off the roads at night so no one would notice them as they transported the waste and the pills. The upsurge in tourists when the season started took them by surprise. All those people driving and walking about when they depended on some peace and quiet. Jesus Christ.”
“I see.” John sipped his tea. Sherlock had already explained this to John while he sat waiting beside John’s bed in A&E. He’d also shown John the handful of pills he’d pilfered.
“I’m convinced they’re the same I tested back in London,” he’d crowed. “These are amazing chemists, John. The product is so pure most people’s system can’t handle it.”
“Thank God it’s off the market then,” had been John’s heartfelt reply. “Perhaps Greg can tot up those deaths to their record to ensure they’ll be locked away for the rest of their lives.”
“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, John. Even I will be hard put establishing the link in such a way it will hold in court.” With that, Sherlock’s hand had curled into a tight fist around the pills, strengthening John in the conviction his friend would explore every available avenue to connect the victims in Molly’s freezers to Uffington’s ecstasy plant.
“So, if not that, is it… Karen?” guessed John, buttering a slice of crispy warm toast.
Greg’s face darkened even further. “Yeah. She’s just texted she’s going to file the papers for divorce.”
“Jesus, Greg.” The message itself didn’t surprise John, not after ages of watching the Lestrade marriage teeter on the rim of destruction but the means of communication hit him as particularly uncouth. Greg didn’t deserve this. He was too good a police officer, too decent a human being to be treated with such cruel nonchalance.
“Yeah. It’s…” Greg shook his head. “She’s right, you know. I’m a terrible husband. But I love her, dammit. I do.” He shoved back his chair and made for the door to the lobby, almost running across Sherlock who came padding in, hands deep in the Belstaff’s pockets and deep lines crossing his brow.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asked John. “Last time I asked him for a breather he avowed he’d quit.”
“It’s Karen,” John answered, clarifying at Sherlock’s blank look of incomprehension, “his wife.”
“Oh, what about her?” The befuddled air remained firmly stuck to the sleuth’s features.
“She’s filing for a divorce,” explained John.
“Ah,” Sherlock breathed. “I see.” The puzzlement was instantly wiped from his face in exchange for raffish exultation. “Good. Excellent news. I’m glad to hear it. At last Garrett has managed to disentangle himself from that woman’s clutches. That gives him a chance to turn himself into a better than average policeman. He’s the best of the lot. Under my careful guidance he might yet surprise us one day.”
“Yes, well,” John concurred. “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.”
***
“Don’t bother driving us home, Greg,” John said to Greg as they joined the M25. “Just drop us off at your place and we’ll grab a cab there.”
“Nonsense,” Sherlock decreed from the back seat. “You’re a temporary invalid, John. Climbing into and out of cars is too hard on your knee. “Garner only lives the other side of London so a detour won’t bother him in the least.”
“Sherlock,” John began warningly but Greg waved him off.
“Never mind. I’m in no hurry to return home anyway.”
Greg’s dispirited declaration was met by deafening silence from the back of the vehicle.
The car was still sliding to a halt in front of 221B Baker Street when Mrs Hudson opened the front door and bustled onto the pavement.
“Oh, there you are, dears,” she tittered, scurrying to welcome them. “My brave boys, you’re all over the news. I’m so proud of you. And you too, Detective Inspector, or can I say Greg? Your name is Greg, isn’t it? I still haven’t got the hang of this texting but never mind, dear. You must come in, I’ve just baked my walnut date cake, especially for you. And strawberry tartlets for you, Sherlock love, because you secretly crave them and you’re bound to be hungry after dashing all across Berkshire. But no, John, poor thing, you must rest your knee. Let Sherlock carry those bags. Come on in, Greg, come in. I’ve just put the kettle on.”
Grabbing the powerless DI by the arm she swept him off his feet and into the hallway. With some difficulty John pivoted on his heel to smile at Sherlock, who was following Mrs Hudson’s instructions regarding their luggage like an obedient eager beaver, determined to remain unnoticed in the background.
“Greg?” he prodded.
Sherlock kept a straight face. “Come on, John. I’m the world’s only consulting detective and you sincerely believe I wouldn’t remember the name of my second-best friend?”
“Well, yes, I did actually,” John confessed.
Sherlock eyed him, a smile lifting the corners of his lips and crinkling the skin around his eyes.
“Don’t put it in your blog, all right,” he said, indicating the baggage with a tip of his chin.
“No,” replied John. “I won’t.”
Source: Wikipedia Commons
Last edited by ukaunz (July 14, 2016 7:01 am)