Sherlock Fanfiction: Rain (Chapter 3)
Aug. 17th, 2015 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101Title: 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 to R-ish
Genre: slash
Word Count: ~6.6K this chapter (12.5K 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.
Excerpt: “If we have unknown kitten-size mammals in the house, Mrs Hudson will not be pleased,” Sherlock said, massaging Gray’s back.
“Isn’t it Gray’s job to chase interlopers out of his territory?” John asked, his elbows spreading to either side along the mantel for support.
“Maybe that’s why it ran out the door,” Sherlock replied and sat down on the stairs.
Also posted on AO3.
Chapter 1 on LJ.
Chapter 2 on LJ
Rain
Chapter 3
“I’m so tired I can barely see,” John said as his key scratched futilely across metal for the third time.
“You can barely see because it’s still dark and the streetlamp is behind you casting your shadow over the lock,” Sherlock said.
John took a step to one side and his key slid neatly into the keyhole. “OK, the light helped,” he admitted and stumbled over the threshold. “Maybe that hotel near Ramsgate wouldn’t have been as bad as it looked.”
“It would have been worse...” Sherlock began. He looked at his feet. “I think Gray slipped out.”
“Too quiet to be Gray,” John said, feeling about on the wall. “Mrs Hudson’s moved the light switch.”
“Something kitten-sized rubbed past my ankle,” Sherlock stated, closing the door.
A sharp meow sounded above their heads and the dark was filled by a rapid drumming puctuated by ever louder mews.
John found the light switch. Gray galloped into view.
Sherlock reached out until one gloved hand gripped a riser half-way up the first flight of stairs.
Gray ran up Sherlock’s arm and thrust his nose into Sherlock’s ear then his neck and his hair.
John leaned against the mantelpiece. “Did you train him to do that?”
Sherlock ignored the question. “If we have unknown kitten-size mammals in the house, Mrs Hudson will not be pleased,” he said, massaging Gray’s back.
“Isn’t it Gray’s job to chase interlopers out of his territory?” John asked, his elbows spreading to either side along the mantel for support.
“Maybe that’s why it ran out the door,” Sherlock replied and sat down on the stairs.
The envelope Mycroft left fell to the floor.
Three pairs of eyes focussed on the white rectangle.
John eased himself down and picked it up.
A blue post-it note had been added to the blank front of the envelope. John angled it to the light. “I don’t know why they make these in blue, I can hardly see the writing.
Sherlock held out his hand. John smacked the paper against Sherlock’s palm.
“Well, Mycroft’s come calling again. At least we missed that,” Sherlock said. He turned the post-it note over. “Check the street. He brought Red back.”
John balanced himself between the doorframe and the door handle, opened the door and peered out. “Oh,” he said.
“Still there?” Sherlock asked. He stood, gloved hand heavy on Gray’s back.
“Under the streetlamp by the kerb, like he’s about to hail a cab,” John replied. “Or sing a song.”
Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder. “He thinks the car is coming back.”
John twisted about to see Sherlock’s expression, but the angle and the light were wrong.
“We’ve got to lure him inside,” Sherlock said, tapping the envelope against John’s hand. “Let him smell that and lead him this way.”
“He’s not keen on me as it is,” John remarked, “and now you want me to deceive him?”
A bus turned onto Baker Street. Red crouched as it rumbled past, but held his ground.
“Determined little bugger,” John said. “He’s more likely to follow you.”
“And then we’d have Gray out there as well,” Sherlock said.
“Fine. Give it here,” John sighed and grabbed the envelope. “I hope this works.”
***
"They returned shortly before dawn," Anthea said, standing before Mycroft's desk, the tip of one finger pressed against the edge of it.
Mycroft turned a page in the file he was reading. "Where did we pick them up?"
"In front of Baker Street, sir," Anthea replied.
Mycroft raised his head. "Nothing before?"
Anthea shook her head. "Not a thing."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "So we don't know where they've been or what they've found."
Anthea nodded.
"And inside Baker Street?"
"The video is a sunrise over the Thames and the audio is the first few bars of 'Romulus and Remus' on a loop," Anthea replied.
"I should send the head of technical services over there for a tutorial." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "So we don't know whether Sherlock received the envelope."
"We do," Anthea said. "I sent you the relevant clip."
Mycroft sighed and reached for his laptop.
***
John walked into the sitting room towelling his hair. “You haven’t even taken your coat off,” he said.
“Gray’s comfortable,” Sherlock replied and gestured towards a shoe under the desk and a mound of blue cashmere next to his laptop as evidence that he had undressed some.
Gray was draped over the coat collar, head snuggled beneath Sherlock’s ear, asleep.
John ran his hand along Sherlock’s free shoulder. “Mycroft would be pleased to know you’re giving his message top priority.”
Sherlock glanced up. “That was blatantly manipulative, John. It works better if one is subtle.”
“Words of the master,” John replied, leaning closer to see what Sherlock had on the screen.
“It’s one of the fingerprints from the money that neither Jean-Pierre nor I could match.” Sherlock held up the card that had been in the envelope, “and these are the names that go with it.”
“Why is Mycroft feeding you clues?” John asked.
“Why, indeed,” Sherlock said, turning. He sniffed. “You used the shampoo I made for you.”
“Yup.”
“I made that weeks ago and you haven’t touched it,” Sherlock said, turning further in the chair. “Why tonight?”
John gazed at the skin exposed by the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt then lifted his eyes until they reached Sherlock’s mouth.
“I thought you were so tired you could barely see,” Sherlock said.
“Vision isn’t strictly required,” John replied, smoothing his hand down Sherlock’s sleeve.
“Ah.” Sherlock glanced at the ginger tail protruding from behind the curtain and thumping rhythmically against the top of the bookcase. He closed the laptop and dropped the note on the table. “I believe it would do Mycroft good to wait.”
John turned on his heel and headed towards the bedroom, the belt of his dressing gown skimming across the floor behind him.
Sherlock unhooked Gray, sat him on the coils of scarf and followed.
***
“Did he watch it?” Alistair asked outside the door of Mycroft's office.
“He’s watching it now,” Anthea replied, heading towards the lift.
“Shall I bin these?” Alistair tapped his chin on the stack of disposable litter trays in his arms.
The door of the lift opened.
“Tuck them in a cupboard,” Anthea answered.
Alistair raised his eyebrows. So did his reflection in the closed steel door.
***
“A goldfish, trapped in a bowl, is helpless,” Sherlock announced apropos of nothing obvious.
John folded back his newspaper, followed Sherlock’s line of sight from where he was stretched on the sofa with his laptop on his chest. Sherlock was looking over its screen to where Red was perched on the northeast corner of the desk, staring down at the pavement.
A sturdy double dish of kibble and water was positioned next to him. Sherlock had moved it there. “He only leaves to use the litter tray,” Sherlock had said when John had expressed the view that they did not need any more clutter on the desk. Afterwards, he had realised he had not seen Red in the kitchen since his return.
“If it weren’t for the traffic, I almost think he could track him down,” Sherlock mused.
“No accounting for taste,” John said.
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.
“We could give him a lift to the Diogenes,” John suggested.
“Mycroft’s out of the country,” Sherlock said, “or being held incommunicado in some deep bunker.”
“Deeper than his office?” John replied.
The crescent-shaped creases in Sherlock’s cheek grew. “I used his security codes to access files on Brunswick, also known as Ashbourne, also known as Old Kinderhook more than a half hour ago and haven’t received a text from him yet. Much as he’s slipping in his dotage, that’s too long unless Mycroft’s somewhere remote.”
“Aren’t retinal scans or some such required for that?” John asked.
Sherlock turned to John and grinned. “Mycroft may have some difficulties when next he seeks access.”
“You replaced his with yours?” John asked.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“Amazing.” John laughed.
“Come see what I found.”
***
The flat was quiet, the street nearly so. Red jumped from the table to the chair to the carpet. He walked to the window, pressed his nose against the glass. The reflections of the traffic lights changed from amber to red in the windows over the road. Red stood on his hind feet, pressed his front paws against the glass. Through the balcony railing, the glow of the traffic lights shone green in the dark windows. Red butted his head against the glass.
***
“Listen,” Sherlock said as John walked into the room with two white bags and a wad of serviettes.
John stopped, heard a car door close. At the window, he saw Red draw back from where he had been leaning over the edge of the table. Faintly, the tinkle of the bell over the door to Speedy’s could be heard through the glass.
“You knew someone had pulled up because Red moved,” John said, depositing the food on the coffee table and going back to the kitchen.
“At first, the curve of his spine changed,” Sherlock replied, “then the tilt of his ears.”
