by S. K. Lloyds
“Supper,” Sherlock said.
Lestrade hesitated and then jerked himself back around. Of course he ate. He wasn’t robotic.
“I assume someone’s dead.” Sherlock opened his hands. “Honestly, Lestrade. I don’t do social calls, and I have things to attend to.”
“Quiet down,” Lestrade set his hands on his hips. “We’ll get to the crime scene in just a minute. Right now, there someone you need to meet.” He caught Sherlock’s forearm. Sherlock watched the action closely, but didn’t resist it. Lestrade laid a folded leather badge holder into Holmes’ hand.
Sherlock opened it and handed it back as if it had burnt him.
“Keep it.” Lestrade said. “It took a lot of string pulling, but it’s yours. For now.”
Sherlock said flatly. “Yes, in fact, I believe I’m developing a rash as we speak.”
John rolled his eyes and took it. It was a badge and paperwork for Sherlock. This was nothing short of shocking. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“The CIA showed up here this morning,” Lestrade lowered his voice. “There’s been a murder on one of their international cases. They wanted our best people.”
“So, naturally, you called Sherlock,” John said without hesitation.
Holmes glanced his way and half smiled.
“Thing is, they’ve brought a special agent-”
“Oh, and not to be outdone, the Yard had to have their own. I suppose Commander Snow isn’t above vanity.” John sighed at the stupidity of it all.
“No. This came down from above Snow,” Lestrade said quietly. “He’s been told to put up and shut up, is what I’ve heard, that’s why you’re both back in the building right now.”
“What?” John gaped. “I was banned too?”
“John, don’t split hairs.” Sherlock said happily, and he opened his arms, “We’re back. Thank God. Learning the street map of Paris was so tedious – so much underground. Hm. Fun, underground.”
Lestrade didn’t like the sound of that so he pushed ahead. “Yes, well, it wasn’t so much that the Yard needed to one-up the CIA, it’s more like the CIA demanded to work with our Consulting Detective. Not in so many words. They don’t know who you are, or your title-”
“Oh, yeah: Consulting Detective. It’s on the badge.” John showed Sherlock with a broad grin.
“For God’s sake put that away,” Sherlock pawed at the thing John kept yanking out of his reach. He snickered, “John, really. I might burst into flame if light from that thing shines on me.”
John smiled and closed the badge into his pocket. “He’s drawing a salary, yes?”
“He is.” Lestrade said a little uncomfortably, “adjusted to the market value of his talent, in fact.”
Donovan scowled and almost turned her back on them.
Lestrade cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, the CIA knew the cases you worked, Sherlock. I have a list right here. All of them were yours. Not one missed, even from before Dr. Watson started writing them up on his blog. We pushed the badge through so it’s good and official. You’re here in an official capacity, starting today.”
“Well, all very interesting, and, by that, I mean I don’t care,” Sherlock took off his gloves and pocketed them. “I’ve no intention of being here more than I absolutely need to be.” He glanced over Lestrade’s hands and up again.
“We’re aware of that,” Lestrade told him. “But listen to my words: you’re here in an official capacity, starting-”
“Lestrade,” Sherlock leaned in. “I heard you. Saying it again won’t fix my personality.”
The man sucked in a breath he exhaled slowly. “Okay. So we’re going to meet up with them now. You’ll be meeting their specialist. So just… please. Be good. If you can.”
Sherlock linked his hands behind his long back. They followed Lestrade to the back of the building. The Americans stood in one shuttered hallway, clad in black suits and wearing dark glasses like something out of the movies. There was one woman in their number. She wore a black skirt-suit and heels, her corn silk hair up in a stylish bun. They had that tall, lanky, over-worked look of Americans – too perfect, as though they went for a liposuction touch-up once a month, and patronised plastic surgeons that specialised in making them adhere to unwritten standards.
“Special Agent Young,” Lestrade said. The blonde looked up.
“Which one of these gentlemen is our boy, sir? Or is it both of them? We’ve had teams before, though Reese works alone.” Her voice was high with a twang to it.
