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The Dancing Men (II)

Part 16 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

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SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Word Count: (9.1k)

Author’s Note: Is this a filler chapter...? yes. Is this chapter over 9 thousand words...? yes. (This was also a chance to explore other characters besides Sherlock, John, and Y/N)

Also, I did not realize the dancing men code did not insert the last chapter, so I went back an added that. (Thought it might be fun for yall to figure out the code alongside Sherlock.)

Warnings: Drug usage, mentions of drugs, murder, descriptions of blood and injuries, Sherlock is Sherlock (let me know if I have missed anything)

Everything was in place: buttery popcorn, fluffy blanket, lights dimmed down low, and the chosen movie on the television screen. Bjørn sat cozied up on Y/N’s lap. His brown fur was a stark contrast to the white light blue blanket on her lap. Across from the two of them was John. His back was relaxed as he sank into the soft cushion of Y/N’s couch. All worries of the workday were forgotten as they dived into the latest choice for their movie night.

Bjørn quite enjoyed these evenings. One, John was present and Bjørn liked John very much. Second, Y/N was holding him close and petting his fur; an action the cat loved. Third, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Bjørn remembers the first movie night they held and, unfortunately, Sherlock had been invited to that, until he predicted how the entire movie would play out, so then John had heroically banned the man from movie nights.

Mrs. Hudson, one of Bjørn’s favourite people, would occasionally be invited to the movie nights, but those were only the rom-com nights. The cat could easily recall the woman’s fondness of the romance genre from all the soap operas and romance films she watched while watching over Bjørn for the night. Bjørn didn’t mind the sappiness of the movies at all because he was well rewarded by Mrs. Hudson with treats and baked goods that were only meant for pets.

Bjørn purred as Y/N reached over to grab the remote to play the movie. His owner had heard of the movie from word of mouth. It was something called “The Eyes of My Mother.” Apparently, it was scary good or at least that’s what Y/N had mentioned when telling John.

Tonight was horror movie night. It was one of two genres both Y/N and John enjoyed watching together. Bjørn preferred horror movie nights. It meant that the people in the room would be fighting to find comfort from the cat as the jump scares and loud scary noises crept up in the scenes on the screen. Bjørn liked to provide comfort. He loved to protect those he loved. Which was why the cat was glad Sherlock was not here. There was something about that man that Bjørn didn’t like. Maybe it was the way his black hair bounced atop his head. No one should have that dark of curls. It could have been the piercing blue eyes that reminded Bjørn of a predator or the man’s peculiar aura. Bjørn could see auras and there was something strange about Sherlock's.

The movie had begun. The two humans in the room jumped at certain jump scares. Bjørn was almost knocked off Y/N’s lap at one point. The cat began to wonder if it would be safer to sit on John’s lap, so eventually he crawled out of his seat on his owner's lap and settled onto John’s. John welcomed the warmth and comfort that Bjørn presented. In trade for the cat, Y/N got the popcorn bowl. The woman was forced to, instead, find comfort in the plastic bowl that carried the buttery goodness.

Bjørn had just settled into his seat on John’s lap (well, of course, the man had an excellent lap) when he felt a petulant buzzing from underneath him. The movie was quickly paused and Bjørn cracked open his eyes to watch Y/N and John search for the noise. Bjørn contemplated helping them search and putting an end to the noise, but the source was soon found under the mound of blankets.

Once uncovered, a horrendous ringtone began to play from John’s phone. A ringtone that he had set years prior, that he meant to change but just never got around to it. John retrieved his phone and Bjørn caught sight of a pellicular look on the man’s face.

“Hello?” John answered.

Bjørn, with his excellent hearing, could make out the sound of a woman’s voice. Now, the cat hadn’t gotten used to the British accent. While the cat could understand Mrs Hudson, John, and reluctantly Sherlock, everyone else was a mystery. He blamed his understanding of the human language and the voice of those who found a home in 221B to be a matter of proximity. He willingly got used to John and Mrs. Hudon’s voices. He loved Y/N’s. Sherlock’s? Well, Sherlock’s was like screeching. Bjørn hated it. He hated everything about the man. Hate wasn’t a strong enough word. Bjørn loathed Sherlock entirely.

“Hello, is this John Watson?” The voice asked over the phone.

John’s face turned to shock. He was surprised to hear a voice he hadn’t heard in years. It belonged to one Kate Whitney. An old friend of his sister’s (and the girl he dated in his Secondary Educational years, but John prefers to use “a friend of his sister”.)

“Kate?” John asked.

“John? Oh, thank heavens! I don’t know what to do John!” Kate cried to him over the phone.

John waited for Kate to finish talking.

“It’s about Isa. He hasn’t been home for about two days and I’m getting worried. I heard from your sister that you were working with that detective now…” She sobbed.

Isa Whitney. Right. Kate’s husband. Also an old friend from Secondary School. Bjørn looked up at John. The man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as Kate cried over the phone. Bjørn’s ears began to hurt from the whining.

In the back of John’s mind, he knew what Kate was going to ask next the second Sherlock had been mentioned. So John took the preemptive step to ask if she knew where her husband would be.

Kate answered immediately. “The opium den on the east side of the city. At a place called Bar of Gold on Upper Swandam lane.”

Bjørn could feel John’s actions before they came and the cat regretted choosing to find a seat on John’s lap. The cat quickly hopped off and back onto Y/N’s lap just as John’s body groaned. John’s muscles expanded and contracted shooting into motion as he stood up to fetch his things by the door.

