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Sherlock Fanfiction: Rain (Chapter 2)
Title: Rain
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saki101
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Anthea, OCs, Red, Gray
Rating: PG-13
Genre: slash
Word Count: ~4.3K this chapter (5.9K total so far)
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: Kittens and their case.
A/N: Rain is a sequel to Milk and Red. It turned out much longer than the preceding two stories, and so is being posted in chapters.
Excerpt: “There are a number of factors that may have contributed to the driver’s actions.” Sherlock drew in a breath.
John prepared to listen fast.
Also posted on AO3.
Chapter 1 may be read on LJ here.
Rain
Chapter 2
Sherlock was silent, eyes riveted on his phone.
John waited as Sherlock sent one text after another. Their taxi was heading northeast. “Where are we going?” John finally asked. He’d been cautiously closing the house door when Sherlock had given the address to the cabbie.
“Islington,” Sherlock replied, scrolling rapidly through a list on his mobile. John couldn’t see of what. “I now have the address of the motorbike’s previous owner.”
“It wasn’t stolen?” John said.
“No, purchased, used.” Sherlock glanced at John, eyes travelling down to his shoes and up to his hair. “You work for Palm Tree. Quality assurance.”
“Wouldn’t theft have been easier?” John asked.
“There are a number of factors that may have contributed to the driver’s actions.” Sherlock drew in a breath.
John prepared to listen fast.
“He’d been given money, expected to use the bike for longer, thought to keep it, didn’t want the police looking for it, never stole anything before.” Sherlock tapped at his phone. “Perhaps something spooked him that night and he panicked. Perhaps he’d found what he was sent to find and was keen to deliver it and collect the rest of his reward. Maybe he abandoned the bike somewhere between Baker Street and Ramsgate. Maybe someone abandoned him. Little Kit with no police record, hardly any record at all: birth registered twenty years ago in Southwark, National Insurance number, five mediocre GCSEs, two passing A-levels, two year’s PAYE contributions from his job in the neighbourhood pub where his father worked until he retired, recently-acquired provisional driving licence and a current account balance of £109. Perhaps he didn’t know what he was getting into or he couldn’t resist the chance to own his own bike.”
The taxi slowed down.
“Let’s see if the man who sold Kit Underwood a five-year old Kawaskia Ninja 300 can put some flesh on those statistical bones.” Sherlock held up his phone with an advert of a neon green and black bike on the screen.
John raised an eyebrow. “Not a stealthy colour.”
The cab stopped in front of the entrance to a small, gated community.
Sherlock jumped out and rang the buzzer, spoke a few words to the intercom.
John paid the fare and joined him.
The gate opened onto the cobbled court of a mews, the old brick festooned with young ivy and the bare, sharp branches of rambling rose springing from terra cotta urns and metal tubs.
***
The car door slammed. Alistair could hear the steel tips of Anthea’s heels on the pavement for a few steps. The revolving doors swirled and she was gone.
“Let’s hope Round Two is more productive.” Alistair turned his attention to the black blade of his knife, finished cleaning it and folded it into its handle. “I’ve never used this on fish before,” he said.
Red nosed the last piece of salmon into a better position on the cardboard tray.
Alistair shook the last few drops from his water bottle onto the tray.
Red flicked his ear and bit at the fish. It slid into the water.
“Sorry, moggie,” Alistair said. “Thought you might need something to wash that down.”
Red put his paw on the salmon and bit again.
Alistair gathered the remains of their meal into the paper sack. He reached for a chopstick wrapper wedged between the cushion and the back of the seat.
Red looked up.
Alistair crinkled the paper.
Red forsook the last morsel of fish and stretched out a forepaw to bat at it.
“Like that?” Alistair scrunched the wrapper into a ball and tossed it over the seat.
Red scrambled after it.
Alistair looked at the faint scratches in the leather ruefully then raised the partition. Bag in hand, he unlocked his door and crossed the road, aiming for the rubbish bin at the bus stop. Target gained, he surveyed the street while waiting for another gap in the traffic. He noted Chang in place at the corner, Bennett coming out of the building for his lunch. Both saw Alistair. Neither acknowledged him. Alistair slipped between the passing vehicles and back to the car.
Rain in abeyance, Alistair opened both front windows and settled with his copy of Le Monde propped against the steering wheel. He was turning to the editorial section when his mobile vibrated.
Walk-out imminent.
The wind rustled the pages. Alistair shut the windows and lowered the partition. “You should come up here before I open the back doors.” Alistair twisted around to look in the rearseat.
Red scratched at the pink newspaper on the floor, lifting his paws high when he stepped off it.
Alistair wrinkled his nose. “Good thing I have another copy of that.”
***
“You haven’t deposited the money,” Sherlock stated.
They stood in Winston Amar’s sitting room, introductions having been made and false identifications offered and tucked once more away. John had seen the edge of one of Lestrade’s warrant cards and hadn’t even flickered an eyelash.
“I...no,” Mr Amar said.
Sherlock’s gaze finished its circuit of the room. “You didn’t want to use a credit card for your fiancée’s birthday present. Joint finances. You wished it to be a surprise.”
Mr Amar stared. “I was going to collect the bracelet today,” he said. “You think the notes are counterfeit?” He brought his hand to his mouth. “The jeweller is my cousin’s friend. It would have been deeply embarrassing.”
Sherlock reached inside his coat and took out an envelope. “Palm Tree is equally concerned for their reputation as a reliable place to advertise,” he said, gesturing towards John.
“Although one can never 100% guarantee,” John chimed in.
The merest twitch of Sherlock’s lip betrayed his appreciation of the improvised remark. “We, however, can be sure that these are legal tender,” Sherlock said, opening the flap and fanning the notes in the envelope. “If you could bring the ones the buyer gave you, we can exchange. I have a receipt for you to sign once you have counted these to verify the sum.” He looked at the sofa. “Perhaps we should sit.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr Amar said, gesturing to the seats. “I’m shocked, but I suppose I shouldn’t be.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll only be a moment.”