John returned with a glass in each hand. “Like a hunter in a blind, no sudden moves to alert the quarry.” He set the glasses down and nudged Sherlock’s legs.
Sherlock lifted them like a drawbridge. John sat and pulled the table closer. The drawbridge lowered.
“They aren’t domestic animals,” Sherlock said.
With the glass he was holding out towards Sherlock, John motioned towards Gray, who was nestled between the Union Jack cushion on the arm of the sofa and Sherlock’s neck. “He looks pretty domestic.”
“What’s this?” Sherlock asked, not taking the glass.
“Test it,” John said.
Sherlock scowled at the glass as he closed his hand around it and inhaled. “Plum,” he said and tasted the golden liquid. “You went back to Hideo’s.”
John settled into his corner of the sofa and watched Sherlock take another sip. “You liked theirs when we went last.”
Sherlock rested the glass on his stomach and rubbed a couple fingers along Gray’s back. A loud purr emerged from beneath Sherlock’s hair. “He’s there because I’m warm and I feed him.”
John snorted.
“Fine, you do now, but I did at first, during the milk-in-the-syringe phase,” Sherlock retorted. “It made a lasting impression.”
Gray uncurled himself and walked across Sherlock’s chest to the table. He inspected both bags and settled against the one nearest John.
“The soup’s in that bag,” Sherlock said.
“Is he hunting for your dinner?” John asked.
“He caught me a moth last night,” Sherlock said.
“He gave it to you?” John asked.
Sherlock shrugged. “He showed it to me before he ate it. He executed quite a remarkable jump to swipe it from the air.”
“Well, if he ate it, I think it was for him,” John countered.
“It had designs on my coat,” Sherlock replied, pulling the other bag closer. “Or my scarf. Possibly both. It was a large moth.”
“So he was defending your possessions?” John queried.
“Yes.” Sherlock turned on his side, opened the bag and peered inside.
“My mother’s cat used to give her birds, sometimes dead, sometimes not, but they were definitely for her. The cat didn’t eat them,” John said.
Sherlock stopped moving. John rarely spoke of his family or his childhood or of the past at all.
“I used to be jealous, but it was her cat. She’d had her before she had Harry or me, from when she was studying to be a midwife.”
Sherlock took a quiet, shallow breath.
“We moved, when I was four, to a house with a garden and a small patio. There was a grape arbour along the side of the patio by the garden wall and at the end of the patio there was a birdbath. It was the same colour as the flower pots and the tiles and the cat liked to doze half in the sun, half in the shade at its foot.”
“Not a very clever place to put a birdbath.” Sherlock snapped his mouth closed after the last word.
He felt John lean forward, heard him put his glass down and open the other bag. “It’s true, but I didn’t realise it then. It was nice under the grape vines. That corner got a lot of sun and it would come through the leaves and make patterns on the patio tiles and the water in the birdbath would glitter. My mother could look out and see me from the kitchen window, so I was allowed to be there alone if I stayed right on the patio. I remember being very pleased that I could do that without having to have Harry with me.”
John set the cartons of soup on the table and pushed one towards Sherlock.
“The birds came to eat the grapes and Bell wouldn’t move. They’d splash in the bird bath and Bell wouldn’t move.”
John dropped a couple serviettes near Sherlock.
“But when they hopped to the rim of the bath and launched themselves into the air, Bell would jump and when she landed, she’d have one in her jaws.” John stirred his soup with his chopsticks. “And she’d go straight into the house with it.”
“You didn’t cry,” Sherlock said.
John shook his head. “I remember thinking that that was a real present.”
“Hm,” Sherlock murmured, unwrapping his chopsticks and remembering the cabbie.
***
“It’s most kind of you to store the lad’s motorbike,” John said, throwing the tarpaulin they had brought with them over the vehicle.
“He’ll be relieved to have it safe, when he’s to rights,” Matron said as she walked out of the shed, Sherlock and John close behind. John pulled the door shut and clicked the lock in place. Ms Featherstonehaugh reached past him and gave the padlock a tug.
“It was the information you gave me which allowed us to locate it so quickly,” Sherlock said.
John looked up from dusting his hands off on his jeans, brows furrowed.
“Observation is crucial to both our professions, Detective Inspector,” Matron said. She pressed her lips together before she spoke again. “He must have missed a payment on it by now. Should I call one of you if someone comes around looking to take it away?”
Sherlock held out a hand to John. He stared at it an instant before reaching inside his jacket for his notebook and writing both their numbers on a blank page. He ripped it out and handed it to Sherlock.
“The motorbike is his, free and clear,” Sherlock said, “and as soon as we are able to notify his next of kin, we will inform you of his identify so the young man’s name can be added to his records. I’m sure a relative will be following shortly thereafter.” Sherlock passed along the note. “However, if anyone seeks to visit before we have contacted you, please deny them access and call us directly.”
“Someone ran him off the road that night?” Matron asked.
Sherlock shook his head. “The rain caused the accident. He skidded on the turn, was dragged over the verge, lost his grip on the bike which kept going under the fencing across the corner of the field and finally stalled out beneath the hedgerow.”
Matron looked straight at Sherlock. “He’s in trouble,” she said.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes before raising his eyebrows and giving a faint nod. “Continued anonymity would be in his best interests for a while longer.”
Matron gave Sherlock a decisive nod back.
***
Alistair twisted in the co-pilot’s seat and stood. Endless sunlight bleached the sky and set the ice fields beneath them aglitter. He turned away and closed his eyes. Points of light flashed behind his lids. He pushed the sunglasses to the top of his head and eased out the door of the flight deck.
It was twilight in the cabin, the darkness diluted by the laser white glare surrounding each closed window. Two figures breathed the grey air. He stopped by one, touched a hand to a round shoulder. Anthea’s eyes opened instantly. She nodded and he stepped away, shed clothes as she rose and walked barefoot to the closet. Garment bag over her shoulder, she disappeared into the lavatory. He stretched out on the warm cushions, pulled the thin blanket up to his chin and inhaled. He did not close his eyes until she had slipped onto the flight deck with the briefest flash of sunshine. He was sure he could sleep forever, but he only had five hours. It was as much as either of them had had at a stretch for the previous two days. Alistair was fairly sure Mycroft had had none at all.
***
“’Coincidence’. Really?” John said. “I can’t even read the word without your voice echoing in my head about the universe and laziness.”
Sherlock swiped his thumb across the screen of Kit’s mobile once more. “Unless the cat was an operative tasked with stopping Kit from getting away with the photographs, I’d say it was a coincidence that he ran her over a few steps from our front door.”
“Moments before you arrived home?”
“Even so,” Sherlock said.
John got up from his chair to press a hand to Sherlock’s forehead. A grey paw swatted at his wrist when he did. “Oi, he was mine first,” John said, removing his hand. “Well, you don’t have a fever.”
“She was making her rounds,” Sherlock said, pausing to stare at the screen of his mobile again. “The sea food restaurant over the road closes before the pub on the corner. She had a routine.”
John sat on the coffee table. “What, you brought a photo along with you? To all the places to eat near here?”
Sherlock’s thumb hovered over the mobile screen. “The stomach contents narrowed the range a bit,” he murmured.
John’s shoulders slumped. “I stop in at that pub now and then. I never saw her about.”
“She’d call at closing time when the rubbish was set out. Some of the staff put leftover fish aside for her.” Sherlock glanced at John. “People become remarkably chatty if you show them cat photos on your phone. There’s a direct correlation between their volubility and the immaturity of the cat.”
John shook his head. “The cats are ploys in your investigations now?”
Sherlock sat up. Gray clung in place.
John pointed at Sherlock’s shoulder. “He thinks he’s your parrot,” John said. Gray blinked at John and curled his tail around himself once more.
Sherlock patted Gray and smiled. “Let’s go have a pint at the pub.”
John’s eyebrows rose.
“There’s someone else who often stops in near closing time.”
***
It was hazy when they landed, the wet runway reflecting the plane’s lights back at the sky. First out, Alistair avoided the rain filling the pits in the tarmac’s surface as he set the two pieces of luggage next to the steps. It was a seldom used air field. The small facility it served was hidden by the trees crumbling the edge of the air strip with their roots. The scent of rain lingered on the breeze rustling their leaves.
A black car pulled up to the foot of the stairs. Doors opened. Alistair stowed the cases in the boot. Anthea descended, the only hairs out of place the ones the wind blew. He took the two garment bags she carried, spread them flat over the cases. Mycroft appeared, umbrella over his arm, attaché case in hand. The wind died. He and Anthea slid into either side of the car. The driver closed the back doors after them, handed Alistair the keys and mounted the stairs to relieve the pilot. Alistair settled behind the wheel and set them in motion. As they bumped onto the access road, he saw the plane take-off in the rear view mirror.