Kate was overjoyed. “Oh, John. Thank you! I would go myself but that place is not safe for a woman like me.”

Of course, Kate continued to ramble on as John grabbed his keys and stumbled down the stairs and out of 221B.

“Yes…Kate…” John tried to conclude the conversation. “I’ll have to…Kate…”

Now, John liked to think that he was a kind man. If one compared John to his friend Sherlock, he would most definitely be the “kinder” out of the two of them. John made sure to thank Mrs. Hudson whenever she brought up tea for him and Sherlock and apologize to others (clients, police officers, Greg, Y/N, Bjørn) whenever he could. Since John made the active choice to be kind, he found himself having a hard time saying no. Well, unless it was Sherlock. Sherlock was easy to say no to.

Even with this kindness that has seeped deep into John’s bones, he knew he had to end the call soon. While Kate was talking, John cleared his throat and spoke up. “Kate. I’ll go out to find Isa. I’ll bring him home. Got to go.” Without another word, the phone call was over.

As John tugged on his jacket and shoes by the door. Once he was all set, he turned around to Y/N to apologize. He mentioned she could continue the movie, but the woman refused and insisted on waiting for him to return to finish it. Bjørn could sense the man began to feel guilty about the whole scenario and seemingly so could Y/N.

“John, go. Help your friend. I’ll be fine,” Y/N reassured.

That’s all it took for John to bid goodbye and leave 221B in search of Isa Whitney. Bjørn hopped up from Y/N’s lap once more and settled on the section of the couch John once sat on. The cat was not content with the idea of being thrown off another lap. As if on cue, Y/N stood up from the couch and moved to the kitchen to make herself some tea. Once the water was boiled and the tea poured, Bjørn watched his owner pick up her phone.

Y/N scrolled through her phone looking for a worthy distraction. Of course, she could just find something else to watch, but it felt wrong. Instinctively her finger found itself drifting to the messages. There were two messages from Jim asking about their date later that week. She hovered over the messages reading them over and over again, before sending a short reply confirming the time.

Part of her felt bad. Jim was her boyfriend after all. However, there was something deep within her that wanted someone else. It was a secret she could never admit to herself for fear of the emotions coming up front and centre displaying for all to see. Those very emotions the man in question would sense in an instant. That very man she found herself calling. The phone rang. It rang. Then it stopped. Sherlock’s voice box message played over the speakers and then Y/N hung up.

She groaned and dropped her head into her hands. She needed to stop. Sherlock was out for a business trip, whatever that was. She and John didn’t press, but Y/N began to think she should have. She missed him. Her finger tightened around the roots of her hair. This was bad. She missed Sherlock. Missing someone was the step just before you had to come clean with yourself; because you could only miss someone if you cared for them.

_______

It wasn’t the first time John had been called to help Kate. He was well aware of her and her husband’s troubles. At first, Kate had gone to Harriet, John’s sister, until she realized that Harriet and Isa shared similar afflictions. As one does with comfort, Kate found someone who was in a similar boat as her; that someone had to be John Watson.

At the beginning of John’s journey, he hadn't had much of an issue finding a cab that would take him to Upper Swandam Lane. Although he got a few judgemental looks from his cab driver on the way to the location. When John did arrive at the street, that was when things started to take a turn.

Upper Swandam Lane was a vile place to be. It was an alleyway that lurked behind the high wharves on the north side of the river just to the east of the London Bridge. The alleyway itself was between a slop shop and a gin shop. There was a set of stairs that John had to climb up to reach the alley. There was litter, burnt-up cigarette butts, and mysteriously gooey substances that adhered to the ground. Overall a place that screamed germs, something that just so happened to be a doctor’s worst nightmare.

As John trekked up the stairs, he was glad that he had chosen to wear his thick boots. He’d prefer it if he didn’t end up with a contaminated needle stuck in his foot. The further John walked through the alley the more addicts he had to step over. People who had come for the high were now suffering the after-effects as they lay on the ground. John’s eyes carefully scoured the area looking for the familiar face of Isa Whitney.

Eventually, John reached a wooden door. Above the door was a flickering lamp that only added to the alley’s chilling ambience. John could hear the sounds of muffled voices, laughter, and cheers from the other side of the door. He thought it over and assumed that it’d be best to try his luck inside the building. As John reached for the door handle, he prayed that Isa Whitney would be in there.

The door creaked open to reveal a long, low room. The air was thick and heavy with the smoke of opium and other drugs. The lights were gloomy as they tried to shine through the dark smog. Through the gloom, John could make out figures of all sizes and shapes. They were all lying in strange poses as they all turned their heads to glance at the newcomer. Scattered amongst the haze were little red circles of light at the end of metal pipes. Occasionally a figure would reach out for the pipes and lift it to their lips before inhaling.

There was a hushed conversation in the building as John made his way around the room in search of Isa. As luck would have it, John found the man. Isa was in the back of the room. He sat on a three-legged stool with his back hunched over a pipe. His fists were clenched tightly around the object as he raised his arms up to shakingly bring the pipe to his mouth.

John tried to make quick work of reaching Isa but was stopped numerous times along the way. Attendants and other addicts would offer him a smoke or try to lead him in another direction in their delirium.

“No thank you,” John would reply before returning to his chosen path. Eventually, the crowd and temptation grew too much, so John called out to Isa. “Isa Whitney!” The room fell silent and the people around John drew back from the man. Like the parting of a sea, the crowd moved and John eased his way over to Isa.