“Forgery?” John murmured.
“Fingerprints,” Sherlock replied.
“There’s an extra fifty here,” Mr Amar said, setting the notes down on top of the envelope on the sofa cushion.
“From Palm Tree, for your inconvenience,” John interjected.
“Eighteen hundred was a good price for that model and year,” Sherlock said, tucking his notes away.
“I took excellent care of it,” Mr Amar explained. “I’d wanted one since I was a boy, but I didn’t use it as often as I thought I would. Not much fun in the rain.” He tilted his head towards the windows.
“No,” John agreed.
“He didn’t bargain. That should have been a hint,” Amar sighed. “He seemed a decent young man. Asked lots of questions about the bike’s condition, checked it over thoroughly. I guess that distracted me.”
“You spoke for some time, then?” Sherlock said.
“Half hour at least,” Mr Amar replied. “I took him for a short ride, so he could see how well she handled. He paid right after that.”
Sherlock waved towards several framed photographs in the room. “Excellent use of shadows. Your work?” he asked.
Amar nodded and smiled, turning to check on which one Sherlock had focussed. “Astride, my fiancée,” he replied, smile broadening.
“Pity we don’t have a photograph of the buyer,” Sherlock remarked.
Amar looked back. “True, but I could draw him for you.”
John glanced at Sherlock’s expression and put a little star in his notes.
***
Mycroft said one word when he entered the car. With all due speed was implied.
Alistair caught Anthea’s eye for an instant in the rear view mirror before she returned her attention to her Blackberry and he to the traffic light. It turned green. They were all green after that.
The car snaked through the traffic, Alistair’s skill at the wheel compensating for the diminished manoeuvrability caused by the weight of the armour plating on the vehicle. Without incident, they arrived at the terrace. Alistair pulled into the designated parking bay. The gates to the private garden square facing the bay opened silently in front of them and closed behind them with a gentle thunk. A section of the walkway around the garden’s flower beds inclined and the car slipped into the gloom beneath them.
Anthea was out of the car and halfway to the stairway door before Alistair had cut the engine.
From his perch leaning against the glass partition, Red shifted to watch her.
Alistair jumped out to open the door for Mycroft; Anthea held open the door to the stairs and Red repeated his earlier feat of derring-do in reverse.
“Shall I...” Anthea asked as Mycroft mounted the stairs, Red leaping from step to step behind him.
“Have Alistair find some food for it,” Mycroft said, tapping each of his fingers rapidly over the touchpad by the steel door at the top of the stairs. “It must need feeding.” The door slid open. Mycroft hesitated a second before walking through. The cat darted between his legs and the door shut.
Alistair set the attaché case down next to Anthea and balanced the remaining newspapers on top of it. “Anything else I should get while I’m at it?” he asked her.
Anthea typed.
Alistair’s mobile buzzed in his pocket. He checked the message. “Right,” he said and turned back to the car.
***
“Ah!” Sherlock exclaimed and jumped from his seat.
“Fingerprint match?” John asked from behind his newspaper.
“That and more,” Sherlock said, walking over the coffee table and up onto the sofa beside John.
John folded the paper and twisted to look at the map on the wall behind him.
“Attempted kidnapping just there,” Sherlock said, jabbing his finger at the southwest edge of Regent’s Park. “On the night the cat was run down here.” He poked the map again.
“That’s just around the corner,” John said, one arm on the back of the sofa. “I didn’t read anything about that.”
“Exactly,” Sherlock said, glaring at the assortment of papers affixed to the wall.
“Who was it and why wasn’t it reported?” John asked.
Sherlock glanced down at John with the half smile reserved for good questions. “You recall reading about the extensive renovations carried out on that terrace of crown properties?”
“Yeah,” John huffed. “Swimming pools, servant’s quarters, underground parking garages, refurbishments done ‘to an ambassadorial level’ I believe was the phrase the estate agent was quoted as using.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said coaxingly.
“Some ambassadors moved in?” John asked.
Sherlock tilted his head, waiting.
John tapped a knuckle against his lips. “From what I recall of the prices listed, a number of governments might even have balked at them.”
Sherlock’s smile broadened.
“But whoever could afford them would make tempting kidnapping targets...”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“Probably well-connected...” John said, reaching for further conclusions because Sherlock’s eyes were that bright. “An embarrassment to admit they weren’t safe in London...” John narrowed his eyes. “Or an embarrassment to admit they were in London.” John studied Sherlock’s expression. “And who do we know who might be able to stop such a story reaching the press.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We wouldn’t necessarily know this person.”
John smiled. “But as it happens, we do.”
Sherlock grinned and turned back to the wall. “As it happens.”
“Whose database have you been in?” John asked.
Sherlock moved one end of a piece of red yarn, then another.
John got up and stared at Sherlock’s computer. He whistled and clicked several tabs. “Whose database haven’t you been in,” he murmured.
“A bit of internecine warfare,” John said.
“That Mycroft would prefer not break out here,” Sherlock replied.
John clicked another tab. “Did he help thwart the kidnapping?”
“No,” Sherlock replied, re-positioning another string, “he was monitoring.” Sherlock stepped off the couch. “It’s his favourite activity.” He leaned past John and hit a key. “He had it cleaned up though.”
John scanned the tiny paragraph about an attempted mugging near the south side of Regent’s Park. “‘Assailant driven off by concerned passers-by.’” John read aloud. “That was it?” John exclaimed.
“Hmm,” Sherlock replied. “Passers-by wielding automatic weapons with suppressors. If we’d had access sooner, I could have had casings. As it is, all I found was a scored paling and tree root and some blood-contaminated soil.”
John shook his head. “They should have replaced, or at least painted, the paling.”