Georgia.
“Shouldn’t you lot be working with MI6?” John asked them. He still had the badge in his hand and gestured with it.
She took off her glasses. Her eyes were grey-blue. “It’s you then?”
“Oh, it’s most certainly not me,” John replied and jabbed his thumb up at Sherlock. Holmes was already busily examining her shoes.
Slight limp.
Shifts weight frequently.
Faint smell of liniment.
No outward sign of injury.
Very toned.
“You should try not to overdo it in the gym,” Sherlock glanced up at her. “But then, you’re the kind for overdoing it. I shudder to imagine the bouts of bulimia in sorority.”
“My-my,” she said lightly. “How could I miss the signs?” She turned to the two men behind her and motioned at them. “This is Agent Lewis and, over here, Agent Scott, and, in reply to your question, sir, we enquired at MI6 and they suggested we come to Detective Inspector Lestrade, and ask after his specialist. Now who are you two?”
Since Sherlock said nothing, John nodded, “Doctor John Watson.”
“My assistant,” Sherlock was scanning Lewis and Scott.
“And you are?” She smiled at him prettily.
“Sherlock Holmes.” He said distractedly, because he was deeply involved in examining the men with her now. He tipped his head a little at Scott’s collar and then glanced back at the woman. “Why are they feigned like this?”
“Excuse me?”
Sherlock half-circled one of them, “They look like they came out of central casting.”
“Ah.” The woman smiled tightly and turned. “Lewis, why don’t you go and get Reese? To answer your question, it is because Reese – your American counterpart, so to speak – finds this less distracting.”
His American counterpart? John gave his head a few rapid shakes. Sherlock’s lips pursed slightly, but that was all there was in the way of reaction from him.
“I’ll be right back.” Lewis turned on his heel, huge. Sherlock was generally the tallest person in any gathering John frequented, but these guys had to be 6’5. Lewis walked stiffly away, leaving Scott looking like the front end of a Mack truck, seeing as he was so burly with muscle.
Agent Young opened the door to the meeting room beside them and stepped in. “For the past eight months we’ve been investigating the activities of-”
Sherlock bypassed the doorway to watch where Lewis went.
Agent Young paused beside her chair. “Mr. Holmes.”
“Sherlock,” Holmes said absently.
“Reese will take a moment. Please come and sit down.”
Sherlock looked up the hall in spite of this summons. In fact, John settled into his seat and watched the genius. He was excited. Then again, he was about to meet a special agent for the CIA who, apparently, was a big deal. His American counterpart? Did this woman have any idea what Sherlock was? John couldn’t conceive of any counterpart to Holmes.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade nodded.
“Oh, don’t fret, Detective Inspector. I’ve worked with three ‘Exceptional Assets’ in my lifetime. I understand how hard it is to control them. Your boy’s in his mid-twenties.” She picked up her compostable coffee cup from the table and added, “You aren’t going to change him.”
The look Sherlock gave her was unreadable, but it had absolutely no impact on her urbane exterior, which was every bit as smooth as her extraordinary hair. Her to
ne became firm but patient, “Please join us, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock eased into the room without taking his eyes off where Lewis had gone.
“For the past eight months the CIA has been investigating the activities of a collection of people who are something like you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Sherlock,” he said more slowly, with a soft click on the ‘k’, which was a sure sign his patience with her was wearing.
John sat forward. “It’s just Sherlock, Ms. Young.”
“Special Agent Young,” she said in that same too genteel tone – one part professionalism and one part scolding from one’s mother.
John sat back and blinked at her. “In my experience there aren’t that many people like Sherlock, in fact, I’d venture he has no peers. So I’m curious to hear what you mean. It should throw some light on what you think he is, precisely.”
“He’s an E.A.” she had yet to sit, and paced the long side of the table beside her coffee cup. “An Exceptional Asset, or Exceptional, and he’s not a unicorn, doctor. He has peers. We have eight of them with twenty four handlers.”