Now that John was closer to Isa and without the presence of the smog, John’s eyes could see clearly the state of the man. Isa was in a haggard state. His eyes narrowed so that they were tiny slits. His clothes were wrinkled and dishevelled. There were even a few brown spots scattered across, what John assumed, was once a white button-up. Isa lifted his head to peer up at John.

There was a moment of silence before Isa spoke. “My God! It’s John!” Isa said. The man’s demeanour completely changed. There was a spark of life in his eyes as Isa took sight of John’s face. “Why are you here?” The man spoke joyfully.

John tried to take in a deep breath, but from the smoke, he ended up entering a coughing fit. Once John had collected himself and once Isa stopped hysterically laughing. John explained his appearance.

At the mention of his wife, Kate, Isa’s expression paled. “John…what time is it?” Isa hesitated. His once joyful expression was now one of guilt and worry.

“It’s nearly eleven at night,” John said.

“...What day?” Isa continued with his questions. He seemed more and more sober the longer John and him spoke.

“Friday, October 19th.”

Isa dropped the pipe from his hand and started patting his body up and down as if he was looking for something. “No–It’s Wednesday. It is Wednesday,” he phrased it more like a question than a statement.

John sighed and shook his head. “It’s Friday.” He pulled out his phone to show Isa the date. Again Isa paled at the sight. “Your wife, Kate, has been worried sick. Isa, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Isa narrowed his eyes at John in disbelief. “I’ve only been here a few hours…I’ve only had two–four, no six pipes? I forgot how many…” Isa began to trail off as he wondered about how many pipes he had smoked.

Before Isa could spiral any further, John reached for the man’s arm and yanked him up to his feet. “Let’s get you back home,” John muttered before lugging Isa to the door.

Isa stumbled into John, nearly knocking him over as they scuffled over to the exit. “I’ll go with you, John,” Isa said as he wrapped an arm around John before leaning his entire body weight on John.

John grumbled as he tried to get solid footing underneath Isa.

“Kate must be so frightened–poor little Kate…my love.” Isa gazed off into the distance thinking about Kate.

By some miracle, John had led Isa out of the building and the two of them were now walking down the alleyway back to the street.

“John! Give me your hand!” Isa exclaimed.

John cried out as Isa lunged for his hand and was now holding it hostage. “Isa!”

Isa ignored John’s outcry. “Do you have a cab?”

“Yes, Isa. I have a cab.”

“Good!” Isa squeezed John’s hand. “I owe you, John. I owe you!”

“Yes. I heard you the first time, Isa,” John said.

Then John continued to lead Isa out of the alley and to the cab that was waiting for them. The alleyway seemingly got darker the longer they walked. It was a narrow lane that made it hard for two grown men to walk side by side. In turn, John walked behind Isa making sure that the man didn’t trip over his feet or stop moving forward.

Even though they were outside and no longer in that horrific building, John felt his lungs begin to burn from the smoke. He found it hard to breathe. Instead, John took to holding his breath. He deemed that it would be better to not breathe in the smog than to breathe at all. That was until he heard a voice speak to him. It was a voice that was too low to have ever come from Isa.

John reluctantly took his eyes off of Isa and looked around the alleyway when the voice spoke again.

“Walk past me, and then look back at me.”

John froze before doing as the voice said. He turned around and looked down. His brown eyes fell upon a tall figure hunched over. There was something familiar about how the figure on the ground sat. John would have expected someone who sat upon the vile ground of Upper Swandam Lane to not sit with an air of arrogance.

The whole scenario piqued John’s curiosity. He found himself leaning over and getting a closer look at the man who had spoken to him. It took all of John’s self-control to not grab the man and cry in astonishment.

It was Sherlock Holmes. The man who had told both Y/N and John that he’d be away for a business trip. Sherlock turned his head so that John could see him clearly now. There was no doubt about it. There were the striking blue eyes that seemed to glow in the dark of the alley, the curly black hair, and that wicked smirk.

“Sherlock!” John harshly whispered. “What on earth are you doing here?!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend’s concern. “Speak as quietly as you can. I have excellent hearing. Also, get rid of that…” Sherlock turned his head to look at Isa who was now leaning up against the wall of the alley. “...friend of yours. Then I’ll talk.” Sherlock said it with such pompousness that John scoffed.

John was considering just leaving Sherlock there and taking Isa back, but then John thought of Y/N. He knew he wouldn’t be able to face the woman without spilling the news about Sherlock.

“I have a cab, Sherlock,” John whispered.

“Good. Send him home in it.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed with disgust as he looked Isa up and down. “He won’t do anything mischievous. He appears to be limping to hold his own body weight up.”

“Which is why I should make sure that he gets home!”

Sherlock tsked. “Quietly John.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose tightly. This was a moment where he should have said no. He should have taken Isa home in the cab. John should have arrived back at 221B and then spilt the news about Sherlock to Y/N. That’s what any good friend should do when they find someone they care about in a compromising position. But John knew Y/N had too much to worry about. He was her friend too. John clenched his jaw tightly before huffing in agreement. This time, he’d agree with Sherlock. He’d save Y/N some worry. It was the least he could do.

It was surprisingly easy to place Isa Whitney in the confinement of the cab before sending him on his way back home to his wife Kate. Out of courtesy, John texted Kate telling her that her husband was on his way home in a cab. As John finished the message, Sherlock appeared beside him.