“Mycroft’s staff are slipping,” Sherlock agreed, “although I might not have located the damaged root without it.”
“You’re sure he ordered the clean-up?”
“A small nettle near the tree provided fibres from the type of coveralls used by British security services,” Sherlock explained.
“Maybe someone else was protecting the participants who used the same supplier,” John suggested.
“The coveralls are treated with a solution upon arrival, a unique chemical wash, to mark them on a microscopic level,” Sherlock said.
John considered the slight flush on Sherlock's cheeks. “Yours,” he said.
“I was young and showing off,” Sherlock countered.
“And Mycroft still uses it?”
“He’s not a complete idiot,” Sherlock said.
***
“Any update on my brief for the reception at the Turkish Embassy tonight?” Anthea enquired.
Mycroft looked over his laptop at her. “Don’t mention to His Excellency that you’ve found a new use for his New Year’s gift,” Mycroft replied.
Anthea glanced at the colourfully hand-painted ceramic dish from which Red was eating the kitten kibble Alistair had acquired. She nodded.
“Tell Alistair he may join you,” Mycroft said, “I shall walk home.” His attention returned to his computer.
“The rain is supposed to get worse,” Anthea remarked. From the corner of her eye, she caught the slight movement as Red switched from the kibble to the spring water in the crystal ashtray from the Austrian chancellor.
“Assuredly,” Mycroft replied without looking up.
Anthea closed the door quietly as she left.
***
“So the fibres you found by the tree were treated with that?” John asked.
Sherlock nodded.
“But why did Mycroft wait for weeks to share information?”
“Kit didn’t return from his holiday, as certain people expected he would not, however, his motorbike helmet was found a few days ago, during pruning and clearing work along a motorway that leads to Ramsgate,” Sherlock said.
“Very sloppy work for a professional,” John said.
“Unless the professional never caught up with the fleeing witness because the boy was faster than they expected and then someone or something unprofessional intervened,” Sherlock said, moving to study the clippings on the wall. “There were a lot of fingerprints on those notes that weren’t Kit’s or Amar’s,” Sherlock said.
“Well, yeah,” John said.
***
The squares of light faded from the wall. The ventilator fan hummed.
Red made another circuit of the room, nosed at the corners, rubbed against the chair legs, sniffed along the bottom of the iron doors again. He passed the cardboard litter tray, stopped at the mirrored panel, stood pressing his paws against it, tail swishing slowly.
Mycroft’s mobile thrummed along the surface of his desk.
Red’s ears swivelled.
As he tapped at the small screen, Mycroft’s lips grew thinner.
Ears flat against his head, belly brushing the stone floor, Red approached the desk and rounded its corner.
Mycroft pushed the mobile aside with a flick of two fingers and resumed reading on his computer. The lines at the corners of his mouth remained turned down.
Red crept under the desk, sniffed the toes of Mycroft’s shoes, the heels, the cuffs of his trousers. He batted at the laces, bit at the tip of one then stretched across the instep of the shoe resting flat on the floor and closed his eyes.
***
Sherlock’s phone pinged.
John picked it up, checked the screen and handed it to Sherlock. “You contacted Interpol.”
“Jean-Pierre has been very useful. I might thank Lestrade sometime,” Sherlock said, scrolling through the text. “Three!” he shouted, brushing past John and grabbing John’s laptop.
“Too many windows open on yours?” John asked, moving to peer over Sherlock’s shoulder.
***
Mycroft leaned back in his chair, arms stretching out and legs extending until they reached beyond the polished surface of his desk. A small, warm weight slid away. He folded his limbs in again, closed his computer and stood. “Enough,” he murmured, tucking the laptop beneath his arm and plucking his umbrella from its stand. “Enough.”
***
“Oh, what an interesting chain the three of you make,” Sherlock murmured, fingers a blur over the keys. “Well, two now. As of this morning, that one is with us no more.” He pointed at a photograph on the screen.
“Maritime-and-coastguard-agency,” John read from the address line. “Joseph X. Bloggston,” he read from beneath the photo. “Seriously?”
“And look where his body was found,” Sherlock said.
“Afloat in Ramsgate Harbour,” John said. “He'd stayed in the area all these weeks?”
“Stayed or came back from looking elsewhere,” Sherlock said, “which might indicate that he didn’t find Kit wherever else he looked.”
***
The pause in the narrow space between the first iron door leading from Mycroft’s office and the second would have been barely noticeable to a hypothetical witness, time for a last thought before committing to the termination of the day, for a quick review of items gathered to be taken along, for small legs to race across the room. There was no one to see, no surveillance at surveillance’s source.
***
“You think Kit might not be dead?” John asked.
“It’s a possibility,” Sherlock said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Perhaps he’s as good as dead.”
***
The umbrella tapped a rhythm against the concrete. Cones of fluorescent light revealed the disused railroad tracks in the dark channel to Mycroft’s left, reflected off the white tiles to his right. The occasional empty file cabinet or stack of boxes threw a shadow up against the wall.
Red trotted behind Mycroft to his right, skirting the obstacles.
They crossed beneath The Mall, paused for Mycroft to press numbers into the keypad of another iron door and passed under Admiralty Arch.
The hollow thud of an empty box hitting the concrete reverberated through the tunnel. Mycroft lifted his umbrella as he turned. There was a scrabbling sound; a low, undulating growl.
From behind the box, a pointed snout emerged.
Red crouched, blocking the way out from between the stack of cartons and the fallen box. He hissed.
Teeth bared, the rat reared. Mid-jump, it flew sideways. A metre beyond, a trail of white dust marked the progress of the bullet scoring the surface of the concrete.
Red hissed again, his fur a cloud around his nearly flattened form.
Mycroft lowered his umbrella, took out his mobile. “There aren’t supposed to be any of those down here,” he said as he walked away, tapping at it.
