Saving Sherlock Holmes (32/43)
Feb. 19th, 2013 12:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
earlgreytea68Title - Saving Sherlock Holmes (32/43)
Author -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Characters - Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Sally
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - Sherlock Holmes, schoolboy. Yeah, that basically sums it up.
Author's Notes - Thank yous! Tflawedamythyst n sensiblecat or the Britpick; to the readers who read as this was being written, includin chicklet73; and t arctacuda, who uncomplainingly betas massive amounts of fic.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 - Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-Two
Greg was in the middle of a div of first years when the headmaster knocked on the door, and he experienced a sinking feeling of dread, because this could not possibly be good.
The students all watched curiously as he walked over to the door, twisting around in their seats to get a better view, and Greg smiled easily and said, “Hello. Is there something wrong? As you can see, I’m in the middle of—”
“As a matter of fact,” said the headmaster, who, Greg could now see, was accompanied by the master of John and Sherlock’s house and another tutor. Definitely not good. “There is something wrong. Mr. Hewitt is going to cover your school for you. Mr. Hewitt?”
Mr. Hewitt, head down as if he didn’t want to meet the eyes of a condemned man, scurried past Greg and into the classroom.
Greg stepped fully out of the classroom and closed the door behind him. “What’s happened?”
The headmaster handed him a piece of paper, folded over, with “Mr. Lestrade” written across the front. Greg didn’t recognize the handwriting. It wasn’t Sherlock’s, which was messy in the extreme, as if he couldn’t be bothered to be legible for the sake of people stupider than he was.
Greg, sending the headmaster a puzzled look, unfolded the piece of paper. Please don’t panic or raise the alarm. We’ve gone to London to investigate the death of some boy who drowned at a swim meet. You know how S is. If you could phone ahead to Sgt Donovan, I’ll try to get S to Scotland Yard at some point. Thanks for this. We owe you, as ever. –John Watson
Greg read the note twice. Not that it wasn’t clear the first time, but he needed time to formulate what his defense was going to be.
“Why does John Watson think you’ll cover for them here?” the headmaster demanded. “And what’s this talk about Scotland Yard? Who is Sergeant Donovan?”
Greg opened his mouth, thinking.
“I told you,” hissed the housemaster to the headmaster. “I told you he’d got too close to them. He’s been letting them get away with murder. I bet you even knew about the dog, didn’t you?”
Greg looked between them, and then decided that he didn’t really have a defense, that most of what they would accuse him of was true, and so it wasn’t worth his effort to lie about it. “We should get in touch with Mycroft Holmes,” he said. “And I can phone Sergeant Donovan, to track them down.”
“That’s it?” demanded the headmaster. “Haven’t you anything else to say for yourself?”
Greg considered. “No,” he decided. “I don’t think, right now, that I do. Let’s just find them and get them safe.”
“If you think,” the headmaster bit out, “that we’re not going to have a great deal more discussion on this topic—”
“I wouldn’t imagine that for a second, sir,” Greg said, respectfully, but the bell had rung to signal the end of divs, and the hallway was filling, and they were getting curious glances, and it was dropped for the time being.
***
There was a time when Mycroft had been very used to phone calls from the headmaster at Eton. It was funny, Mycroft reflected, how quickly one could fall out of habits, adjust to a new reality. In a matter of mere months, Sherlock’s previous years at Eton had all faded into what had felt like a closed book. Sherlock had seemed beyond all of it. Mycroft realized, in the moment when his PA said that the headmaster had rung for him, that he had decided Sherlock might just be happy for the rest of his life, that John would keep him in line and Mycroft could spend a little less time worrying about him and a little more time doing things like trying to determine how to navigate a relationship with his little brother’s tutor.
He had let his concentration lapse for just a little while, he thought. And the terrible thing about it was that it had been kind of…nice.
“Your brother has run away,” the headmaster informed him.
“And what makes you think that?” asked Mycroft, already feeling resigned to a long day ahead of him.
“Because his partner-in-crime, Mr. Watson, left us a note.”
“He’s with John, then? That, at least, makes sense. I don’t suppose the note told us anything so helpful as where they’ve gone?”