Above the forest, the rain resumed. Only the occasional drop reached them as the road snaked about the old trees until the ground swallowed it and metal doors shut behind them.
***
John closed the front door quickly. “Mrs Hudson’s very good as a decoy.”
“Yes. That feather-on-a-string thing was an astute purchase on her part,” Sherlock replied. “Gray might have been an asset if we were looking to engage people seated outside the pub in conversation, but tonight it’s listening we need to do and inside the pub is where we need to do it.”
“Pity they won’t have any food this late. I’m starving again,” John said. “It was so busy at the surgery, I didn't have a chance to eat my lunch until it was nearly time to go home.”
They eased past the crowd of smokers on the pavement. Sherlock swept his glance over each one as he held the door open for John. “I’ll order olives,” Sherlock said.
It was quieter inside, several tables empty. “Grab that one,” Sherlock said, pointing to a corner table, his voice conversational.
John heard the minute shift to a role. He ambled towards the table, seated himself facing the door, the bar and Sherlock in easy view with a slight tilt of the head. John watched Sherlock order. He was slouching against the bar, chatting a bit to the barman, angled so the man who had been there when they came in might feel included if he was so inclined. He appeared to be listening. The barman placed two packets of crisps and a couple other packets John could not see clearly on the counter.
Two women passed in front of John’s table on the way to the ladies. They trailed the scent of tobacco and cooler air. John spared them a casual look. When they were gone, Sherlock was crossing the room.
The stack of small bowls clinked as he set them down, the top one filled with black olives and oil. He dropped the various packets around them.
“Not many olives,” John remarked.
“Kebab later?” Sherlock asked amiably. He leaned closer, hand on the table crinkling a packet of peanuts as he continued, “Going for a smoke after I bring the pints.”
John almost protested.
Sherlock ripped open the peanuts, poured a few in his hand and turned away.
John made short work of the crisps, pleased that at least they were salt and vinegar. He tried an olive, hummed and ate another.
Sherlock had regained the bar, others had as well. Closing time approached. Sherlock squeezed a bit closer to the man still lingering there to reach the pints waiting for him. A moment later, the glasses thumped against the table.
“They’re not bad,” John admitted around an olive pit.
“Be right back,” Sherlock said, cigarettes already in hand.
“Last call,” the barman shouted.
Sherlock fought the incoming tide to gain the pavement.
John watched him light his cigarette through the window. He speared another olive. When he looked out again, Sherlock was gone.
***
Mycroft leaned the file against the edge of the table and closed his eyes for a second longer than a blink. It afforded a tiny escape from the monumental demonstration of idiocy being laid out before him. He drew in a breath and gazed around the small conference table. The colonel in charge and the two most senior research scientists at the facility gazed anxiously back at him. Mycroft did not need to ask pursuant to whose orders the foreign dignitaries had been allowed to visit part of the installation. The pained expression the colonel was almost succeeding in suppressing made it very clear.
Colonel Sutton’s hand had been ever so faintly unsteady when he had held out the slim file. Its contents were the sort that ended careers. Mycroft had absorbed the salient facts of the debacle as he leafed through the folder. Now he wished to observe his three interlocutors and see if the line between stupidity and culpability had been crossed.
“If you would take me through the sequence of events, Colonel,” Mycroft said.
“Yes, sir,” Colonel Sutton said and took a deep breath.
Mycroft leaned back in his chair, keeping the colonel and both the scientists in view as Sutton explained the staff’s recreational attempts to determine which of the most popular domestic pets was smartest. Sutton’s tone was neutral, his wording bland, but the scientists nodded as he progressed and nearly smiled at several points.
“...the staff are isolated here for months at a time and the options for amusement are limited. It’s one of the reasons the civilians were allowed to bring pets,” Sutton said. “We don’t have playing fields and a little friendly competition between the teams that formed around the opposing viewpoints was good for morale.”
“Canidae versus Felidae,” Mycroft murmured. It had the desired effect. The muscles in Sutton’s jaw relaxed marginally and both scientists leaned forward.
“We developed ideas in the games that have benefitted our research projects with other species,” interjected the scientist on Sutton’s left, Dr Agarwal. “The inter-specialism of the teams was perfect for brainstorming.”
“For example?” Mycroft nudged softly.
The scientists leaned closer. “It’s where we came up with the idea of teaching the animals the Morse code for certain nouns and verbs,” Dr Skye said.
Mycroft let his eyebrows rise a little and understood what ‘communication techniques’ had meant in the file report. “And they learned?”
“At the initial dosage, only a few words,” Dr Skye replied.
“And the differences were striking,” Dr Agarwal said.
Mycroft tilted his head and kept his eyes on her.
“Our cohort was small, we only had four dogs and six cats of different ages and breeds initially, but...” She glanced at Dr Skye. “The dogs learned ‘walk’ and ‘food’ first. The cats ‘return’ and ‘open’.”
“I believe that domestic animals can communicate these things already with sounds and gestures,” Mycroft said.
Dr Agarwal smiled. “In the presence of a person, yes. Our pets learned to communicate remotely.”
Mycroft nodded encouragingly.
“We put panels in the staff quarters where animals resided at various levels suited to their size. They were installed in the walls rather than the floors, so accidental pressures would be minimised,” Skye said.
“What material did you use for the panels?” Mycroft asked.
“We had a lot of spare glass remaining from outfitting the laboratories,” Sutton supplied.
“So the apparatus behind them was visible?” Mycroft enquired, a certain memory replaying as he spoke.
“No, one-way mirror was used. We have large sections in almost all the laboratories for unobtrusive observation,” Sutton said.
“I see,” Mycroft said. “And then?”
***
The throng at the bar was thinning. Most were outside again, laughter a little louder, balance less steady. John reached across the table and poured half of Sherlock’s bitter into his glass. When he set it down again, Sherlock was at the bar, just behind the man who had been there when they first came in and who did not seem to have moved. John wondered if he was dating the barman.
Sherlock popped a few peanuts in his mouth as he sauntered towards the table and sat down. “They play poker together,” he said, leaning across the table to give John the rest of the packet.
“I see,” John said, but he did not see, except that Sherlock had understood what he was thinking from across the room. John pictured the most lascivious thing he could imagine and stared straight at Sherlock.
Sherlock glanced at the table and ran his fingertips along the grain of the oak. “We could skip the kebab,” he said.
John considered the pale hand against the darkened wood. “I’ll pass out if I don’t eat some actual food soon,” he replied, thinking that his manoeuvre had back-fired because there was regret in his tone.
“We’ll get it to go,” Sherlock said, standing. “But keep the position in mind.”
John finished his ale and wondered how Sherlock could possibly know that.
Sherlock winked at John from the open door before swirling out. John banged his glass down and followed.
***
Mycroft folded his hands on top of the folder. “You hadn’t intended to breed the animals?”
“The litter came as a surprise,” Dr Agarwal explained. “Randolph had adopted two kittens shortly before arriving here under the impression that the animals had been neutered at the rescue centre where he acquired them.”
“When it became clear that the young female was pregnant, it offered an exciting opportunity to observe if any of the parents’ learned behaviours might be passed on to their offspring,” Skye added immediately.
“Then one of the resultant litter going missing was surely a cause for concern?” Mycroft remarked.
“We thought he might have got out of Randolph’s quarters and hid,” Agarwal said. She pursed her lips. “Perhaps died.”
“So you would eventually nose him out beneath the stairs,” Mycroft suggested.
“Yes,” Skye admitted, lifting his shoulders and spreading his hands, “although hiding was a strong possibility. Three was a shy kitten, unlike his littermates.”
“You weren’t concerned for the integrity of your official research?” Mycroft asked.
They all shook their heads. “The canteen and the sleeping quarters are carefully sealed off from the laboratories. If the kitten was hiding and coming out at night, it would remain contained in the staff area,” Skye said.
“So Randolph finally reported the unscheduled visit to his quarters by your esteemed guests?” Mycroft said.
“It was unscheduled, but not unauthorised,” Sutton clarified. “One of the guests had voiced concerns about the treatment of the animals being studied and the attitude of the staff towards their test subjects. Their FCO escort looked to me to counter those concerns, so I offered a tour through the staff quarters to let them see the off-duty employees with their own pets. The litter was rather the icing on the cake and did seem to satisfy them. It never occurred to us that one of the visitors would take a kitten away with them.”