Red turned his head and watched. When Mycroft disappeared around a corner, Red’s ears pricked up and he sprang after him.
***
“He’s been unconscious for the whole month?” John asked the young nurse.
“Not exactly,” he replied, his eyes darting away from John to check what Sherlock was doing by the hospital bed. “The patient appears awake sometimes. He’ll say ‘hi’ or ‘good morning’ and ask whether it’s raining, but if we ask his name or where he lives, he’ll close his eyes and we won’t be able to wake him for hours, sometimes days, so we stopped asking.”
“He always enquires about the weather when he appears conscious?” Sherlock asked.
The nurse shook his head. “He always asks if it’s raining.”
“It’s about time one of you lot made it ‘round,” a voice said from behind them.
The nurse stood up straighter.
John turned to greet the newcomer. Sherlock flicked a quick glance at the door, but remained facing the nurse with whom they had been speaking, studying his expression.
A middle-aged woman walked into the room, lips pressed thin, eyes narrowed. “Look at the lad,” she said, waving her arm towards the bed. “Somewhere, someone’s frantic about him and the comfort of a friend or relative would do wonders for his recovery.” She stopped in front of Sherlock, a good foot shorter than him, and looked him up and down.
John had seen commanding officers do that with tall recruits. One glance took inches off one’s height. John used the technique. It was all in the bearing.
Sherlock finally turned to her, his eyes dropping to her name tag and back to her eyes. He held them for a moment. “E. Featherstonehaugh,” he recited. He took out his phone, thumbed it a few times. “States here that the report was made by F. Stonehaugh. Might that be you?”
“The clot,” Ms Featherstonehaugh said. “He never was the brightest thing and all the nights down the pub haven’t sharpened his wits. What else did the fool get wrong?”
The young nurse had taken a step backwards, eyes flicking between his matron and a detective inspector come all the way down from London.
John thought Lestrade’s warrant card was getting a proper work-out.
“Let’s see,” Sherlock said, sliding his finger across the screen then glancing at Kit’s silent form in the bed. “I don’t imagine that you estimated this patient’s age as thirty-two?”
Ms Featherstonehaugh sighed. “’Twenty, twenty-three at the most’ was what I said.”
“Perhaps you didn’t say he was intoxicated?” Sherlock continued.
“I specifically said he wasn’t. We’d tested his blood by then. Pity we couldn’t use what he was drenched with. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, but he had lost a fair amount,” Matron replied.
“You brought him into the hospital after finding him ‘drunk by the side of the motorway’,” Sherlock read.
The woman took a deep breath. “I did bring him in and I did find him on the side of the motorway, holding onto the pole of an adverse camber sign about mid-way between Ramsgate and here. From the car I couldn’t tell if he was drunk and injured or only injured, but I could see the blood on his face by the light of the headlamps. Apparently, Lionel latched onto the word he’s most familiar with.”
Sherlock looked over at Kit. “And you didn’t say he was 197.5 centimetres tall.”
“167.5,” Matron replied. “We’d taken his height and weight, also, although I could have estimated it within a centimetre or two once he was on a stretcher. He had been draped around the signpost and all curled in on himself in the car.”
“You didn’t call an ambulance?” Sherlock said.
“He was bleeding and the ambulance would not have got to us and on to a hospital as fast as I could bring him here straight,” Matron said.
“To where you work,” Sherlock clarified.
Matron nodded.
“You assumed a risk,” Sherlock noted.
The matron’s posture had relaxed somewhat during the conversation. She drew herself up again at this remark. “To save a life, I would,” she stated and raised her chin.
Sherlock’s eyes flicked from her face to John’s and back.
“I know the shortest route to this hospital from anywhere up to fifty miles from here,” Matron said as though giving a report. “And Agnes had the late shift in the A&E that night and she is very good with trauma.”
“You have two sons his age and you’d want someone to help them,” Sherlock said.
Ms Featherstonehaugh’s gaze did not waver and she did not ask how Sherlock knew. “I have made similar decisions all my professional life,” she stated.
“But it adds to the empathy when a patient reminds one of one’s own children,” Sherlock said. “Perhaps you could supply us with more details which might help us piece together what happened that night.”
Matron pursed her lips and kept looking at Sherlock. Finally, she nodded.
***
The black door opened a crack. Mrs Hudson peered out. “Oh, Mycroft, good morning.” She looked over her shoulder, body pressed close to the door. “Let me just check where Gray is before I let you in,” she whispered. The door clicked shut.
Mycroft glanced at the tables in front of Speedy’s and took a deep, fresh-baked pastry-laden breath.
Behind him, Red sat upright in the well of the open car door, tail twitching.
“All clear,” Mrs Hudson announced as she flung the door wide and stepped back for Mycroft to enter. “They’re out again, I’m afraid.” She started to close the door. “Haven’t been back since last night.”
Red leapt onto the pavement and slipped into the hallway.
“Oh,” Mrs Hudson said to him as the door clicked shut. “Come for a visit, have you? Good thing I didn’t catch your tail.”
“Returned from a visit actually,” Mycroft said, taking a small envelope from his pocket and handing it to Mrs Hudson. “If you could give Sherlock this when he returns it would be most helpful.”
Red was sat three steps up the staircase, tail curled around his front paws, eyes on Mycroft.
“I’ve no idea when that’ll be though,” she said, tapping a corner of the envelope against her chin.
Mycroft gave a small smile. “Whenever they do appear will be fine.” He reached out for the door handle. “Thank you,” he said and was outside before Mrs Hudson could say another word.
Red jumped off the steps and ran to the door. It was closed when he reached it. He curved his claws between the door and the jamb and pulled.
“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson said. “Maybe he’s going on a trip and thought you’d be less lonely here.” She bent down and stroked Red’s back. “Would have been nice of him to explain, but neither of them are much for that.”