“London,” replied the headmaster, dryly, “to investigate the death of a boy at a swim meet, according to the note. I know it sounds preposterous, but, well, I am sorry to inform you that Mr. Lestrade, your brother’s tutor, has apparently been encouraging this sort of…crime-solving foolishness.”
“Yes,” said Mycroft, “with my permission.”
“With your permission?” The headmaster sounded incredulous.
“Is Mr. Lestrade there?” asked Mycroft, injecting boredom into his tone. “And, if he isn’t, could someone fetch him? I need to speak with him.”
There was a long moment of silence. Mycroft knew the headmaster was debating. And then he said, reluctantly, “Just a moment.”
Greg spoke next. “Mr. Holmes,” he said, very carefully formal, and Mycroft sighed.
“The boy at the swim meet, I read about it in the paper. Carl Powers was his name, and there was a suspicious detail about missing trainers. How does Sherlock even know about this? Sherlock never reads the papers; I never let him, for precisely this reason.”
“I didn’t give him the newspaper.” Greg sounded defensive.
“I’m not accusing you.” Mycroft sighed again. “Is it better or worse for you to call Sally and tell her what Sherlock’s investigating, have her be on the lookout for him? Or for me to use my connections?” Greg said nothing. “I’m genuinely asking your advice, Greg,” Mycroft prompted him.
“Sherlock and Sally aren’t especially the best of friends, but your connections would be overkill, wouldn’t they?”
“Well.” Mycroft considered. “Tasteful overkill.”
Greg sighed heavily. “I’ll ring Sally. She’s going to want to murder me. She might never speak to me again.”
“Tell her I’ll pay her for all this trouble.”
Greg chuckled.
“I’m serious,” said Mycroft.
“Ah,” said Greg, “right.” He cleared his throat, sounding a bit awkward, and Mycroft recalled that there was an audience on Greg’s end. “I’ll ring Sally.” He hesitated. “I’m sure Sherlock’s absolutely fine.”
“I’m not any more worried about him than I always am,” Mycroft said, honestly. “He took John with him. John’s practical. John will keep the recklessness in check.”
***
“This is unbelievably reckless,” John complained, nevertheless obediently following Sherlock up the building’s fire escape.
“We don’t have a choice,” Sherlock told him, impatiently, climbing with a sure expertise that John envied a little bit. “We have to shake them.”
“Are you sure we’re—” Sherlock reached the roof and took off at a dash. “—being followed,” John finished quietly to himself, because there was no point in pretending to talk to Sherlock, he was already too far ahead. John gritted his teeth and broke into a run.
Sherlock was darting headlong over the roof. It was close against the next building, a mere step and they were over it, and Sherlock kept dashing. John made sure to keep the tail of his coat within grabbing range, just in case Sherlock did anything daft like skid off the side of a building, possible in the slick rain puddles. But Sherlock ran in a sure-footed manner, and he took the leap over to the next roof without a moment’s hesitation. John did hesitate. He thought. His body skidded to such an abrupt stop at the edge of the roof that he felt as if his stomach crashed into his heart. He stared, slightly dizzy, at the distance to the ground and the distance between the roofs.
Sherlock paused, looking back at him, slowing. “John!” he called. “Hurry up!”
John looked over his shoulder, and, impossibly, there was someone chasing them over the rooftops. They were being followed. John had a moment of blind questions running through his head—Who? Why? What the bloody hell?—and then he backed up a few steps to take a running leap to the building Sherlock was on. He cleared it, stumbling only a bit on the landing, and Sherlock, satisfied, took off again.
Now that he knew they really were being chased, he felt his adrenaline kick in. Sherlock was running as if he knew exactly where they were going, and John supposed he wouldn’t put it past him to have memorized all the rooftop routes in London. Sherlock was descending another fire escape now, practically skidding down it, and John followed, half-slipping and sliding himself.