The two of them didn’t speak a word as Sherlock led John down the street. It seemed the two of them were going for a stroll. The longer the silence progressed, the longer John grew worried. He knew of Sherlock’s addiction. The nicotine patches. The side comments from Mycroft offered a brief picture of Sherlock’s past.

About two streets later, Sherlock stopped moving and let out a light chuckle. John whipped his head around to look at Sherlock like he was insane. (Although, John did think that Sherlock was partially insane most of the time).

“I suppose, John, “ Sherlock said. “You’re imagining that I have added opium smoking to my nicotine patches.”

John’s jaw was slack and his eyes wide at his friend’s words. “What the hell were you doing there Sherlock?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Sherlock replied.

John placed his hands on his hips and stared at Sherlock. “I came to find a friend.”

Sherlock raised his brows letting John know that he already knew that. “I came to find an enemy,” Sherlock stated.

John was unimpressed. The last ‘enemy’ of Sherlock’s that John had met was his brother. It was more likely that the said enemy was someone else from Sherlock’s past. A cousin, a friend, another relative of some sort. “An enemy?”

“Yes; one of my natural enemies.” Those words from Sherlock’s mouth sealed the deal in John’s mind. This was another Mycroft situation. “John,” Sherlock continued, “I am in the middle of a case and I hoped that I could find a clue from the incoherent ramblings of these addicts. Something I have done before.”

“What case, Sherlock? Cause if I remember correctly, Y/N knows about every case you take and she made sure that you’d be free so you could go on this business trip.”

It seemed like the mention of Y/N’s name ticked off something in Sherlock because the man began to walk again ignoring John’s question.

John sighed. “What case, Sherlock?!”

“Follow me, John!” Sherlock called out as his long legs took him farther and farther away from John.

_____

It seemed like the place Sherlock took John was back to Baker Street. How the two of them walked all over London to get back to their flat that late at night astounded John. He was sure how exhausted he was feeling while watching the horror movie with Y/N that he’d have enough energy to travel all the way back home physically. He knew Sherlock had the energy. The man seemed to have a never-ending reserve of energy.

Once the black door of 221 B Baker Street closed, Sherlock began to strip off his coat and scarf. He marched up the stairs with a passion beckoning John to follow. John winced as the stairs creaked loudly underneath his and Sherlock’s steps. If Y/N and Mrs. Hudson weren’t already awake, then they would be now.

“Sherlock!” John hissed at his friend. He was careful of his own volume.

Sherlock turned around to John as he flung his coat and scarf on the hanger by the door.

John stood expectantly in the doorway. His hands crossed over his chest as if he was urging Sherlock on for an explanation that was due long ago.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before answering John. “A few years ago, a man named Neville St. Clair came to London. Not long after he got married to the daughter of a local brewer, someone he has two children with now. I have been told that he’s a good husband and affectionate father and that the family is in a good financial situation. This means that there is no reason for him to be worried about his family or money troubles.”

John pursed his lips and raised a brow at Sherlock. In all honesty, John had no idea where Sherlock was going with this.

Sherlock tilted his head as he remembered something. Suddenly he pulled out his phone to show John a photo of Neville. John peered at the picture. Neville was a man with flaming red hair and sad-looking eyes. His face was filled with freckles and covered every inch of skin. Yet the thing that drew John’s attention the most was the long scar that ran from the tip of Neville’s forehead down to his chin.

“Last Monday,” Sherlock continued, “Neville went into town to run a few errands. Meanwhile, Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch near Upper Swandam Lane. Afterwards, she did some shopping, and at exactly 4.35, she was walking back through Swandam Lane on her way back home. Are you following me, John?

John’s brow raised higher as he continued to stare at Sherlock. He still had no clue as to why a certain Nevill and Mrs. St. Clair had anything to do with a case. In fact, John was positive that there was no case.

Sherlock took John’s silence as a yes, so he proceeded. “If you remember, Monday was a cold day, so Mrs. St. Claire took extra care in looking for a cab. While she was walking around Swandam Lane she heard a loud cry from above her. She saw her husband frantically waving at her from an opening in the window. She also described him as being terribly agitated before a force from behind him tore him away from the window. She tried running after her husband and soon found herself in the same building you were in tonight. She tried making her way up the stairs but was stopped by an attendant and forced back out onto the street. Filled with fear and concern, the woman called the police.”

John finally took a step forward and closed the door behind him. His intrigue was piqued.

“They arrived and searched the place but there was no sign of him there. In fact, there was no one to be found. The police were determined that Mrs. St. Clair had been delusional. That was until they stumbled upon a watch that belonged to Neville. Mrs. St. Claire confirmed that it was her husband based on the engraving on the inside of the watch. After further inspection, the police found some blood as well as all the clothes of Neville St. Clair. There were no signs of violence and there were no more signs of Neville. According to witness accounts, the last one to see Neville St. Clair was a man named Hugh Boone.”

By now John was sitting in his chair. His hand rested underneath his chin as he watched Sherlock pace back and forth as he recounted the information about the case.

“Boone is a professional beggar. He claims that he was not the last one to see our missing man. Detective Gavin–”

“Greg,” John corrected.

“-searched Boone and found traces of blood on his clothes, but the man told Lestrade that it was from a cut on his hand. One that was still bleeding. An injury from the window, where the traces of the blood had been found. Lestrade also took the opportunity to have the nearby area checked. Neville’s coat was found in an alleyway. Inside the pockets was the man’s wallet.”

“So then where’s the body?” John asked. He was sure that finding all of Neville’s clothes and blood but no wallet meant that the man was dead.