Red kept digging at the wood.
**************
The next chapter may be read here.
Author:
saki101Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Anthea, OCs, Red, Gray
Rating: PG-13
Genre: slash
Word Count: ~4.3K this chapter (5.9K total so far)
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: Kittens and their case.
A/N: Rain is a sequel to Milk and Red. It turned out much longer than the preceding two stories, and so is being posted in chapters.
Excerpt: “There are a number of factors that may have contributed to the driver’s actions.” Sherlock drew in a breath.
John prepared to listen fast.
Also posted on AO3.
Chapter 1 may be read on LJ here.
Sherlock was silent, eyes riveted on his phone.
John waited as Sherlock sent one text after another. Their taxi was heading northeast. “Where are we going?” John finally asked. He’d been cautiously closing the house door when Sherlock had given the address to the cabbie.
“Islington,” Sherlock replied, scrolling rapidly through a list on his mobile. John couldn’t see of what. “I now have the address of the motorbike’s previous owner.”
“It wasn’t stolen?” John said.
“No, purchased, used.” Sherlock glanced at John, eyes travelling down to his shoes and up to his hair. “You work for Palm Tree. Quality assurance.”
“Wouldn’t theft have been easier?” John asked.
“There are a number of factors that may have contributed to the driver’s actions.” Sherlock drew in a breath.
John prepared to listen fast.
“He’d been given money, expected to use the bike for longer, thought to keep it, didn’t want the police looking for it, never stole anything before.” Sherlock tapped at his phone. “Perhaps something spooked him that night and he panicked. Perhaps he’d found what he was sent to find and was keen to deliver it and collect the rest of his reward. Maybe he abandoned the bike somewhere between Baker Street and Ramsgate. Maybe someone abandoned him. Little Kit with no police record, hardly any record at all: birth registered twenty years ago in Southwark, National Insurance number, five mediocre GCSEs, two passing A-levels, two year’s PAYE contributions from his job in the neighbourhood pub where his father worked until he retired, recently-acquired provisional driving licence and a current account balance of £109. Perhaps he didn’t know what he was getting into or he couldn’t resist the chance to own his own bike.”
The taxi slowed down.
“Let’s see if the man who sold Kit Underwood a five-year old Kawaskia Ninja 300 can put some flesh on those statistical bones.” Sherlock held up his phone with an advert of a neon green and black bike on the screen.
John raised an eyebrow. “Not a stealthy colour.”
The cab stopped in front of the entrance to a small, gated community.
Sherlock jumped out and rang the buzzer, spoke a few words to the intercom.
John paid the fare and joined him.
The gate opened onto the cobbled court of a mews, the old brick festooned with young ivy and the bare, sharp branches of rambling rose springing from terra cotta urns and metal tubs.
***
The car door slammed. Alistair could hear the steel tips of Anthea’s heels on the pavement for a few steps. The revolving doors swirled and she was gone.
“Let’s hope Round Two is more productive.” Alistair turned his attention to the black blade of his knife, finished cleaning it and folded it into its handle. “I’ve never used this on fish before,” he said.
Red nosed the last piece of salmon into a better position on the cardboard tray.
Alistair shook the last few drops from his water bottle onto the tray.
Red flicked his ear and bit at the fish. It slid into the water.
“Sorry, moggie,” Alistair said. “Thought you might need something to wash that down.”
Red put his paw on the salmon and bit again.
Alistair gathered the remains of their meal into the paper sack. He reached for a chopstick wrapper wedged between the cushion and the back of the seat.
Red looked up.
Alistair crinkled the paper.
Red forsook the last morsel of fish and stretched out a forepaw to bat at it.
“Like that?” Alistair scrunched the wrapper into a ball and tossed it over the seat.
Red scrambled after it.
Alistair looked at the faint scratches in the leather ruefully then raised the partition. Bag in hand, he unlocked his door and crossed the road, aiming for the rubbish bin at the bus stop. Target gained, he surveyed the street while waiting for another gap in the traffic. He noted Chang in place at the corner, Bennett coming out of the building for his lunch. Both saw Alistair. Neither acknowledged him. Alistair slipped between the passing vehicles and back to the car.
Rain in abeyance, Alistair opened both front windows and settled with his copy of Le Monde propped against the steering wheel. He was turning to the editorial section when his mobile vibrated.
Walk-out imminent.
The wind rustled the pages. Alistair shut the windows and lowered the partition. “You should come up here before I open the back doors.” Alistair twisted around to look in the rearseat.
Red scratched at the pink newspaper on the floor, lifting his paws high when he stepped off it.
Alistair wrinkled his nose. “Good thing I have another copy of that.”
***
“You haven’t deposited the money,” Sherlock stated.
They stood in Winston Amar’s sitting room, introductions having been made and false identifications offered and tucked once more away. John had seen the edge of one of Lestrade’s warrant cards and hadn’t even flickered an eyelash.
“I...no,” Mr Amar said.
Sherlock’s gaze finished its circuit of the room. “You didn’t want to use a credit card for your fiancée’s birthday present. Joint finances. You wished it to be a surprise.”
Mr Amar stared. “I was going to collect the bracelet today,” he said. “You think the notes are counterfeit?” He brought his hand to his mouth. “The jeweller is my cousin’s friend. It would have been deeply embarrassing.”
Sherlock reached inside his coat and took out an envelope. “Palm Tree is equally concerned for their reputation as a reliable place to advertise,” he said, gesturing towards John.
“Although one can never 100% guarantee,” John chimed in.
The merest twitch of Sherlock’s lip betrayed his appreciation of the improvised remark. “We, however, can be sure that these are legal tender,” Sherlock said, opening the flap and fanning the notes in the envelope. “If you could bring the ones the buyer gave you, we can exchange. I have a receipt for you to sign once you have counted these to verify the sum.” He looked at the sofa. “Perhaps we should sit.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr Amar said, gesturing to the seats. “I’m shocked, but I suppose I shouldn’t be.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll only be a moment.”