They reached the ground, and they were on a busy street, and John tried to place it but didn’t have time, because Sherlock darted out into the traffic without even a moment’s hesitation. John felt all his breath leave him in a curse as a car squealed its brakes and Sherlock skimmed over its bonnet without even glancing behind. John followed, apologizing and shouting at Sherlock, but Sherlock was already across the street, down an alley, and then another alley. Sherlock was sprinting by this point, and John was having trouble keeping him in sight, and then they burst out into another busy street and Sherlock, in front of him, snagged a cab, practically lunging into traffic again in his eagerness to be seen.
Sherlock turned and grabbed John and shoved him into the cab, as if John hadn’t been moving quickly enough, and then he clambered in behind him, slammed the car door shut, and gasped to the driver, “New Scotland Yard. Hurry.”
“What the hell was that?” demanded John, trying to catch his breath. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
“Quite the contrary,” Sherlock snapped.
“Don’t you ever run out into traffic like that again,” John ordered him. “I think you almost gave me a heart attack.” He pressed his hand to his chest, where his heart really did feel like it had stuttered at the sight of that car barreling down on Sherlock.
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Sherlock scoffed. “You’re seventeen and in decent health, a heart attack is unlikely.”
“Decent health?” echoed John. “I’m in excellent health.”
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows at him. “You’re overly fond of sweets, you know.”
“Oh my God,” said John. “This from the person who wouldn’t eat anything at all if I didn’t force him to. And this is changing the subject. Who was that chasing us?”
“I have no idea.” Sherlock looked brightly enthusiastic. “But this is getting fun!”
“You’re mad,” said John. “You’re completely mad.” He suddenly found himself giggling against his seat, rolling with laughter. He blamed the adrenaline crash. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”
“Oh, please, you flirting with the maid was more ridiculous than that.”
“I only flirted with the maid because you told me to.”
“I thought you’d do a better job than that.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“We should flirt more often.”
“We’re flirting now. It’s just that rooftop chases aren’t the typical flirtatious device.”
“The rest of humanity is so boring,” remarked Sherlock. “How did you stand it before me?”
“I have no idea,” John answered, honestly. “Care to fill me in on what’s going on with this case? So I can write it up for us?”
“I don’t know.” Sherlock shook his head. “I know how he died. But I don’t know why, or who.”
“Just that whoever it was is desperate enough to keep it quiet that he chased us over rooftops.”
“But did that have to do with Carl Powers?” Sherlock was musing out the window. “A boy. At a swim meet. And such a clever murder, John. Such an elegant murder. But the trainers. Why the trainers? Almost like…a sign? A signal? Wanting to be caught? The frailty of genius, John—it craves an audience.”
“You don’t say,” said John.
The cab drew to a stop in front of New Scotland Yard, and Sherlock said, “You’ve still got the money, John. Pay him,” and got out of the cab.
John paid the driver and followed Sherlock into New Scotland Yard, listening while Sherlock asked for Sergeant Donovan. She came stalking into the lobby a second later, looking extremely displeased to see them.
“Look who it is,” she said. “The freak. And you.” She looked at John. “Still hanging around him? You should get a hobby.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” said John, giving the words a sharpness.
“Do you know what I’m not?” She folded her arms and frowned at them. “I’m not a babysitter.”
“Sergeant Donovan,” said Sherlock. “About the Carl Powers murder—”
“Save it.” She lifted her hand up. “I’m not listening to another word. You’re getting a police escort to a train back to Eton, and then that’s it, I’m done. I don’t care how much your brother pays me.”
Sherlock went still, swallowing all the words he’d been about to say. He frowned, furrowing his brow, and when he spoke his tone was flat. “My brother pays you,” he said. “Of course. Of course.” He repeated the second of course softly under his breath, to himself, looking thoughtful.
There was something smaller about him suddenly. Something that made John want to reach out and gather him in. “Sherlock,” he said.
“Never mind,” Sherlock said, primly, sounding collected and recovered from the momentary flicker he’d just had. “Sergeant Donovan is quite right. We should go back to Eton. We are far more trouble than the money’s worth.”
John stared at him in confusion. “But what about—”
Sherlock gave him a look John could easily interpret. A shut up look. Something had changed, but John wasn’t sure what it was. “I said, never mind,” Sherlock emphasized. “Let’s go home.”