Mycroft allowed himself an extra-long blink. “And what changed after all those months?”
“We were in the canteen, celebrating Randolph’s birthday with some drinks and cake, when a colleague said that it would be a great birthday present if the lost kitten showed up,” Agarwal explained. “And Randolph stopped smiling and tapped a finger to his lips.” Dr Agarwal mimicked the action. “’The visitors,’ he said after a moment. ‘The tall one had held the grey kitten and it had mewed and dug his claws into the man’s sleeve when he put it down. I saw him glance at his bodyguard before he turned to go. I’d thought he’d been worried about being scratched. Maybe that wasn’t what that look meant.’ That’s when we realised we had something to report.”
“Wouldn’t the kitten have meowed from the bodyguard’s pocket or wherever it was concealed,” Mycroft asked.
Skye lifted up his hands. “It’s what one would think. How could someone steal a kitten quietly?”
“They could kill it. Perhaps they wished to study the body. Had you explained your recreational experiment to your visitors?” Mycroft asked. He scanned their faces. One would think first-born children had been involved in his remark.
Dr Agarwal recovered first. “We didn’t explain our games, no,” she said. “We didn’t explain anything unless specifically asked, so we had confined our answers to the research on silk worms and on sheep. In fact, they left with a male lamb.”
Mycroft flipped open the file and tapped a page. “That was the specimen they were given.”
“Yes,” Sutton answered, craning his neck to check the photograph on the page. “It seemed that that was the motivation for the visit, the exchange of agricultural expertise. We weren’t given details, but the visitors made some comments to their escort during the tour.”
Mycroft did not express his view that the details had probably not been thought through before the visit had been arranged. He wondered whether his leaving the country in furtherance of certain national interests was worth the risk of stupidity running rampant in his absence.
“Have any staff with a pet left the facility since your extracurricular experiments began?” Mycroft asked.
All three shook their heads. “No, sir,” Sutton replied.
“Good,” Mycroft said and closed the folder again. “Prior to any proposed departure, you are to contact me for final authorisation.”
“Yes, sir,” Sutton said.
Mycroft took three cards from his waistcoat pocket, set one in front of Colonel Sutton and slid the other two partway across the table. “If you recall any further details or have any interesting developments in your ‘games’, contact me as well.” Doctors Agarwal and Skye reached for the cards. “I will call on you again in a couple months time if nothing out of the ordinary has transpired before then.” Mycroft pushed back his chair and stood. “Now I should like a tour of the staff quarters.”
***
“So where did you go?” John asked when he caught up to Sherlock.
“Back to the flat,” Sherlock answered. “A copy of everything on our gambler’s mobile is now on your laptop and his phone is once more in his pocket.”
“I was watching you and didn’t see a thing,” John exclaimed, ignoring the commandeering of his laptop. It had probably been closer to the door.
“You were also eating,” Sherlock said, fluttering the fingers of one hand, “and I am quick.”
John added a couple details to the image in his head. “So who is that bloke?” John said.
“Kit calls him Uncle Eddie in their email correspondence, but Edgar Thorpe is actually a cousin of Kit’s deceased father. Mr Thorpe possesses a short list of prior convictions for minor offences resulting in fines which Kit’s father often helped him to pay. Recently, Cousin Eddie totted up enough points to earn himself a driving ban,” Sherlock recited.
“So he brought Kit into his latest misadventure because driving was needed,” John concluded.
“Precisely,” Sherlock replied and stopped in front of a small restaurant.
“The Cardboard Box,” John read from the sign. “Isn’t there a place down by New Scotland Yard...”
“Yes, the owner is branching out. This one stays open later and has a few more tables,” Sherlock said and held open the door.
John’s stomach growled. “That smells fantastic.”
“You’re just very hungry,” Sherlock murmured as John brushed past.
***
Randolph Huygens was flushed when he caught up with Mycroft and Colonel Sutton outside his quarters. He consulted the screen on a device next to the door. “They’re all in,” he said and slipped his key card through the reader. A small light on the lock glowed green.
“You’ve microchipped them,” Mycroft said as he entered.
Dr Huygens shrugged as he waited for Colonel Sutton to step inside before closing the door behind them. “Barn door and all, I know,” Huygens said, glancing about the room, “but One, Two and Four, their parents and all the other pets can now be tracked.”
As he spoke, there was a flurry of movement. From a high shelf, a plump black-white-and-ginger calico jumped onto the single bed next to it. She walked to the corner of the bed nearest the door and sat up very straight regarding Mycroft. The tip of her tail twitched. A large, grey cat appeared from the shadows beneath the bed and stood between it and the visitors.
Three young adult cats separated themselves from the cushions leaning against the wall along the side of the bed and ranged themselves behind their mother: a solid ginger, a white-and-grey and a smaller calico.
“Is this something you’ve trained them to do, Huygens?” Sutton asked, the formation not lost on him.
“No, sir. I’ve never seen them do that before,” Dr Huygens replied.
“I don’t imagine they encounter many unfamiliar people here,” Mycroft said, watching the animals, “unless there have been other visits of which you should inform me.”
“No,” Huygens and Sutton replied in unison. Sutton added, “sir.”
The cat on point walked forward until he stood nose to toe with Mycroft’s shoes. He sniffed delicately, then with more enthusiasm, wending between Mycroft’s legs to circle each shoe. The older calico jumped down.
“You haven’t been walking through catnip recently, have you?” Dr Huygens asked.
“Not any of which I am aware,” Mycroft replied.
“I suppose new smells are exciting,” Dr Huygens said, reaching for the mobile on his desk. “Would you mind if I filmed this?”
“Yes,” Mycroft said as the younger cats hopped off the bed and joined their parents.
“I’d just do it from the knees down,” Huygens said, phone in hand.
Mycroft frowned.
Sutton scowled at Huygens. He put the phone back.
Mycroft pivoted in his circle of cats and stared at the mirrored panel next to the bottom third of the door.
“Perhaps when their curiosity is sated, you might persuade one of your clowder to demonstrate that,” he said and waved his hand doorward.
Huygens looked relieved. “I’ve just the thing,” he said, taking a box out of his desk drawer. He pocketed a couple crinkly packets from it.
The grey cat turned towards the sound.
Huygens strode across the room and was out the door in a thrice.
The grey left the cluster around Mycroft, walked to the side of the door and raised a paw to the glass.
Mycroft watched the cat raise and lower its paw repeatedly, then wait. Nothing happened. After a minute, the cat began pressing on the mirror again. A red light above the panel turned green, the door clicked open and the cat slipped out.
“The animal chose the ‘return’ command first,” Mycroft commented.
Sutton nodded. “They usually do.”
“And the people respond,” Mycroft stated.
Sutton nodded again. “If they can. They're not always free.”
It was Mycroft’s turn to nod. “They have them well trained.”
Sutton did not ask for clarification.
***
Among the greasy wrappers on the coffee table, a mobile buzzed. From his post by the window, Red glanced over his shoulder. Gray looked up from Sherlock’s hair, blinking slowly. The papers rustled as the vibrations moved the phone closer to the edge. John opened an eye, closed it again. The mobile cleared the papers, tipped over the edge. Sherlock held out his hand, caught it. He lifted the screen near his eyes.
“Mycroft is texting you,” he mumbled and let his hand drop to the floor.
The phone buzzed.
John lifted his head from Sherlock’s chest, one side of Sherlock’s shirt sticking to his face, the side with the buttons. John peeled it away, leaned over Sherlock’s hip and found the phone. “You could’ve turned it off,” he said.
“What’s he want?” Sherlock asked.
“Why didn’t you read it?” John asked, settling back on Sherlock’s chest with the silent phone tucked up under his chin.
Sherlock’s arm fell from the back of the sofa onto John’s back. “Your reading it will improve the message,” he replied.
The vibrations of the words tickled John's cheek. “Fine,” he said and peered at the phone to open the message. “He wants to know if Mike Stamford has had his kittens spayed.”
“He didn’t complain about his password?”
John swiped the screen. “Nope. Just the one question.”
“Has he?” Sherlock asked.
“Mike? I don’t know. Last we spoke, he only mentioned the cats to ask whether we’d look after them when his family go on holiday. Said his daughters insisted their kittens could not go to a cattery,” John answered.
“Smart girls,” Sherlock said. He drummed his fingers along John’s spine. “Just out of whatever dark hole he’s been in and Mycroft wants to know that. Why?”
“Shall we ask him?” John enquired, tapping the phone against Sherlock’s stomach.
“No,” Sherlock said.
“Can we go to bed, then?”
“Yes.”