“Forgery?” John murmured.
“Fingerprints,” Sherlock replied.
“There’s an extra fifty here,” Mr Amar said, setting the notes down on top of the envelope on the sofa cushion.
“From Palm Tree, for your inconvenience,” John interjected.
“Eighteen hundred was a good price for that model and year,” Sherlock said, tucking his notes away.
“I took excellent care of it,” Mr Amar explained. “I’d wanted one since I was a boy, but I didn’t use it as often as I thought I would. Not much fun in the rain.” He tilted his head towards the windows.
“No,” John agreed.
“He didn’t bargain. That should have been a hint,” Amar sighed. “He seemed a decent young man. Asked lots of questions about the bike’s condition, checked it over thoroughly. I guess that distracted me.”
“You spoke for some time, then?” Sherlock said.
“Half hour at least,” Mr Amar replied. “I took him for a short ride, so he could see how well she handled. He paid right after that.”
Sherlock waved towards several framed photographs in the room. “Excellent use of shadows. Your work?” he asked.
Amar nodded and smiled, turning to check on which one Sherlock had focussed. “Astride, my fiancée,” he replied, smile broadening.
“Pity we don’t have a photograph of the buyer,” Sherlock remarked.
Amar looked back. “True, but I could draw him for you.”
John glanced at Sherlock’s expression and put a little star in his notes.
***
Mycroft said one word when he entered the car. With all due speed was implied.
Alistair caught Anthea’s eye for an instant in the rear view mirror before she returned her attention to her Blackberry and he to the traffic light. It turned green. They were all green after that.
The car snaked through the traffic, Alistair’s skill at the wheel compensating for the diminished manoeuvrability caused by the weight of the armour plating on the vehicle. Without incident, they arrived at the terrace. Alistair pulled into the designated parking bay. The gates to the private garden square facing the bay opened silently in front of them and closed behind them with a gentle thunk. A section of the walkway around the garden’s flower beds inclined and the car slipped into the gloom beneath them.
Anthea was out of the car and halfway to the stairway door before Alistair had cut the engine.
From his perch leaning against the glass partition, Red shifted to watch her.
Alistair jumped out to open the door for Mycroft; Anthea held open the door to the stairs and Red repeated his earlier feat of derring-do in reverse.
“Shall I...” Anthea asked as Mycroft mounted the stairs, Red leaping from step to step behind him.
“Have Alistair find some food for it,” Mycroft said, tapping each of his fingers rapidly over the touchpad by the steel door at the top of the stairs. “It must need feeding.” The door slid open. Mycroft hesitated a second before walking through. The cat darted between his legs and the door shut.
Alistair set the attaché case down next to Anthea and balanced the remaining newspapers on top of it. “Anything else I should get while I’m at it?” he asked her.
Anthea typed.
Alistair’s mobile buzzed in his pocket. He checked the message. “Right,” he said and turned back to the car.
***
“Ah!” Sherlock exclaimed and jumped from his seat.
“Fingerprint match?” John asked from behind his newspaper.
“That and more,” Sherlock said, walking over the coffee table and up onto the sofa beside John.
John folded the paper and twisted to look at the map on the wall behind him.
“Attempted kidnapping just there,” Sherlock said, jabbing his finger at the southwest edge of Regent’s Park. “On the night the cat was run down here.” He poked the map again.
“That’s just around the corner,” John said, one arm on the back of the sofa. “I didn’t read anything about that.”
“Exactly,” Sherlock said, glaring at the assortment of papers affixed to the wall.
“Who was it and why wasn’t it reported?” John asked.
Sherlock glanced down at John with the half smile reserved for good questions. “You recall reading about the extensive renovations carried out on that terrace of crown properties?”
“Yeah,” John huffed. “Swimming pools, servant’s quarters, underground parking garages, refurbishments done ‘to an ambassadorial level’ I believe was the phrase the estate agent was quoted as using.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said coaxingly.
“Some ambassadors moved in?” John asked.
Sherlock tilted his head, waiting.
John tapped a knuckle against his lips. “From what I recall of the prices listed, a number of governments might even have balked at them.”
Sherlock’s smile broadened.
“But whoever could afford them would make tempting kidnapping targets...”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“Probably well-connected...” John said, reaching for further conclusions because Sherlock’s eyes were that bright. “An embarrassment to admit they weren’t safe in London...” John narrowed his eyes. “Or an embarrassment to admit they were in London.” John studied Sherlock’s expression. “And who do we know who might be able to stop such a story reaching the press.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We wouldn’t necessarily know this person.”
John smiled. “But as it happens, we do.”
Sherlock grinned and turned back to the wall. “As it happens.”
“Whose database have you been in?” John asked.
Sherlock moved one end of a piece of red yarn, then another.
John got up and stared at Sherlock’s computer. He whistled and clicked several tabs. “Whose database haven’t you been in,” he murmured.
“A bit of internecine warfare,” John said.
“That Mycroft would prefer not break out here,” Sherlock replied.
John clicked another tab. “Did he help thwart the kidnapping?”
“No,” Sherlock replied, re-positioning another string, “he was monitoring.” Sherlock stepped off the couch. “It’s his favourite activity.” He leaned past John and hit a key. “He had it cleaned up though.”
John scanned the tiny paragraph about an attempted mugging near the south side of Regent’s Park. “‘Assailant driven off by concerned passers-by.’” John read aloud. “That was it?” John exclaimed.
“Hmm,” Sherlock replied. “Passers-by wielding automatic weapons with suppressors. If we’d had access sooner, I could have had casings. As it is, all I found was a scored paling and tree root and some blood-contaminated soil.”
John shook his head. “They should have replaced, or at least painted, the paling.”