“There was nobody, John.” There was a sparkle in Sherlock’s eye as he said it. “However, Boone was arrested and taken to Scotland Yard, but there was nothing against him. The blood had been his own. The only thing that could be used as evidence were Neville’s clothes, but even so, that is substantial enough.”

Everything clicked in John’s brain. “That’s why Y/N didn’t know you had a case. Greg called you himself.”

Sherlock halted his pacing and looked at John. John was right of course, so Sherlock nodded.

Now that John was satisfied with that answer he asked another question. “Why was Neville St. Clair was at an opium den and what does Hugh Boone have to do with the disappearance?”

Sherlock smiled at John. “Now you’re asking the right questions.”

“Sherlock…” John began to fiddle with his hands. “Do you think Neville is dead?”

“Yes–”

Suddenly there was a banging on the door downstairs. John and Sherlock made their way downstairs. It seemed like the knocking had woken up the other residents of 221B for Mrs. Hudson and Y/N were peering out of their doorways at the noise. Mrs. Hudson was in more of a dazed state than Y/N with her overnight hair curlers and cosy pink pyjamas. The elderly woman’s tired eyes quickly acknowledge John and Sherlock making their way down the stairs. Satisfied with what she saw, Mrs. Hudson crept back into her flat and shut the door.

Y/N, on the other hand, seemed to grow more conscious the longer she looked at the scene in front of her. She thought that her mind was tricking her. It couldn’t be Sherlock. Could it? Sherlock caught sight of the woman from the corner of his eye. He could help how his brain tuned out the sound of the banging door to look at Y/N.

She had that same tired look in her eye as she did when she slept over in his flat. Her hair was slightly ajar from sleep and her pyjamas were scrunched up in just the right way. She looked comfortable and for a moment Sherlock felt guilty about waking her up.

“When’d you get back?” She mumbled. Her voice was filled with sleep.

Sherlock smiled and took a step towards her. “Not long.”

“I called you…” Y/N said. She nervously ran a hand through her hair. Internally scolded herself for acting like a schoolgirl. So much for not showcasing her newfound feeling. No, Y/N couldn’t have feelings for Sherlock. She couldn’t. She was dating Jim. Jim was perfect. He was kind, gentle, witty, and handsome. But Jim wasn’t Sherlock. She winced. She was screwed.

“You called?” Sherlock replied a little too quiet for his liking. He hadn’t checked his phone. His mind was too busy with the case. His mind was a little too preoccupied with a case that was purely a distraction from the chemical defect called sentiment.

John cleared his throat reminding Y/N and Sherlock that he was also present and so was the knocking on the door. Sherlock and Y/N turned to look at him, both of them hiding a blush that crept on their faces. John took that as a sign for him to be the one to open the door.

In front of him stood a woman. Her dark hair was a frizzy mess and two dark circles underneath her eyes made her look like a skeleton. John peered at the woman with a confused look but before he could ask her anything, Sherlock pushed him to the side letting the woman enter.

“Mrs. St. Clair,” Sherlock stated.

John’s eyes widened. Y/N wore a confused look on her face. One that John pitied. She still had no idea. Without another word, Mrs. St. Clair was ushered up the stairs into John and Sherlock’s flat with Y/N in tow. She was curious as to why a strange woman appeared on their doorstep in the early hours of the morning.

“ He wrote me a letter,” was all Mrs. St. Clair uttered before shoving the letter into Sherlock’s hand.

_____

Lily,

Do not be scared. Everything is fine. There is a huge error which may take some time to fix.

Love,

Your Neville.

_____

Sherlock took the letter and scoured over the letter. His blue eyes took note of every detail. John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder trying not to notice, Y/N’s puzzled look. He could see the gears in her head turning as she put the pieces together.

“Whoever addressed the envelope had to go and ask about the address.”

This caught Mrs. St. Clair’s attention. “How can you tell?”

“The name is written perfectly in black ink. The rest is in a greyish colour which means that the paper was blotted. Whoever wrote it was not familiar with the address. Are you sure that this was your husband?” Sherlock asked.

“There was a ring. His wedding ring.”

Sherlock nodded. “And this is his handwriting?”

The woman nodded.

Sherlock’s brow pursed at the confirmation. This didn’t make sense. He was so sure that Neville was dead, his body missing. “If Neville is alive, then why has he not returned?” Sherlock asked.

“I…I don’t know.”

Before Sherlock asked another question, Y/N cut him off. “Hold up, what’s going on here?”

“Not now Y/N–”

“Sherlock–” Y/N warned.

“I’ll explain later. Mrs. St. Clair. On Monday your husband said nothing about leaving you?”

“What do you mean you’ll explain later? Sherlock a strange woman showed up on our do–” Y/N hissed. John shot her a look letting her know that he'd explain later if Sherlock didn’t.

“No.” Mrs. St. Clair replied.

“Were you surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?” Sherlock questioned.

“Yes.”

Sherlock looked to the side before coming up with another question. “He only cried out to you?”

“Yes.” Mrs. St. Clair nodded.

“A call for help?”

“Yes. He waved his hands at me.” The woman explained.

The longer the interrogation continued the more confused Y/N grew. She was much too tired to deal with anything right now.

“Couldn’t have been a cry of surprise? He could not have expected to see you in such an area.” Sherlock noted.

“That’s possible, but…”

“And you thought he was pulled back?” Sherlock continued.

“He disappeared so suddenly.” Mrs. St. Clair’s voice began to grow quiet as Sherlock’s questions intensified.