“Oh so many handlers,” Sherlock smiled a little.
“And another unicorn in the building,” John added onto this.
“Yes. Three a piece,” Young chose to answer Sherlock’s unspoken question. “I find it surprising that you’ve commented on that, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock almost rolled his eyes.
“You have three handlers, do you not?” Special Agent young indicated with one flattened hand. Her controlled actions went with her appearance, overall: trim and fantastic, like some model for Prada business clothes. “Likely they serve the same purpose as my team and I do. There is someone in charge of you, the Detective Inspector; for lack of a better word, there is a leash for you, I suspect that may be Sergeant Donovan; and you have a sitter to meet your personal needs.” She looked at John.
What the – John flushed. What the devil kind of personal needs did she think he met?
Sherlock’s lips thinned down for a moment, and he moved his hands from his pockets to join behind his back again, now he had something unpleasant to think about.
“Excellent,” the woman set her hands on her hips. “Of the eight Assets in the CIA, Reese is currently predominant. Moving Reese from Langley to here should tell you the seriousness of this situation. For the past eight months the CIA has been investigating-”
“Something it seems it will take you eight months to say,” Sherlock exclaimed.
She raised a hand with one finger extended. “Mr. Holmes, kindly don’t interrupt me. I promise you’ll be rewarded with something to think about.”
Sherlock sucked in a breath and turned to Lestrade. The Detective Inspector was staring back in fascination, almost as if he was about to whip out a notepad and take notes. For her part, Donovan was smiling openly. No help there. John budged a little in his chair to draw Sherlock’s attention. He prayed that the look on his face said ‘Do not react’. He gave a soft nod and Sherlock straightened back and closed his eyes. He schooled himself and waited.
“How very unusual… does your Asset have visual perceptual difficulties, Detective Inspector?”
“Nah,” Lestrade said, “just limits to his patience.”
“Problems with impulse control then,” she said to Scott, who nodded. The woman set in again. “For the past eight months the CIA has been investigating the activities of a collection of exceptional individuals. The fact they’ve gathered together as they have is, in itself, alarming. Individuals of their intelligence are problematic at best, and need to be managed. The CIA made immediate moves to infiltrate them. We succeeded in making contact. Work was going well. We determined the rogue band of exceptional individuals was involved in criminal activity, but very quietly. They move people and goods around the world without consideration for the laws of any country in which they choose to operate, and are amassing funds for… something. And then, shortly after the affair called ‘The Blind Banker’, a number of them, perhaps five or six of them, congregated in London. We suspect they had some role in the smuggling operation you interrupted. However, we’ve had a setback. Our mole has gone dark. He missed his checkpoint on Friday.”
Sherlock glanced across to Lestrade.
The Detective Inspector patted air with one hand. “We’ll get you in on the scene. Anderson’s been informed and is waiting for you to arrive before anything more is done.”
“So far, it’s only been photographed.” Special Agent Young said. “Reese likes to work off of photos. As I said, it’s rare for us to move Reese from Langley.”
Sherlock motioned at Lestrade with his cell phone, “Grab leash and sitter. I’m off to see the body now.”
John actually chuckled aloud as he got to his feet. He followed Sherlock out into the hall without a backward glance. He could hear Lestrade and Donovan come out behind them, Sally already complaining that he showed no respect for authority.
The young woman who appeared around the corner from them stopped John in his tracks. Holmes, who was texting on his cell, kept going.
“Sherlock,” John warned. Holmes tucked the cell and his hands into his coat’s pockets, looked up to see what had caused the stir, and stopped.
Lewis stood behind a young woman with short, tight waves of black, almost 20s style hair. The look was shattered by two small, almost ornamental pigtails. Her eyes were so blue, that, framed in black mascara and generous liner, they were nearly colourless. Her skin, if possible, might have been a shade paler than Sherlock’s. She was taller than John, and slim. Her hands were sunk in the pockets of a plastic rain coat dotted, aptly, with the London rain John could now hear pocking the building’s windows. Underneath, just a black strapped shirt, and pleated plaid skirt – not nearly warm enough for the weather. She also wore knee-high, lace-up black boots that looked stout to John… but a tad too style conscious to be of military or police make. She had one gold ring through her red bottom lip. John put her in her early 20s at most.