***
The next chapter may be read here.
Author:
saki101Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Anthea, OCs, Red, Gray
Rating: PG-13 to R-ish
Genre: slash
Word Count: ~6.6K this chapter (12.5K 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.
Excerpt: “If we have unknown kitten-size mammals in the house, Mrs Hudson will not be pleased,” Sherlock said, massaging Gray’s back.
“Isn’t it Gray’s job to chase interlopers out of his territory?” John asked, his elbows spreading to either side along the mantel for support.
“Maybe that’s why it ran out the door,” Sherlock replied and sat down on the stairs.
Also posted on AO3.
Chapter 1 on LJ.
Chapter 2 on LJ
“I’m so tired I can barely see,” John said as his key scratched futilely across metal for the third time.
“You can barely see because it’s still dark and the streetlamp is behind you casting your shadow over the lock,” Sherlock said.
John took a step to one side and his key slid neatly into the keyhole. “OK, the light helped,” he admitted and stumbled over the threshold. “Maybe that hotel near Ramsgate wouldn’t have been as bad as it looked.”
“It would have been worse...” Sherlock began. He looked at his feet. “I think Gray slipped out.”
“Too quiet to be Gray,” John said, feeling about on the wall. “Mrs Hudson’s moved the light switch.”
“Something kitten-sized rubbed past my ankle,” Sherlock stated, closing the door.
A sharp meow sounded above their heads and the dark was filled by a rapid drumming puctuated by ever louder mews.
John found the light switch. Gray galloped into view.
Sherlock reached out until one gloved hand gripped a riser half-way up the first flight of stairs.
Gray ran up Sherlock’s arm and thrust his nose into Sherlock’s ear then his neck and his hair.
John leaned against the mantelpiece. “Did you train him to do that?”
Sherlock ignored the question. “If we have unknown kitten-size mammals in the house, Mrs Hudson will not be pleased,” he said, massaging Gray’s back.
“Isn’t it Gray’s job to chase interlopers out of his territory?” John asked, his elbows spreading to either side along the mantel for support.
“Maybe that’s why it ran out the door,” Sherlock replied and sat down on the stairs.
The envelope Mycroft left fell to the floor.
Three pairs of eyes focussed on the white rectangle.
John eased himself down and picked it up.
A blue post-it note had been added to the blank front of the envelope. John angled it to the light. “I don’t know why they make these in blue, I can hardly see the writing.
Sherlock held out his hand. John smacked the paper against Sherlock’s palm.
“Well, Mycroft’s come calling again. At least we missed that,” Sherlock said. He turned the post-it note over. “Check the street. He brought Red back.”
John balanced himself between the doorframe and the door handle, opened the door and peered out. “Oh,” he said.
“Still there?” Sherlock asked. He stood, gloved hand heavy on Gray’s back.
“Under the streetlamp by the kerb, like he’s about to hail a cab,” John replied. “Or sing a song.”
Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder. “He thinks the car is coming back.”
John twisted about to see Sherlock’s expression, but the angle and the light were wrong.
“We’ve got to lure him inside,” Sherlock said, tapping the envelope against John’s hand. “Let him smell that and lead him this way.”
“He’s not keen on me as it is,” John remarked, “and now you want me to deceive him?”
A bus turned onto Baker Street. Red crouched as it rumbled past, but held his ground.
“Determined little bugger,” John said. “He’s more likely to follow you.”
“And then we’d have Gray out there as well,” Sherlock said.
“Fine. Give it here,” John sighed and grabbed the envelope. “I hope this works.”
***
"They returned shortly before dawn," Anthea said, standing before Mycroft's desk, the tip of one finger pressed against the edge of it.
Mycroft turned a page in the file he was reading. "Where did we pick them up?"
"In front of Baker Street, sir," Anthea replied.
Mycroft raised his head. "Nothing before?"
Anthea shook her head. "Not a thing."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "So we don't know where they've been or what they've found."
Anthea nodded.
"And inside Baker Street?"
"The video is a sunrise over the Thames and the audio is the first few bars of 'Romulus and Remus' on a loop," Anthea replied.
"I should send the head of technical services over there for a tutorial." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "So we don't know whether Sherlock received the envelope."
"We do," Anthea said. "I sent you the relevant clip."
Mycroft sighed and reached for his laptop.
***
John walked into the sitting room towelling his hair. “You haven’t even taken your coat off,” he said.
“Gray’s comfortable,” Sherlock replied and gestured towards a shoe under the desk and a mound of blue cashmere next to his laptop as evidence that he had undressed some.
Gray was draped over the coat collar, head snuggled beneath Sherlock’s ear, asleep.
John ran his hand along Sherlock’s free shoulder. “Mycroft would be pleased to know you’re giving his message top priority.”
Sherlock glanced up. “That was blatantly manipulative, John. It works better if one is subtle.”
“Words of the master,” John replied, leaning closer to see what Sherlock had on the screen.
“It’s one of the fingerprints from the money that neither Jean-Pierre nor I could match.” Sherlock held up the card that had been in the envelope, “and these are the names that go with it.”
“Why is Mycroft feeding you clues?” John asked.
“Why, indeed,” Sherlock said, turning. He sniffed. “You used the shampoo I made for you.”
“Yup.”
“I made that weeks ago and you haven’t touched it,” Sherlock said, turning further in the chair. “Why tonight?”
John gazed at the skin exposed by the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt then lifted his eyes until they reached Sherlock’s mouth.
“I thought you were so tired you could barely see,” Sherlock said.
“Vision isn’t strictly required,” John replied, smoothing his hand down Sherlock’s sleeve.
“Ah.” Sherlock glanced at the ginger tail protruding from behind the curtain and thumping rhythmically against the top of the bookcase. He closed the laptop and dropped the note on the table. “I believe it would do Mycroft good to wait.”
John turned on his heel and headed towards the bedroom, the belt of his dressing gown skimming across the floor behind him.
Sherlock unhooked Gray, sat him on the coils of scarf and followed.
***
“Did he watch it?” Alistair asked outside the door of Mycroft's office.
“He’s watching it now,” Anthea replied, heading towards the lift.
“Shall I bin these?” Alistair tapped his chin on the stack of disposable litter trays in his arms.
The door of the lift opened.
“Tuck them in a cupboard,” Anthea answered.
Alistair raised his eyebrows. So did his reflection in the closed steel door.
***
“A goldfish, trapped in a bowl, is helpless,” Sherlock announced apropos of nothing obvious.
John folded back his newspaper, followed Sherlock’s line of sight from where he was stretched on the sofa with his laptop on his chest. Sherlock was looking over its screen to where Red was perched on the northeast corner of the desk, staring down at the pavement.
A sturdy double dish of kibble and water was positioned next to him. Sherlock had moved it there. “He only leaves to use the litter tray,” Sherlock had said when John had expressed the view that they did not need any more clutter on the desk. Afterwards, he had realised he had not seen Red in the kitchen since his return.
“If it weren’t for the traffic, I almost think he could track him down,” Sherlock mused.
“No accounting for taste,” John said.
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.
“We could give him a lift to the Diogenes,” John suggested.
“Mycroft’s out of the country,” Sherlock said, “or being held incommunicado in some deep bunker.”
“Deeper than his office?” John replied.
The crescent-shaped creases in Sherlock’s cheek grew. “I used his security codes to access files on Brunswick, also known as Ashbourne, also known as Old Kinderhook more than a half hour ago and haven’t received a text from him yet. Much as he’s slipping in his dotage, that’s too long unless Mycroft’s somewhere remote.”
“Aren’t retinal scans or some such required for that?” John asked.
Sherlock turned to John and grinned. “Mycroft may have some difficulties when next he seeks access.”
“You replaced his with yours?” John asked.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“Amazing.” John laughed.
“Come see what I found.”
***
The flat was quiet, the street nearly so. Red jumped from the table to the chair to the carpet. He walked to the window, pressed his nose against the glass. The reflections of the traffic lights changed from amber to red in the windows over the road. Red stood on his hind feet, pressed his front paws against the glass. Through the balcony railing, the glow of the traffic lights shone green in the dark windows. Red butted his head against the glass.
***
“Listen,” Sherlock said as John walked into the room with two white bags and a wad of serviettes.
John stopped, heard a car door close. At the window, he saw Red draw back from where he had been leaning over the edge of the table. Faintly, the tinkle of the bell over the door to Speedy’s could be heard through the glass.
“You knew someone had pulled up because Red moved,” John said, depositing the food on the coffee table and going back to the kitchen.
“At first, the curve of his spine changed,” Sherlock replied, “then the tilt of his ears.”