“Mycroft’s staff are slipping,” Sherlock agreed, “although I might not have located the damaged root without it.”
“You’re sure he ordered the clean-up?”
“A small nettle near the tree provided fibres from the type of coveralls used by British security services,” Sherlock explained.
“Maybe someone else was protecting the participants who used the same supplier,” John suggested.
“The coveralls are treated with a solution upon arrival, a unique chemical wash, to mark them on a microscopic level,” Sherlock said.
John considered the slight flush on Sherlock's cheeks. “Yours,” he said.
“I was young and showing off,” Sherlock countered.
“And Mycroft still uses it?”
“He’s not a complete idiot,” Sherlock said.
***
“Any update on my brief for the reception at the Turkish Embassy tonight?” Anthea enquired.
Mycroft looked over his laptop at her. “Don’t mention to His Excellency that you’ve found a new use for his New Year’s gift,” Mycroft replied.
Anthea glanced at the colourfully hand-painted ceramic dish from which Red was eating the kitten kibble Alistair had acquired. She nodded.
“Tell Alistair he may join you,” Mycroft said, “I shall walk home.” His attention returned to his computer.
“The rain is supposed to get worse,” Anthea remarked. From the corner of her eye, she caught the slight movement as Red switched from the kibble to the spring water in the crystal ashtray from the Austrian chancellor.
“Assuredly,” Mycroft replied without looking up.
Anthea closed the door quietly as she left.
***
“So the fibres you found by the tree were treated with that?” John asked.
Sherlock nodded.
“But why did Mycroft wait for weeks to share information?”
“Kit didn’t return from his holiday, as certain people expected he would not, however, his motorbike helmet was found a few days ago, during pruning and clearing work along a motorway that leads to Ramsgate,” Sherlock said.
“Very sloppy work for a professional,” John said.
“Unless the professional never caught up with the fleeing witness because the boy was faster than they expected and then someone or something unprofessional intervened,” Sherlock said, moving to study the clippings on the wall. “There were a lot of fingerprints on those notes that weren’t Kit’s or Amar’s,” Sherlock said.
“Well, yeah,” John said.
***
The squares of light faded from the wall. The ventilator fan hummed.
Red made another circuit of the room, nosed at the corners, rubbed against the chair legs, sniffed along the bottom of the iron doors again. He passed the cardboard litter tray, stopped at the mirrored panel, stood pressing his paws against it, tail swishing slowly.
Mycroft’s mobile thrummed along the surface of his desk.
Red’s ears swivelled.
As he tapped at the small screen, Mycroft’s lips grew thinner.
Ears flat against his head, belly brushing the stone floor, Red approached the desk and rounded its corner.
Mycroft pushed the mobile aside with a flick of two fingers and resumed reading on his computer. The lines at the corners of his mouth remained turned down.
Red crept under the desk, sniffed the toes of Mycroft’s shoes, the heels, the cuffs of his trousers. He batted at the laces, bit at the tip of one then stretched across the instep of the shoe resting flat on the floor and closed his eyes.
***
Sherlock’s phone pinged.
John picked it up, checked the screen and handed it to Sherlock. “You contacted Interpol.”
“Jean-Pierre has been very useful. I might thank Lestrade sometime,” Sherlock said, scrolling through the text. “Three!” he shouted, brushing past John and grabbing John’s laptop.
“Too many windows open on yours?” John asked, moving to peer over Sherlock’s shoulder.
***
Mycroft leaned back in his chair, arms stretching out and legs extending until they reached beyond the polished surface of his desk. A small, warm weight slid away. He folded his limbs in again, closed his computer and stood. “Enough,” he murmured, tucking the laptop beneath his arm and plucking his umbrella from its stand. “Enough.”
***
“Oh, what an interesting chain the three of you make,” Sherlock murmured, fingers a blur over the keys. “Well, two now. As of this morning, that one is with us no more.” He pointed at a photograph on the screen.
“Maritime-and-coastguard-agency,” John read from the address line. “Joseph X. Bloggston,” he read from beneath the photo. “Seriously?”
“And look where his body was found,” Sherlock said.
“Afloat in Ramsgate Harbour,” John said. “He'd stayed in the area all these weeks?”
“Stayed or came back from looking elsewhere,” Sherlock said, “which might indicate that he didn’t find Kit wherever else he looked.”
***
The pause in the narrow space between the first iron door leading from Mycroft’s office and the second would have been barely noticeable to a hypothetical witness, time for a last thought before committing to the termination of the day, for a quick review of items gathered to be taken along, for small legs to race across the room. There was no one to see, no surveillance at surveillance’s source.
***
“You think Kit might not be dead?” John asked.
“It’s a possibility,” Sherlock said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Perhaps he’s as good as dead.”
***
The umbrella tapped a rhythm against the concrete. Cones of fluorescent light revealed the disused railroad tracks in the dark channel to Mycroft’s left, reflected off the white tiles to his right. The occasional empty file cabinet or stack of boxes threw a shadow up against the wall.
Red trotted behind Mycroft to his right, skirting the obstacles.
They crossed beneath The Mall, paused for Mycroft to press numbers into the keypad of another iron door and passed under Admiralty Arch.
The hollow thud of an empty box hitting the concrete reverberated through the tunnel. Mycroft lifted his umbrella as he turned. There was a scrabbling sound; a low, undulating growl.
From behind the box, a pointed snout emerged.
Red crouched, blocking the way out from between the stack of cartons and the fallen box. He hissed.
Teeth bared, the rat reared. Mid-jump, it flew sideways. A metre beyond, a trail of white dust marked the progress of the bullet scoring the surface of the concrete.
Red hissed again, his fur a cloud around his nearly flattened form.
Mycroft lowered his umbrella, took out his mobile. “There aren’t supposed to be any of those down here,” he said as he walked away, tapping at it.