This girl stopped in the hallway and flicked the hood from her hair with a jerk of her head. Her blue eyes passed over John and then returned to Sherlock Holmes.
The sound of the rain dominated the hallway’s sudden tension.
Special Agent Young and her coffee cup stepped out of the meeting room. She shut the door behind her and said, “Reese, I told you not to go outside.”
Reese said nothing. She continued to stare at Holmes in much the same manner as he levelled at her. It was like they’d both stumbled upon a species they suspected was heretofore unrecorded, or, very possibly, mythological – like they were two unicorns in London.
Special Agent Young’s heels clacked down the hallway. She came to a stop beside Lestrade and Donovan. “Reese, this is Sherlock. He’s the Asset-”
“Consulting Detective,” Sherlock said in an exasperated tone.
“-here at Scotland Yard. Say hello.”
Reese said nothing. She did, however, take her hands out of her pockets and begin to peel off her gloves. Her many bangles glittered in the overhead lights. She wasn’t as tall as Sherlock, but she was easily closer than John was, at, he estimated, 5’10 in the boots, and lean.
Once the gloves were off, she tucked them into the pockets of the raincoat. Stopping about three feet from Sherlock, she held out her hands, flattened. She spread her fingers, and turned her hands over in air before him before tucking back in her pockets again.
Sherlock’s head tipped to one side. He made a circle around her. His coat swirling as he came to a stop before her again. Then he sighed, contained his impatience to be off, and held out his hands. He turned them over, just as she had, and stood as she walked a slow circle around him.
Finally, when she’d come around to the other side, she stopped. “Violin.” Her voice was actually kind of low and husky for a girl.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, and then added. “Suicide.”
***
Reese’s painted lips opened for a m
oment, and, as if on springs, her jaw clacked closed into the coldest and bitterest of expressions. She almost looked betrayed. The girl swung around and headed back up the hall the way she’d come.
Sherlock looked at the windows and gave a light little puff of exhalation. It was the acidic disappointment that caught John’s attention. He looked up at Holmes’ empty searching of the windows and desks and glass offices, and felt in those gestures the desolation beneath. It occurred to John that Sherlock had never met someone like him before. I mean, Mycroft, arguably, but… never someone outside of his own family. And like with Sofia, earlier tonight, whatever he’d meant, Sherlock hadn’t been able to establish a connection.
Then his green eyes fixed.
John looked up the hall to find that Reese had stopped in her tracks.
She turned and stomped back to Holmes, her expression now quite like the dark thunderhead rolling in beyond the windows. She reached him, grabbed both of Holmes arms and yanked them out toward her. Her husky voice went off. “Slight wince on the motion of your left arm, tendon or muscle damage high up makes you inclined to frame your shoulders stiffly and keep that arm closer to the body. It’s because you remember pain, maybe serious tissue damage there, and, mentally, you’re still dealing with the trauma. But that’s not even the good part. Slight inward turn on the right arm is even more telling. It was accompanied by a tiny shudder. Shivering isn’t pain. You’re not protecting it, you’re hiding it. You put your inner elbow almost against your ribs. You’d put your hands behind your back if you could, and hold that position. So – long term psychological damage. I’m thinking lefty got badly hurt recently, and that’s giving you flashbacks. But righty, I’m getting that’s self-induced. I’m thinking you’re left-handed, and that inner elbow is your favourite injection spot. So that’s where you shot whatever the hell you did so your eyes could go blank, and you didn’t have to deal with all of this shit.” She released his arms with a shove and spoke slowly to him. “Don’t you ever dis me again.”
With that, Reese turned on her heel and strode down the hall toward the elevators.