John returned with a glass in each hand. “Like a hunter in a blind, no sudden moves to alert the quarry.” He set the glasses down and nudged Sherlock’s legs.
Sherlock lifted them like a drawbridge. John sat and pulled the table closer. The drawbridge lowered.
“They aren’t domestic animals,” Sherlock said.
With the glass he was holding out towards Sherlock, John motioned towards Gray, who was nestled between the Union Jack cushion on the arm of the sofa and Sherlock’s neck. “He looks pretty domestic.”
“What’s this?” Sherlock asked, not taking the glass.
“Test it,” John said.
Sherlock scowled at the glass as he closed his hand around it and inhaled. “Plum,” he said and tasted the golden liquid. “You went back to Hideo’s.”
John settled into his corner of the sofa and watched Sherlock take another sip. “You liked theirs when we went last.”
Sherlock rested the glass on his stomach and rubbed a couple fingers along Gray’s back. A loud purr emerged from beneath Sherlock’s hair. “He’s there because I’m warm and I feed him.”
John snorted.
“Fine, you do now, but I did at first, during the milk-in-the-syringe phase,” Sherlock retorted. “It made a lasting impression.”
Gray uncurled himself and walked across Sherlock’s chest to the table. He inspected both bags and settled against the one nearest John.
“The soup’s in that bag,” Sherlock said.
“Is he hunting for your dinner?” John asked.
“He caught me a moth last night,” Sherlock said.
“He gave it to you?” John asked.
Sherlock shrugged. “He showed it to me before he ate it. He executed quite a remarkable jump to swipe it from the air.”
“Well, if he ate it, I think it was for him,” John countered.
“It had designs on my coat,” Sherlock replied, pulling the other bag closer. “Or my scarf. Possibly both. It was a large moth.”
“So he was defending your possessions?” John queried.
“Yes.” Sherlock turned on his side, opened the bag and peered inside.
“My mother’s cat used to give her birds, sometimes dead, sometimes not, but they were definitely for her. The cat didn’t eat them,” John said.
Sherlock stopped moving. John rarely spoke of his family or his childhood or of the past at all.
“I used to be jealous, but it was her cat. She’d had her before she had Harry or me, from when she was studying to be a midwife.”
Sherlock took a quiet, shallow breath.
“We moved, when I was four, to a house with a garden and a small patio. There was a grape arbour along the side of the patio by the garden wall and at the end of the patio there was a birdbath. It was the same colour as the flower pots and the tiles and the cat liked to doze half in the sun, half in the shade at its foot.”
“Not a very clever place to put a birdbath.” Sherlock snapped his mouth closed after the last word.
He felt John lean forward, heard him put his glass down and open the other bag. “It’s true, but I didn’t realise it then. It was nice under the grape vines. That corner got a lot of sun and it would come through the leaves and make patterns on the patio tiles and the water in the birdbath would glitter. My mother could look out and see me from the kitchen window, so I was allowed to be there alone if I stayed right on the patio. I remember being very pleased that I could do that without having to have Harry with me.”
John set the cartons of soup on the table and pushed one towards Sherlock.
“The birds came to eat the grapes and Bell wouldn’t move. They’d splash in the bird bath and Bell wouldn’t move.”
John dropped a couple serviettes near Sherlock.
“But when they hopped to the rim of the bath and launched themselves into the air, Bell would jump and when she landed, she’d have one in her jaws.” John stirred his soup with his chopsticks. “And she’d go straight into the house with it.”
“You didn’t cry,” Sherlock said.
John shook his head. “I remember thinking that that was a real present.”
“Hm,” Sherlock murmured, unwrapping his chopsticks and remembering the cabbie.
***
“It’s most kind of you to store the lad’s motorbike,” John said, throwing the tarpaulin they had brought with them over the vehicle.
“He’ll be relieved to have it safe, when he’s to rights,” Matron said as she walked out of the shed, Sherlock and John close behind. John pulled the door shut and clicked the lock in place. Ms Featherstonehaugh reached past him and gave the padlock a tug.
“It was the information you gave me which allowed us to locate it so quickly,” Sherlock said.
John looked up from dusting his hands off on his jeans, brows furrowed.
“Observation is crucial to both our professions, Detective Inspector,” Matron said. She pressed her lips together before she spoke again. “He must have missed a payment on it by now. Should I call one of you if someone comes around looking to take it away?”
Sherlock held out a hand to John. He stared at it an instant before reaching inside his jacket for his notebook and writing both their numbers on a blank page. He ripped it out and handed it to Sherlock.
“The motorbike is his, free and clear,” Sherlock said, “and as soon as we are able to notify his next of kin, we will inform you of his identify so the young man’s name can be added to his records. I’m sure a relative will be following shortly thereafter.” Sherlock passed along the note. “However, if anyone seeks to visit before we have contacted you, please deny them access and call us directly.”
“Someone ran him off the road that night?” Matron asked.
Sherlock shook his head. “The rain caused the accident. He skidded on the turn, was dragged over the verge, lost his grip on the bike which kept going under the fencing across the corner of the field and finally stalled out beneath the hedgerow.”
Matron looked straight at Sherlock. “He’s in trouble,” she said.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes before raising his eyebrows and giving a faint nod. “Continued anonymity would be in his best interests for a while longer.”
Matron gave Sherlock a decisive nod back.
***
Alistair twisted in the co-pilot’s seat and stood. Endless sunlight bleached the sky and set the ice fields beneath them aglitter. He turned away and closed his eyes. Points of light flashed behind his lids. He pushed the sunglasses to the top of his head and eased out the door of the flight deck.
It was twilight in the cabin, the darkness diluted by the laser white glare surrounding each closed window. Two figures breathed the grey air. He stopped by one, touched a hand to a round shoulder. Anthea’s eyes opened instantly. She nodded and he stepped away, shed clothes as she rose and walked barefoot to the closet. Garment bag over her shoulder, she disappeared into the lavatory. He stretched out on the warm cushions, pulled the thin blanket up to his chin and inhaled. He did not close his eyes until she had slipped onto the flight deck with the briefest flash of sunshine. He was sure he could sleep forever, but he only had five hours. It was as much as either of them had had at a stretch for the previous two days. Alistair was fairly sure Mycroft had had none at all.
***
“’Coincidence’. Really?” John said. “I can’t even read the word without your voice echoing in my head about the universe and laziness.”
Sherlock swiped his thumb across the screen of Kit’s mobile once more. “Unless the cat was an operative tasked with stopping Kit from getting away with the photographs, I’d say it was a coincidence that he ran her over a few steps from our front door.”
“Moments before you arrived home?”
“Even so,” Sherlock said.
John got up from his chair to press a hand to Sherlock’s forehead. A grey paw swatted at his wrist when he did. “Oi, he was mine first,” John said, removing his hand. “Well, you don’t have a fever.”
“She was making her rounds,” Sherlock said, pausing to stare at the screen of his mobile again. “The sea food restaurant over the road closes before the pub on the corner. She had a routine.”
John sat on the coffee table. “What, you brought a photo along with you? To all the places to eat near here?”
Sherlock’s thumb hovered over the mobile screen. “The stomach contents narrowed the range a bit,” he murmured.
John’s shoulders slumped. “I stop in at that pub now and then. I never saw her about.”
“She’d call at closing time when the rubbish was set out. Some of the staff put leftover fish aside for her.” Sherlock glanced at John. “People become remarkably chatty if you show them cat photos on your phone. There’s a direct correlation between their volubility and the immaturity of the cat.”
John shook his head. “The cats are ploys in your investigations now?”
Sherlock sat up. Gray clung in place.
John pointed at Sherlock’s shoulder. “He thinks he’s your parrot,” John said. Gray blinked at John and curled his tail around himself once more.
Sherlock patted Gray and smiled. “Let’s go have a pint at the pub.”
John’s eyebrows rose.
“There’s someone else who often stops in near closing time.”
***
It was hazy when they landed, the wet runway reflecting the plane’s lights back at the sky. First out, Alistair avoided the rain filling the pits in the tarmac’s surface as he set the two pieces of luggage next to the steps. It was a seldom used air field. The small facility it served was hidden by the trees crumbling the edge of the air strip with their roots. The scent of rain lingered on the breeze rustling their leaves.
A black car pulled up to the foot of the stairs. Doors opened. Alistair stowed the cases in the boot. Anthea descended, the only hairs out of place the ones the wind blew. He took the two garment bags she carried, spread them flat over the cases. Mycroft appeared, umbrella over his arm, attaché case in hand. The wind died. He and Anthea slid into either side of the car. The driver closed the back doors after them, handed Alistair the keys and mounted the stairs to relieve the pilot. Alistair settled behind the wheel and set them in motion. As they bumped onto the access road, he saw the plane take-off in the rear view mirror.