Next Chapter
Author -
earlgreytea68Rating - Teen
Characters - Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Sally
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - Sherlock Holmes, schoolboy. Yeah, that basically sums it up.
Author's Notes - Thank yous! T
flawedamythyst n sensiblecat or the Britpick; to the readers who read as this was being written, includin chicklet73; and t arctacuda, who uncomplainingly betas massive amounts of fic.Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 - Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-Two
Greg was in the middle of a div of first years when the headmaster knocked on the door, and he experienced a sinking feeling of dread, because this could not possibly be good.
The students all watched curiously as he walked over to the door, twisting around in their seats to get a better view, and Greg smiled easily and said, “Hello. Is there something wrong? As you can see, I’m in the middle of—”
“As a matter of fact,” said the headmaster, who, Greg could now see, was accompanied by the master of John and Sherlock’s house and another tutor. Definitely not good. “There is something wrong. Mr. Hewitt is going to cover your school for you. Mr. Hewitt?”
Mr. Hewitt, head down as if he didn’t want to meet the eyes of a condemned man, scurried past Greg and into the classroom.
Greg stepped fully out of the classroom and closed the door behind him. “What’s happened?”
The headmaster handed him a piece of paper, folded over, with “Mr. Lestrade” written across the front. Greg didn’t recognize the handwriting. It wasn’t Sherlock’s, which was messy in the extreme, as if he couldn’t be bothered to be legible for the sake of people stupider than he was.
Greg, sending the headmaster a puzzled look, unfolded the piece of paper. Please don’t panic or raise the alarm. We’ve gone to London to investigate the death of some boy who drowned at a swim meet. You know how S is. If you could phone ahead to Sgt Donovan, I’ll try to get S to Scotland Yard at some point. Thanks for this. We owe you, as ever. –John Watson
Greg read the note twice. Not that it wasn’t clear the first time, but he needed time to formulate what his defense was going to be.
“Why does John Watson think you’ll cover for them here?” the headmaster demanded. “And what’s this talk about Scotland Yard? Who is Sergeant Donovan?”
Greg opened his mouth, thinking.
“I told you,” hissed the housemaster to the headmaster. “I told you he’d got too close to them. He’s been letting them get away with murder. I bet you even knew about the dog, didn’t you?”
Greg looked between them, and then decided that he didn’t really have a defense, that most of what they would accuse him of was true, and so it wasn’t worth his effort to lie about it. “We should get in touch with Mycroft Holmes,” he said. “And I can phone Sergeant Donovan, to track them down.”
“That’s it?” demanded the headmaster. “Haven’t you anything else to say for yourself?”
Greg considered. “No,” he decided. “I don’t think, right now, that I do. Let’s just find them and get them safe.”
“If you think,” the headmaster bit out, “that we’re not going to have a great deal more discussion on this topic—”
“I wouldn’t imagine that for a second, sir,” Greg said, respectfully, but the bell had rung to signal the end of divs, and the hallway was filling, and they were getting curious glances, and it was dropped for the time being.
***
There was a time when Mycroft had been very used to phone calls from the headmaster at Eton. It was funny, Mycroft reflected, how quickly one could fall out of habits, adjust to a new reality. In a matter of mere months, Sherlock’s previous years at Eton had all faded into what had felt like a closed book. Sherlock had seemed beyond all of it. Mycroft realized, in the moment when his PA said that the headmaster had rung for him, that he had decided Sherlock might just be happy for the rest of his life, that John would keep him in line and Mycroft could spend a little less time worrying about him and a little more time doing things like trying to determine how to navigate a relationship with his little brother’s tutor.
He had let his concentration lapse for just a little while, he thought. And the terrible thing about it was that it had been kind of…nice.
“Your brother has run away,” the headmaster informed him.
“And what makes you think that?” asked Mycroft, already feeling resigned to a long day ahead of him.
“Because his partner-in-crime, Mr. Watson, left us a note.”
“He’s with John, then? That, at least, makes sense. I don’t suppose the note told us anything so helpful as where they’ve gone?”