“He could have leapt back. You didn’t see anyone else in the room,” Sherlock noted. His height towered over the woman and he began to lean over her small figure.

Mrs. St. Clair shook her head. “No, but that horrible man confessed to having been there.”

“Right. Your husband was wearing his clothes?”

The woman gulped, unsure of where these questions were going. “Yes, but he wasn’t wearing his tie. I remember seeing his throat.”

“Has he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”

“No.”

“Has ever shown signs of taking Opium?”

Mrs. St Clair looked from Sherlock to John and then to Y/N. She bore a nervous and confused look on her face.

“John. What are the symptoms of some who have taken Opium?”

John had been startled by Sherlock’s sudden question that it took his mind to process what he had been asked. “Mood swings, irritability, changes in appearance, risky behaviours, dizziness…”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Well?”

“Um…no. No Neville hasn’t,” the woman said.

Sherlock snapped back into his upward position. His back was tall and straight as he walked to the door and swung it open for Mrs. St. Clair.

“Very well, Mrs. St. Clair,” He looked to the door and then at the woman before flashing a tense smile.

Mrs. St. Clair took that as her cue to leave for the night. Once she removed herself from the flat, Sherlock shut the door and turned around to face John and Y/N.

“John, Y/N. Pull out your phones.” Sherlock instructed.

“Sherlock you haven’t explained–” Y/N began.

“Phones.”

John and Y/N grumbled as they did as Sherlock asked. Once that was complete they looked up at Sherlock. They were half expecting he’d take their phones and do whatever he liked to them. So when they saw that Sherlock had his own phone out, the two of them were confused.

Before they could ask any questions, Sherlock continued his instructions. “I’m going to call Grayson. Then John. Then Y/N. We will continue to do this until he picks up.”

“Sherlock, it’s 1 o’clock in the morning. Greg is not going to answer,” Y/N said.

“Call,” Sherlock commanded as he dialled Greg’s number.

______

Greg quite liked his days off of work. Typically he would start it all off by sleeping in. A luxury he was not used to having in his everyday life. Then he’d wake up and lie in his bed for a moment, sometimes he used the time to read a book or scroll through his phone checking the daily news. Then maybe he’d make himself breakfast or go out to a local cafe. He had all the time in the world and he had the power to choose what he did with it.

However, this was not Greg’s ideal day off. It seemed like the world was out to get him as his phone deafeningly rang on his bedside table. He was sure he silenced his phone before falling asleep last night. Blinded by his tiredness, Greg let the phone ring until it eventually ended about thirty seconds late. Again it was silent and Greg was well on his way to fall back into a deep sleep. That was until the phone rang again. Greg groaned and rolled over in his bed. His eyes peeled open to look at the time displayed on the alarm clock next to his bed. It was 1.15 in the morning. His mind began to fumble around thinking about who could be calling him at such an hour. It couldn’t have been Scotland Yard. It couldn’t have been…. Greg would have finished the thought if the phone continued to ring. Once again it stopped and the man’s body came crashing back down on the mattress.

There it was again. That boisterous ringtone. Greg shot out of bed and grabbed his phone, yanking the charger out of its socket.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing calling me at one in the morning!” Greg grumbled into the phone. He hadn’t bothered to check the caller ID, so when a soft voice from the other end of his phone started speaking he felt incredibly guilty.

It was Y/N. She hardly ever called and whenever she did it was always for a good reason.

“Sorry Greg,” She whispered, taking into account the early hours of the morning.

From the sound of her voice, Y/N wasn’t fairing any better than he was.

“No…forgive me…sorry. Why are you calling?” Greg began to rub the sleep from his eyes.

There was a pause as Y/N thought of the best way to say it. “...Sherlock needs you to meet us at Scotland Yard.”

Greg groaned. He should have known that it was Sherlock’s doing. Only one man would have the audacity to call Greg this early in the morning, especially, on his day off.

“Sorry, Greg, but he says it’s urgent. Something about the St. Clair case.”

Now this caught Greg’s attention. The case that had been plaguing his desk ever since he received the call a few days earlier. He would have been glad that Sherlock wanted to see him. It meant that there was a breakthrough. However, Greg was tired and had been woken up from a deep sleep.

“Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow morning?” Greg voiced.

Sherlock’s voice spoke over the phone loud and clear. “It is the morning Lestrade.”

“Oh, Sherlock it’s you,” Greg said with disdain.

“Of course, it’s me. Meet us at Scotland Yard in twenty minutes. I’ve solved the case.”

With that, the phone hung up. Greg had no choice but to remove himself from the comfort of his bed. He had to forgo any thought of a nice morning sleeping in topped with a warm breakfast. He knew Sherlock had commanded that he be at Scotland Yard in twenty minutes, but that was the same amount of time as the commute there. If anything, Greg wanted to take as much time as he could before having to confront Sherlock.

As Greg changed and prepared himself for the day, he prayed that the coffee machine in Scotland Yard had been fixed like it should have been weeks ago because Greg knew that he could not deal with Sherlock without a little help from caffeine. The praying was more for Sherlock’s sake (Not that Greg was contemplating murder or anything.)

_____

One of the first things Greg took notice of that morning was that the coffee machine was still broken. However, it seemed like an angel was smiling upon him that morning, that angel was Y/N. She handed him a warm cup of coffee that she had made herself. He couldn’t help but smile at the woman for her kind gesture. A smile that seemed to sour Sherlock’s mood.

“You’re a godsend, Y/N.” Greg thanked her.