Red turned his head and watched. When Mycroft disappeared around a corner, Red’s ears pricked up and he sprang after him.
***
“He’s been unconscious for the whole month?” John asked the young nurse.
“Not exactly,” he replied, his eyes darting away from John to check what Sherlock was doing by the hospital bed. “The patient appears awake sometimes. He’ll say ‘hi’ or ‘good morning’ and ask whether it’s raining, but if we ask his name or where he lives, he’ll close his eyes and we won’t be able to wake him for hours, sometimes days, so we stopped asking.”
“He always enquires about the weather when he appears conscious?” Sherlock asked.
The nurse shook his head. “He always asks if it’s raining.”
“It’s about time one of you lot made it ‘round,” a voice said from behind them.
The nurse stood up straighter.
John turned to greet the newcomer. Sherlock flicked a quick glance at the door, but remained facing the nurse with whom they had been speaking, studying his expression.
A middle-aged woman walked into the room, lips pressed thin, eyes narrowed. “Look at the lad,” she said, waving her arm towards the bed. “Somewhere, someone’s frantic about him and the comfort of a friend or relative would do wonders for his recovery.” She stopped in front of Sherlock, a good foot shorter than him, and looked him up and down.
John had seen commanding officers do that with tall recruits. One glance took inches off one’s height. John used the technique. It was all in the bearing.
Sherlock finally turned to her, his eyes dropping to her name tag and back to her eyes. He held them for a moment. “E. Featherstonehaugh,” he recited. He took out his phone, thumbed it a few times. “States here that the report was made by F. Stonehaugh. Might that be you?”
“The clot,” Ms Featherstonehaugh said. “He never was the brightest thing and all the nights down the pub haven’t sharpened his wits. What else did the fool get wrong?”
The young nurse had taken a step backwards, eyes flicking between his matron and a detective inspector come all the way down from London.
John thought Lestrade’s warrant card was getting a proper work-out.
“Let’s see,” Sherlock said, sliding his finger across the screen then glancing at Kit’s silent form in the bed. “I don’t imagine that you estimated this patient’s age as thirty-two?”
Ms Featherstonehaugh sighed. “’Twenty, twenty-three at the most’ was what I said.”
“Perhaps you didn’t say he was intoxicated?” Sherlock continued.
“I specifically said he wasn’t. We’d tested his blood by then. Pity we couldn’t use what he was drenched with. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, but he had lost a fair amount,” Matron replied.
“You brought him into the hospital after finding him ‘drunk by the side of the motorway’,” Sherlock read.
The woman took a deep breath. “I did bring him in and I did find him on the side of the motorway, holding onto the pole of an adverse camber sign about mid-way between Ramsgate and here. From the car I couldn’t tell if he was drunk and injured or only injured, but I could see the blood on his face by the light of the headlamps. Apparently, Lionel latched onto the word he’s most familiar with.”
Sherlock looked over at Kit. “And you didn’t say he was 197.5 centimetres tall.”
“167.5,” Matron replied. “We’d taken his height and weight, also, although I could have estimated it within a centimetre or two once he was on a stretcher. He had been draped around the signpost and all curled in on himself in the car.”
“You didn’t call an ambulance?” Sherlock said.
“He was bleeding and the ambulance would not have got to us and on to a hospital as fast as I could bring him here straight,” Matron said.
“To where you work,” Sherlock clarified.
Matron nodded.
“You assumed a risk,” Sherlock noted.
The matron’s posture had relaxed somewhat during the conversation. She drew herself up again at this remark. “To save a life, I would,” she stated and raised her chin.
Sherlock’s eyes flicked from her face to John’s and back.
“I know the shortest route to this hospital from anywhere up to fifty miles from here,” Matron said as though giving a report. “And Agnes had the late shift in the A&E that night and she is very good with trauma.”
“You have two sons his age and you’d want someone to help them,” Sherlock said.
Ms Featherstonehaugh’s gaze did not waver and she did not ask how Sherlock knew. “I have made similar decisions all my professional life,” she stated.
“But it adds to the empathy when a patient reminds one of one’s own children,” Sherlock said. “Perhaps you could supply us with more details which might help us piece together what happened that night.”
Matron pursed her lips and kept looking at Sherlock. Finally, she nodded.
***
The black door opened a crack. Mrs Hudson peered out. “Oh, Mycroft, good morning.” She looked over her shoulder, body pressed close to the door. “Let me just check where Gray is before I let you in,” she whispered. The door clicked shut.
Mycroft glanced at the tables in front of Speedy’s and took a deep, fresh-baked pastry-laden breath.
Behind him, Red sat upright in the well of the open car door, tail twitching.
“All clear,” Mrs Hudson announced as she flung the door wide and stepped back for Mycroft to enter. “They’re out again, I’m afraid.” She started to close the door. “Haven’t been back since last night.”
Red leapt onto the pavement and slipped into the hallway.
“Oh,” Mrs Hudson said to him as the door clicked shut. “Come for a visit, have you? Good thing I didn’t catch your tail.”
“Returned from a visit actually,” Mycroft said, taking a small envelope from his pocket and handing it to Mrs Hudson. “If you could give Sherlock this when he returns it would be most helpful.”
Red was sat three steps up the staircase, tail curled around his front paws, eyes on Mycroft.
“I’ve no idea when that’ll be though,” she said, tapping a corner of the envelope against her chin.
Mycroft gave a small smile. “Whenever they do appear will be fine.” He reached out for the door handle. “Thank you,” he said and was outside before Mrs Hudson could say another word.
Red jumped off the steps and ran to the door. It was closed when he reached it. He curved his claws between the door and the jamb and pulled.
“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson said. “Maybe he’s going on a trip and thought you’d be less lonely here.” She bent down and stroked Red’s back. “Would have been nice of him to explain, but neither of them are much for that.”
Red kept digging at the wood.
The next chapter may be read here.