“London,” replied the headmaster, dryly, “to investigate the death of a boy at a swim meet, according to the note. I know it sounds preposterous, but, well, I am sorry to inform you that Mr. Lestrade, your brother’s tutor, has apparently been encouraging this sort of…crime-solving foolishness.”
“Yes,” said Mycroft, “with my permission.”
“With your permission?” The headmaster sounded incredulous.
“Is Mr. Lestrade there?” asked Mycroft, injecting boredom into his tone. “And, if he isn’t, could someone fetch him? I need to speak with him.”
There was a long moment of silence. Mycroft knew the headmaster was debating. And then he said, reluctantly, “Just a moment.”
Greg spoke next. “Mr. Holmes,” he said, very carefully formal, and Mycroft sighed.
“The boy at the swim meet, I read about it in the paper. Carl Powers was his name, and there was a suspicious detail about missing trainers. How does Sherlock even know about this? Sherlock never reads the papers; I never let him, for precisely this reason.”
“I didn’t give him the newspaper.” Greg sounded defensive.
“I’m not accusing you.” Mycroft sighed again. “Is it better or worse for you to call Sally and tell her what Sherlock’s investigating, have her be on the lookout for him? Or for me to use my connections?” Greg said nothing. “I’m genuinely asking your advice, Greg,” Mycroft prompted him.
“Sherlock and Sally aren’t especially the best of friends, but your connections would be overkill, wouldn’t they?”
“Well.” Mycroft considered. “Tasteful overkill.”
Greg sighed heavily. “I’ll ring Sally. She’s going to want to murder me. She might never speak to me again.”
“Tell her I’ll pay her for all this trouble.”
Greg chuckled.
“I’m serious,” said Mycroft.
“Ah,” said Greg, “right.” He cleared his throat, sounding a bit awkward, and Mycroft recalled that there was an audience on Greg’s end. “I’ll ring Sally.” He hesitated. “I’m sure Sherlock’s absolutely fine.”
“I’m not any more worried about him than I always am,” Mycroft said, honestly. “He took John with him. John’s practical. John will keep the recklessness in check.”
***
“This is unbelievably reckless,” John complained, nevertheless obediently following Sherlock up the building’s fire escape.
“We don’t have a choice,” Sherlock told him, impatiently, climbing with a sure expertise that John envied a little bit. “We have to shake them.”
“Are you sure we’re—” Sherlock reached the roof and took off at a dash. “—being followed,” John finished quietly to himself, because there was no point in pretending to talk to Sherlock, he was already too far ahead. John gritted his teeth and broke into a run.
Sherlock was darting headlong over the roof. It was close against the next building, a mere step and they were over it, and Sherlock kept dashing. John made sure to keep the tail of his coat within grabbing range, just in case Sherlock did anything daft like skid off the side of a building, possible in the slick rain puddles. But Sherlock ran in a sure-footed manner, and he took the leap over to the next roof without a moment’s hesitation. John did hesitate. He thought. His body skidded to such an abrupt stop at the edge of the roof that he felt as if his stomach crashed into his heart. He stared, slightly dizzy, at the distance to the ground and the distance between the roofs.
Sherlock paused, looking back at him, slowing. “John!” he called. “Hurry up!”
John looked over his shoulder, and, impossibly, there was someone chasing them over the rooftops. They were being followed. John had a moment of blind questions running through his head—Who? Why? What the bloody hell?—and then he backed up a few steps to take a running leap to the building Sherlock was on. He cleared it, stumbling only a bit on the landing, and Sherlock, satisfied, took off again.
Now that he knew they really were being chased, he felt his adrenaline kick in. Sherlock was running as if he knew exactly where they were going, and John supposed he wouldn’t put it past him to have memorized all the rooftop routes in London. Sherlock was descending another fire escape now, practically skidding down it, and John followed, half-slipping and sliding himself.