“Oh, Greg there’s–” Y/N tried to reply.

“You’re late,” Sherlock stated.

“I know that, Sherlock,” Greg said. “It wasn’t physically possible to arrive here in twenty minutes. Speaking of, why am I here?”

“I need to see Boone.”

Greg took a sip of the coffee. The warm, quite frankly delicious drink made quick work of waking Greg’s body. He raised his brow at Sherlock’s request.

“The beggar?” Greg asked.

“Yes. I know he’s here.” Sherlock replied.

“He is,” Greg confirmed.

“Is he quiet?” Sherlock questioned. This earned a few strange looks from his friends.

“Quiet? Yeah, I guess so. He is a dirty scoundrel though…” Greg trailed off thinking about how dirty the man was.

“Dirty?” John asked.

Y/N looked between the three men. She was beginning to think that this was all an elaborate prank Sherlock was pulling. She had been dragged from her flat and still had not been told what was going on. “Hold on. Before anyone says anything else. What is going on?!” She exclaimed.

Sherlock sighed and looked at John, causing John to sigh as well. It seemed to the job of an explanation landed on John’s shoulders because Sherlock couldn’t be bothered when he was on a roll. So as John pulled Y/N to the side to let her know what was going on, Sherlock and Greg continued their conversation.

“He’s dirty?” Sherlock repeated.

“Yes,” Greg scoffed. “All we can do is make him wash his hands. His face is covered with soot and dirt. The man needs a bath.”

“I need to see him.”

Greg raised a brow as he took note of Sherlock’s seriousness. “Alright, this way–”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Y/N yelled. “You were in an opium den?!”

Sherlock winced at the noise and turned to glare at John. In Sherlock’s mind, explaining things meant the case, not the whole situation. Hesitantly, Sherlock turned his gaze to Y/N who was staring right at him.

“For the case.” It was all Sherlock could say.

“For the case my–” Y/N grumbled as she marched up to Sherlock.

“Y/N! Sherlock! It is too early for this.” John stepped in as the voice of reason.

Greg looked at the scene before him. Then he took a long and loud sip of coffee in an attempt to diffuse the tension. After a few moments of silence passed, Greg deemed it safe enough to speak again.

“As I was saying, Boone’s this way,” Greg said. The group followed him as he led them to the back of Scotland Yard where the holding cells were.

It was a very whitewashed corridor. On each side of the wall, there were barred doors as far as the eye could see. A large majority of the cells were empty, something that Y/N noted as Greg led them down the hallway.

Soon the group's pace began to slow. “Here it is.” Greg pointed to the sleeping figure behind the bar doors.

Boone was huddled on the cot in the room. His legs were held close to his body. His chest rose and fell slowly. The man was in a deep sleep just like one would be this early in the morning. But from what Y/N could see, he was dirty. The man was covered in dirt and soot from head to toe. The grim did little to hide the broad old scar that ran across his face. Y/N scrunched her nose. She couldn’t fathom how someone could stand to be covered in such filth.

“A beauty, isn’t he?” Greg said sarcastically.

“Certainly needs a bath…” Y/N mumbled.

Suddenly, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a large bath sponge.

“Sherlock! Where’d you get a bath sponge?” John asked.

“Don’t you recognize it?” Sherlock questioned as he tilted his head in John’s direction.

John’s face turned red as he tried to control the sudden wave of anger.

“Lestrade, open the door very quietly. We’ll make him much more… tolerable.” Then Sherlock turned to look at Y/N.

Y/N’s eyes widened. “No, Sherlock. There’s no way I’m–”

“Greg, the door,” Sherlock commanded.

Greg’s mind was in shock at how quickly he opened the door for Sherlock. It seemed as if his body was moving on its own. Once the door was open, all of them made their way into the cell. Sherlock quietly turned on the sink in the cell to wet the sponge before raising the sponge to Boone’s face.

Y/N was surprised that Boone had not woken up from how vigorously Sherlock rubbed the grime off the man’s face. Once Sherlock was satisfied with his work, he stepped back and dropped the wet sponge to the floor.

“Let me introduce you to Neville St. Clair.”

John and Greg’s faces all bore the same expression of shock. Y/N, on the other hand, was a bit puzzled as she looked at the sleeping man. Before them lay Neville. The scar from the man’s face, one that his wife declared was his most identifying trait, was present.

“Christ, Sherlock. It is him,” Greg stated. His voice was much louder than a considerate whisper.

This seemed to wake up Neville. The man took one look at the four people standing over him, and he yelped out in fear.

“Lestrade, don’t you think it smart to let our missing man go home?” Sherlock asked.

Neville gulped, waiting for Greg’s answer.

Greg sighed. His coffee was all gone. “We have no case if the missing man was Boone all along…which brings me to ask. What happened on Monday?”

Neville looked down at his feet. “I’m an investigative journalist. I write about what it’s like being a beggar, addict, or anyone suffering from the poor conditions of life. My alias is Hugh Boone…” Neville’s voice grew quiet as he admitted his secret.

Greg pursed his brows. “Great, but that still doesn’t answer my question about what happened on Monday.”

“I had finished work for the day in Swandam Lane when I looked out my window and saw my wife. I cried out before covering my face and running away from the window. I ran to my confidants in the building asking them to hide me just as I heard my wife downstairs. In a hurry, I threw away my clothes and once again entered my persona of Boone. Doing so, I cut my hand on a nail in the window sill. Before I knew it the police were involved and I was arrested as my own murderer,” Neville explained.