Above the forest, the rain resumed. Only the occasional drop reached them as the road snaked about the old trees until the ground swallowed it and metal doors shut behind them.
***
John closed the front door quickly. “Mrs Hudson’s very good as a decoy.”
“Yes. That feather-on-a-string thing was an astute purchase on her part,” Sherlock replied. “Gray might have been an asset if we were looking to engage people seated outside the pub in conversation, but tonight it’s listening we need to do and inside the pub is where we need to do it.”
“Pity they won’t have any food this late. I’m starving again,” John said. “It was so busy at the surgery, I didn't have a chance to eat my lunch until it was nearly time to go home.”
They eased past the crowd of smokers on the pavement. Sherlock swept his glance over each one as he held the door open for John. “I’ll order olives,” Sherlock said.
It was quieter inside, several tables empty. “Grab that one,” Sherlock said, pointing to a corner table, his voice conversational.
John heard the minute shift to a role. He ambled towards the table, seated himself facing the door, the bar and Sherlock in easy view with a slight tilt of the head. John watched Sherlock order. He was slouching against the bar, chatting a bit to the barman, angled so the man who had been there when they came in might feel included if he was so inclined. He appeared to be listening. The barman placed two packets of crisps and a couple other packets John could not see clearly on the counter.
Two women passed in front of John’s table on the way to the ladies. They trailed the scent of tobacco and cooler air. John spared them a casual look. When they were gone, Sherlock was crossing the room.
The stack of small bowls clinked as he set them down, the top one filled with black olives and oil. He dropped the various packets around them.
“Not many olives,” John remarked.
“Kebab later?” Sherlock asked amiably. He leaned closer, hand on the table crinkling a packet of peanuts as he continued, “Going for a smoke after I bring the pints.”
John almost protested.
Sherlock ripped open the peanuts, poured a few in his hand and turned away.
John made short work of the crisps, pleased that at least they were salt and vinegar. He tried an olive, hummed and ate another.
Sherlock had regained the bar, others had as well. Closing time approached. Sherlock squeezed a bit closer to the man still lingering there to reach the pints waiting for him. A moment later, the glasses thumped against the table.
“They’re not bad,” John admitted around an olive pit.
“Be right back,” Sherlock said, cigarettes already in hand.
“Last call,” the barman shouted.
Sherlock fought the incoming tide to gain the pavement.
John watched him light his cigarette through the window. He speared another olive. When he looked out again, Sherlock was gone.
***
Mycroft leaned the file against the edge of the table and closed his eyes for a second longer than a blink. It afforded a tiny escape from the monumental demonstration of idiocy being laid out before him. He drew in a breath and gazed around the small conference table. The colonel in charge and the two most senior research scientists at the facility gazed anxiously back at him. Mycroft did not need to ask pursuant to whose orders the foreign dignitaries had been allowed to visit part of the installation. The pained expression the colonel was almost succeeding in suppressing made it very clear.
Colonel Sutton’s hand had been ever so faintly unsteady when he had held out the slim file. Its contents were the sort that ended careers. Mycroft had absorbed the salient facts of the debacle as he leafed through the folder. Now he wished to observe his three interlocutors and see if the line between stupidity and culpability had been crossed.
“If you would take me through the sequence of events, Colonel,” Mycroft said.
“Yes, sir,” Colonel Sutton said and took a deep breath.
Mycroft leaned back in his chair, keeping the colonel and both the scientists in view as Sutton explained the staff’s recreational attempts to determine which of the most popular domestic pets was smartest. Sutton’s tone was neutral, his wording bland, but the scientists nodded as he progressed and nearly smiled at several points.
“...the staff are isolated here for months at a time and the options for amusement are limited. It’s one of the reasons the civilians were allowed to bring pets,” Sutton said. “We don’t have playing fields and a little friendly competition between the teams that formed around the opposing viewpoints was good for morale.”
“Canidae versus Felidae,” Mycroft murmured. It had the desired effect. The muscles in Sutton’s jaw relaxed marginally and both scientists leaned forward.
“We developed ideas in the games that have benefitted our research projects with other species,” interjected the scientist on Sutton’s left, Dr Agarwal. “The inter-specialism of the teams was perfect for brainstorming.”
“For example?” Mycroft nudged softly.
The scientists leaned closer. “It’s where we came up with the idea of teaching the animals the Morse code for certain nouns and verbs,” Dr Skye said.
Mycroft let his eyebrows rise a little and understood what ‘communication techniques’ had meant in the file report. “And they learned?”
“At the initial dosage, only a few words,” Dr Skye replied.
“And the differences were striking,” Dr Agarwal said.
Mycroft tilted his head and kept his eyes on her.
“Our cohort was small, we only had four dogs and six cats of different ages and breeds initially, but...” She glanced at Dr Skye. “The dogs learned ‘walk’ and ‘food’ first. The cats ‘return’ and ‘open’.”
“I believe that domestic animals can communicate these things already with sounds and gestures,” Mycroft said.
Dr Agarwal smiled. “In the presence of a person, yes. Our pets learned to communicate remotely.”
Mycroft nodded encouragingly.
“We put panels in the staff quarters where animals resided at various levels suited to their size. They were installed in the walls rather than the floors, so accidental pressures would be minimised,” Skye said.
“What material did you use for the panels?” Mycroft asked.
“We had a lot of spare glass remaining from outfitting the laboratories,” Sutton supplied.
“So the apparatus behind them was visible?” Mycroft enquired, a certain memory replaying as he spoke.
“No, one-way mirror was used. We have large sections in almost all the laboratories for unobtrusive observation,” Sutton said.
“I see,” Mycroft said. “And then?”
***
The throng at the bar was thinning. Most were outside again, laughter a little louder, balance less steady. John reached across the table and poured half of Sherlock’s bitter into his glass. When he set it down again, Sherlock was at the bar, just behind the man who had been there when they first came in and who did not seem to have moved. John wondered if he was dating the barman.
Sherlock popped a few peanuts in his mouth as he sauntered towards the table and sat down. “They play poker together,” he said, leaning across the table to give John the rest of the packet.
“I see,” John said, but he did not see, except that Sherlock had understood what he was thinking from across the room. John pictured the most lascivious thing he could imagine and stared straight at Sherlock.
Sherlock glanced at the table and ran his fingertips along the grain of the oak. “We could skip the kebab,” he said.
John considered the pale hand against the darkened wood. “I’ll pass out if I don’t eat some actual food soon,” he replied, thinking that his manoeuvre had back-fired because there was regret in his tone.
“We’ll get it to go,” Sherlock said, standing. “But keep the position in mind.”
John finished his ale and wondered how Sherlock could possibly know that.
Sherlock winked at John from the open door before swirling out. John banged his glass down and followed.
***
Mycroft folded his hands on top of the folder. “You hadn’t intended to breed the animals?”
“The litter came as a surprise,” Dr Agarwal explained. “Randolph had adopted two kittens shortly before arriving here under the impression that the animals had been neutered at the rescue centre where he acquired them.”
“When it became clear that the young female was pregnant, it offered an exciting opportunity to observe if any of the parents’ learned behaviours might be passed on to their offspring,” Skye added immediately.
“Then one of the resultant litter going missing was surely a cause for concern?” Mycroft remarked.
“We thought he might have got out of Randolph’s quarters and hid,” Agarwal said. She pursed her lips. “Perhaps died.”
“So you would eventually nose him out beneath the stairs,” Mycroft suggested.
“Yes,” Skye admitted, lifting his shoulders and spreading his hands, “although hiding was a strong possibility. Three was a shy kitten, unlike his littermates.”
“You weren’t concerned for the integrity of your official research?” Mycroft asked.
They all shook their heads. “The canteen and the sleeping quarters are carefully sealed off from the laboratories. If the kitten was hiding and coming out at night, it would remain contained in the staff area,” Skye said.
“So Randolph finally reported the unscheduled visit to his quarters by your esteemed guests?” Mycroft said.
“It was unscheduled, but not unauthorised,” Sutton clarified. “One of the guests had voiced concerns about the treatment of the animals being studied and the attitude of the staff towards their test subjects. Their FCO escort looked to me to counter those concerns, so I offered a tour through the staff quarters to let them see the off-duty employees with their own pets. The litter was rather the icing on the cake and did seem to satisfy them. It never occurred to us that one of the visitors would take a kitten away with them.”