They reached the ground, and they were on a busy street, and John tried to place it but didn’t have time, because Sherlock darted out into the traffic without even a moment’s hesitation. John felt all his breath leave him in a curse as a car squealed its brakes and Sherlock skimmed over its bonnet without even glancing behind. John followed, apologizing and shouting at Sherlock, but Sherlock was already across the street, down an alley, and then another alley. Sherlock was sprinting by this point, and John was having trouble keeping him in sight, and then they burst out into another busy street and Sherlock, in front of him, snagged a cab, practically lunging into traffic again in his eagerness to be seen.
Sherlock turned and grabbed John and shoved him into the cab, as if John hadn’t been moving quickly enough, and then he clambered in behind him, slammed the car door shut, and gasped to the driver, “New Scotland Yard. Hurry.”
“What the hell was that?” demanded John, trying to catch his breath. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
“Quite the contrary,” Sherlock snapped.
“Don’t you ever run out into traffic like that again,” John ordered him. “I think you almost gave me a heart attack.” He pressed his hand to his chest, where his heart really did feel like it had stuttered at the sight of that car barreling down on Sherlock.
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Sherlock scoffed. “You’re seventeen and in decent health, a heart attack is unlikely.”
“Decent health?” echoed John. “I’m in excellent health.”
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows at him. “You’re overly fond of sweets, you know.”
“Oh my God,” said John. “This from the person who wouldn’t eat anything at all if I didn’t force him to. And this is changing the subject. Who was that chasing us?”
“I have no idea.” Sherlock looked brightly enthusiastic. “But this is getting fun!”
“You’re mad,” said John. “You’re completely mad.” He suddenly found himself giggling against his seat, rolling with laughter. He blamed the adrenaline crash. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”
“Oh, please, you flirting with the maid was more ridiculous than that.”
“I only flirted with the maid because you told me to.”
“I thought you’d do a better job than that.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“We should flirt more often.”
“We’re flirting now. It’s just that rooftop chases aren’t the typical flirtatious device.”
“The rest of humanity is so boring,” remarked Sherlock. “How did you stand it before me?”
“I have no idea,” John answered, honestly. “Care to fill me in on what’s going on with this case? So I can write it up for us?”
“I don’t know.” Sherlock shook his head. “I know how he died. But I don’t know why, or who.”
“Just that whoever it was is desperate enough to keep it quiet that he chased us over rooftops.”
“But did that have to do with Carl Powers?” Sherlock was musing out the window. “A boy. At a swim meet. And such a clever murder, John. Such an elegant murder. But the trainers. Why the trainers? Almost like…a sign? A signal? Wanting to be caught? The frailty of genius, John—it craves an audience.”
“You don’t say,” said John.
The cab drew to a stop in front of New Scotland Yard, and Sherlock said, “You’ve still got the money, John. Pay him,” and got out of the cab.
John paid the driver and followed Sherlock into New Scotland Yard, listening while Sherlock asked for Sergeant Donovan. She came stalking into the lobby a second later, looking extremely displeased to see them.
“Look who it is,” she said. “The freak. And you.” She looked at John. “Still hanging around him? You should get a hobby.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” said John, giving the words a sharpness.
“Do you know what I’m not?” She folded her arms and frowned at them. “I’m not a babysitter.”
“Sergeant Donovan,” said Sherlock. “About the Carl Powers murder—”
“Save it.” She lifted her hand up. “I’m not listening to another word. You’re getting a police escort to a train back to Eton, and then that’s it, I’m done. I don’t care how much your brother pays me.”
Sherlock went still, swallowing all the words he’d been about to say. He frowned, furrowing his brow, and when he spoke his tone was flat. “My brother pays you,” he said. “Of course. Of course.” He repeated the second of course softly under his breath, to himself, looking thoughtful.
There was something smaller about him suddenly. Something that made John want to reach out and gather him in. “Sherlock,” he said.
“Never mind,” Sherlock said, primly, sounding collected and recovered from the momentary flicker he’d just had. “Sergeant Donovan is quite right. We should go back to Eton. We are far more trouble than the money’s worth.”
John stared at him in confusion. “But what about—”
Sherlock gave him a look John could easily interpret. A shut up look. Something had changed, but John wasn’t sure what it was. “I said, never mind,” Sherlock emphasized. “Let’s go home.”
Next Chapter