Sherlock stepped forward. “What about the letter?”

“We were told we could contact someone. I was too ashamed to call my wife. She’d hear my voice and know where I was. Instead, I wrote a letter and placed my wedding ring inside.” Then Neville buried his face in his hands. “She must have been so worried. I need to get home to her and the kids.”

Greg hated seeing how guilty Neville felt. It was too much for one morning. “Alright, up you go,” Greg motioned for Neville to stand up and follow him out of the cell. Without another word, Neville was let off. The case was solved and everyone went their separate ways: Greg back to his warm bed to sleep the rest of the day, and the case-solving trio back to Baker Street.

_____

A few days later, a thank you email appeared in Sherlock’s inbox. Of course, Y/N was the one to find it as it was part of her job to search and organize Sherlock’s emails. It was a heartfelt message thanking Sherlock for his work. Not very many clients thanked Sherlock after the case was solved, although Neville’s case wasn’t a normal one.

Speaking of emails. That was the worst and probably the most entertaining part about Y/N’s job. Yes, she was also hired to clean, organize, and follow Sherlock around on death-defying cases, but emails were the bane of her existence. Dealing with her own emails was enough, the inbox filled with incessant ads and subscriptions she never remembered signing up for. However, Sherlock’s emails were much worse. There were the subscriptions: newsletters from all over the world, daily notifications about new updates on bizarre websites that would concern even the best of people and ads for the strangest things that would somehow eventually end up in Sherlock’s flat. There were also emails about potential cases, those tended to be mundane things or crazy outlandish stories to get attention from someone online, or people asking for favours. In fact, the hardest thing was finding a job that Sherlock, John, or Y/N couldn’t solve the second the email appeared in the inbox.

Y/N groaned as she swore to God that she’d gouge her eyes out if she had to read another email from a concerned elder about their missing cat or jar of cookies that mysteriously went empty.

Ding!

Clenching her eyes shut and whispering hopes and prayers that this wasn’t a bogus email, Y/N opened her eyes and peered at the screen. It seemed that God or some angel watching over her liked her eyes right where they were on the screen was an email from Hilton Cubitt. The visitor from Ireland, who stopped by two weeks ago. Y/N couldn’t help the triumphant cheer that left her mouth.

“Did you win the lottery?” Sherlock asked without peering up from his latest novel, 100 Ways to Kill Your Employees. A book of many that displayed his loathing of the whole scenario. His tone matched the underlying threat of his choice of light reading, unamused and with a pinch of disdain for his imprisonment.

This confinement began the moment Y/N discovered where Sherlock’s business trip had been. Upon returning to 221B, John began to scold Sherlock. The man in question stood in the doorway to his own flat without a care in the world. John’s words of concern and fear never reached his ears. However, it was when Y/N began to speak up, Sherlock began to listen. Eventually, it was agreed that Sherlock would be watched over just to make sure that he had not been taking opium. (Something that was proposed by Mycroft, but Y/N had been under strict instructions to not tell Sherlock that.)

“No, Sherlock. I didn’t win the lottery, but it looks like Cubitt did,” Y/N said. Sherlock froze in his seat. He gradually moved his gaze up to look at Y/N with a burning fire of curiosity in his eyes. He looked down at the computer in her hands and looked up at her once more. In the blink of an eye, the novel in Sherlock’s hand was replaced by his computer.

Front and Center on the screen was an image depicting more of the code Cubitt had presented Sherlock with two weeks prior. Along with the message of urgency.

______

Come to Clifden. It may be worse than I thought.

Hilton Cubitt

______

“Y/N pack your bags and book us a flight to Ireland,” Sherlock began as stood up from his seat to grab the paper Cubitt had given him of the code.

“Sherlock–”

“Cubitt needs us there to solve the case. Time is of the essence.”

“Sher–”

“Oh and call John and tell him to prepare a bag as well.”

“Sherlock!” Y/N yelled.

Sherlock froze in his step as he turned around to look at her. He raised his brow up as if saying “Why are you not doing what I asked?”

“Sherlock…” Y/N cleared her throat. “We’ll go to Ireland, but only…”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the woman.

“Only if you promise to never lie about a business trip again.”

Sherlock scoffed at Y/N. “I don’t know what–”

“Yes, you do! Sherlock. You’ve been grumbling about being kept here in your flat, so you know full well why. I…” Y/N’s voice grew quiet. “I was so worried, so just promise that you’ll take one of us with you.” Sherlock winced at her words, “ OR at least tell us where you are going. Please.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a sharp intake of breath through his nose. His mind was in torment. This whole scenario was ridiculous. He was being treated like a child. Everything from Y/N’s, not so secret, hovering, Mrs. Hudson’s checking in, and John’s horrific attempts of spying on him all put Sherlock on edge. In his mind, he had done nothing wrong. But she had said please. She said she was worried. She cared. Now, if Sherlock had been given this treatment two months ago when she first came on board as his assistant, he would have fired her on the spot and uttered something about her worry being misplaced. However, time is a funny thing. Now, all Sherlock wants to say is yes. But a singular yes is too harsh, too noticeable, and an easy entrance into the hard-kept secret in Sherlock’s heart. So he settled for a simple…

“Alright.”

It was enough for Y/N to order three tickets to Ireland and transportation to Clifden. In a moment, bags were packed, an inn was booked, Bjørn was placed in the care of his great-grandmother, things were settled, and notice was made of their departure. The game was afoot. A new case was brewing, and Sherlock couldn’t wait.

_____

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