Mycroft allowed himself an extra-long blink. “And what changed after all those months?”
“We were in the canteen, celebrating Randolph’s birthday with some drinks and cake, when a colleague said that it would be a great birthday present if the lost kitten showed up,” Agarwal explained. “And Randolph stopped smiling and tapped a finger to his lips.” Dr Agarwal mimicked the action. “’The visitors,’ he said after a moment. ‘The tall one had held the grey kitten and it had mewed and dug his claws into the man’s sleeve when he put it down. I saw him glance at his bodyguard before he turned to go. I’d thought he’d been worried about being scratched. Maybe that wasn’t what that look meant.’ That’s when we realised we had something to report.”
“Wouldn’t the kitten have meowed from the bodyguard’s pocket or wherever it was concealed,” Mycroft asked.
Skye lifted up his hands. “It’s what one would think. How could someone steal a kitten quietly?”
“They could kill it. Perhaps they wished to study the body. Had you explained your recreational experiment to your visitors?” Mycroft asked. He scanned their faces. One would think first-born children had been involved in his remark.
Dr Agarwal recovered first. “We didn’t explain our games, no,” she said. “We didn’t explain anything unless specifically asked, so we had confined our answers to the research on silk worms and on sheep. In fact, they left with a male lamb.”
Mycroft flipped open the file and tapped a page. “That was the specimen they were given.”
“Yes,” Sutton answered, craning his neck to check the photograph on the page. “It seemed that that was the motivation for the visit, the exchange of agricultural expertise. We weren’t given details, but the visitors made some comments to their escort during the tour.”
Mycroft did not express his view that the details had probably not been thought through before the visit had been arranged. He wondered whether his leaving the country in furtherance of certain national interests was worth the risk of stupidity running rampant in his absence.
“Have any staff with a pet left the facility since your extracurricular experiments began?” Mycroft asked.
All three shook their heads. “No, sir,” Sutton replied.
“Good,” Mycroft said and closed the folder again. “Prior to any proposed departure, you are to contact me for final authorisation.”
“Yes, sir,” Sutton said.
Mycroft took three cards from his waistcoat pocket, set one in front of Colonel Sutton and slid the other two partway across the table. “If you recall any further details or have any interesting developments in your ‘games’, contact me as well.” Doctors Agarwal and Skye reached for the cards. “I will call on you again in a couple months time if nothing out of the ordinary has transpired before then.” Mycroft pushed back his chair and stood. “Now I should like a tour of the staff quarters.”
***
“So where did you go?” John asked when he caught up to Sherlock.
“Back to the flat,” Sherlock answered. “A copy of everything on our gambler’s mobile is now on your laptop and his phone is once more in his pocket.”
“I was watching you and didn’t see a thing,” John exclaimed, ignoring the commandeering of his laptop. It had probably been closer to the door.
“You were also eating,” Sherlock said, fluttering the fingers of one hand, “and I am quick.”
John added a couple details to the image in his head. “So who is that bloke?” John said.
“Kit calls him Uncle Eddie in their email correspondence, but Edgar Thorpe is actually a cousin of Kit’s deceased father. Mr Thorpe possesses a short list of prior convictions for minor offences resulting in fines which Kit’s father often helped him to pay. Recently, Cousin Eddie totted up enough points to earn himself a driving ban,” Sherlock recited.
“So he brought Kit into his latest misadventure because driving was needed,” John concluded.
“Precisely,” Sherlock replied and stopped in front of a small restaurant.
“The Cardboard Box,” John read from the sign. “Isn’t there a place down by New Scotland Yard...”
“Yes, the owner is branching out. This one stays open later and has a few more tables,” Sherlock said and held open the door.
John’s stomach growled. “That smells fantastic.”
“You’re just very hungry,” Sherlock murmured as John brushed past.
***
Randolph Huygens was flushed when he caught up with Mycroft and Colonel Sutton outside his quarters. He consulted the screen on a device next to the door. “They’re all in,” he said and slipped his key card through the reader. A small light on the lock glowed green.
“You’ve microchipped them,” Mycroft said as he entered.
Dr Huygens shrugged as he waited for Colonel Sutton to step inside before closing the door behind them. “Barn door and all, I know,” Huygens said, glancing about the room, “but One, Two and Four, their parents and all the other pets can now be tracked.”
As he spoke, there was a flurry of movement. From a high shelf, a plump black-white-and-ginger calico jumped onto the single bed next to it. She walked to the corner of the bed nearest the door and sat up very straight regarding Mycroft. The tip of her tail twitched. A large, grey cat appeared from the shadows beneath the bed and stood between it and the visitors.
Three young adult cats separated themselves from the cushions leaning against the wall along the side of the bed and ranged themselves behind their mother: a solid ginger, a white-and-grey and a smaller calico.
“Is this something you’ve trained them to do, Huygens?” Sutton asked, the formation not lost on him.
“No, sir. I’ve never seen them do that before,” Dr Huygens replied.
“I don’t imagine they encounter many unfamiliar people here,” Mycroft said, watching the animals, “unless there have been other visits of which you should inform me.”
“No,” Huygens and Sutton replied in unison. Sutton added, “sir.”
The cat on point walked forward until he stood nose to toe with Mycroft’s shoes. He sniffed delicately, then with more enthusiasm, wending between Mycroft’s legs to circle each shoe. The older calico jumped down.
“You haven’t been walking through catnip recently, have you?” Dr Huygens asked.
“Not any of which I am aware,” Mycroft replied.
“I suppose new smells are exciting,” Dr Huygens said, reaching for the mobile on his desk. “Would you mind if I filmed this?”
“Yes,” Mycroft said as the younger cats hopped off the bed and joined their parents.
“I’d just do it from the knees down,” Huygens said, phone in hand.
Mycroft frowned.
Sutton scowled at Huygens. He put the phone back.
Mycroft pivoted in his circle of cats and stared at the mirrored panel next to the bottom third of the door.
“Perhaps when their curiosity is sated, you might persuade one of your clowder to demonstrate that,” he said and waved his hand doorward.
Huygens looked relieved. “I’ve just the thing,” he said, taking a box out of his desk drawer. He pocketed a couple crinkly packets from it.
The grey cat turned towards the sound.
Huygens strode across the room and was out the door in a thrice.
The grey left the cluster around Mycroft, walked to the side of the door and raised a paw to the glass.
Mycroft watched the cat raise and lower its paw repeatedly, then wait. Nothing happened. After a minute, the cat began pressing on the mirror again. A red light above the panel turned green, the door clicked open and the cat slipped out.
“The animal chose the ‘return’ command first,” Mycroft commented.
Sutton nodded. “They usually do.”
“And the people respond,” Mycroft stated.
Sutton nodded again. “If they can. They're not always free.”
It was Mycroft’s turn to nod. “They have them well trained.”
Sutton did not ask for clarification.
***
Among the greasy wrappers on the coffee table, a mobile buzzed. From his post by the window, Red glanced over his shoulder. Gray looked up from Sherlock’s hair, blinking slowly. The papers rustled as the vibrations moved the phone closer to the edge. John opened an eye, closed it again. The mobile cleared the papers, tipped over the edge. Sherlock held out his hand, caught it. He lifted the screen near his eyes.
“Mycroft is texting you,” he mumbled and let his hand drop to the floor.
The phone buzzed.
John lifted his head from Sherlock’s chest, one side of Sherlock’s shirt sticking to his face, the side with the buttons. John peeled it away, leaned over Sherlock’s hip and found the phone. “You could’ve turned it off,” he said.
“What’s he want?” Sherlock asked.
“Why didn’t you read it?” John asked, settling back on Sherlock’s chest with the silent phone tucked up under his chin.
Sherlock’s arm fell from the back of the sofa onto John’s back. “Your reading it will improve the message,” he replied.
The vibrations of the words tickled John's cheek. “Fine,” he said and peered at the phone to open the message. “He wants to know if Mike Stamford has had his kittens spayed.”
“He didn’t complain about his password?”
John swiped the screen. “Nope. Just the one question.”
“Has he?” Sherlock asked.
“Mike? I don’t know. Last we spoke, he only mentioned the cats to ask whether we’d look after them when his family go on holiday. Said his daughters insisted their kittens could not go to a cattery,” John answered.
“Smart girls,” Sherlock said. He drummed his fingers along John’s spine. “Just out of whatever dark hole he’s been in and Mycroft wants to know that. Why?”
“Shall we ask him?” John enquired, tapping the phone against Sherlock’s stomach.
“No,” Sherlock said.
“Can we go to bed, then?”
“Yes.”
***
The next chapter may be read here.
