Birthdays: Epilogue. The Social Life of 221b

Title: Birthdays
Epilogue. The Social Life of 221b.
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Anthea, Mycroft. Contains what you might call... pre-het, or squint-het.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC's characters or plots.
Word Count: 3,346
Warnings: Guns in a non-combat context.


Sherlock was loudly correcting the telly show host, again. “He was sleeping with the rector, not the maid of honour!”

John shook his head. “Thought you would have got bored with it by now.”

Sherlock gestured at the screen. “What's here is infinitely stranger than anything anyone could invent-- and therefore, more interesting.”

“Hmm.” John sent his email, closed his laptop, and went to the kitchen. “So where did you learn to pick locks?”

“Hmm?”

“Tea?”

“Mmm.”

John poured hot water into the mugs, and carried them into the living room. “You. Picking locks. Where did you learn?” He handed one to his flatmate.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, not taking his gaze off of the screen. After a moment, he added, “I was five. We were bored.”

“God help your parents.”

Sherlock didn't reply to that. John had never heard him mention his parents other than that night with the cabbie, the pills, and Mycroft. Finally he said, “I can teach you.”

“I don't think it's a skill I'd use in everyday life.”

“What a depressing pair of words. Oh, someone hacked your blog.”

“What? Who?” John reached for his laptop.

“Sometime in the last twenty-four hours, I'd say.”

John loaded his blog, expecting scarlet obscenities or something. But the page was still blue, it looked normal, he didn't see anything out of place... “Are you sure? Where?”

Sherlock didn't bother to respond, so John shook his head and began to read through the recent entries. “Oh,” he said after a minute. “Oh.” Hurriedly, he pressed the edit button. “I'll just... check over the rest of this. Who would do this? I don't even like slipcovers!”

“Gwen Simmons.”

“Who? Oh. Why?”

“She thought you were high-handed.”

“I was trying to save your life, Sherlock!”

“Her words, not mine.”

“She... she emailed you.”

“Obviously.”

“To complain, about me.”

“Not just to complain about you.”

“Lovely,” John muttered.

He'd just finished combing his blog to remove all the references to slipcovers, fluffy bunnies, and handcuffs when his mobile buzzed. It was a text message from a number he didn't recognize. Even though Sherlock was sitting right across from him, he felt a second of apprehension. Then he opened it, and...

“Problem?”

“This doesn't make sense at all.”

“What is it?”

“It just says... next Tuesday, 10:30, with an address. Is this her? Gwen Simmons?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she always works alone, and because right now she's in Tulsa, Oklahoma, visiting her mother.”

“Oh.” John looked up the address. “It's... a vacant building. Used to be a kid's playplace.” He frowned. “Do you think it's...”

“He's not that stupid.” Sherlock picked up a book on pathogenic fungi of southern Thailand. “Maybe you've picked up a secret admirer from your blog.”

John puzzled over the mysterious text message for the next day. Then he wrote back: is this a threat?

The answer came back almost immediately. “Sherlock,” John said tightly, running downstairs. “Sherlock!”

His friend looked up from his book. “John.”

“Read this.” John handed over his mobile.

Sherlock glanced at the screen, then handed it back without comment.

“Well?”

“I don't see why you're so distressed.”

“'No, but feel free to bring your Sig'!”

“I can read, you know.”

“Sherlock, I am not supposed to have that gun.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's illegal!”

“Oh. Dull.”

“Whoever this is, knows that I have it, they even know what kind it is!”

“Clearly.” Sherlock turned a page.

John opened his mouth, closed it again, and went back to his bedroom. He suspected that making Sherlock understand why having complete strangers know about one's illegal pistol was bad, was an exercise in futility. He wrote back, who are you?

The answer came back almost immediately. My name wouldn't mean anything to you.

John spent Monday in the A&E worrying about the mysterious text messages. He finally resolved to somehow convince Sherlock into looking into it. After all, it was for Sherlock's cases that he'd been carrying the thing around the city, and Sherlock didn't have anything else on at the moment. John would be working at 10:30 the next day, so he wouldn't be tempted to go by the vacant building for a look.

John's boss called him into the office at the end of his shift. “I want you to take tomorrow off,” he said.

“Why? I'm scheduled.”

“Yes, but you've been working doubles for the last eight days,” Paul said.

“So has everyone else. I'm fit to work.”

“Er. John, just take tomorrow off.” Paul looked uncharacteristically nervous.

John stared at him. Then, suddenly, he understood, and licked his lips. “... Right,” he said.

“Good. See you... Wednesday, then?”

“I... I should think so, yeah.”

Paul looked at John, then shook his head just a little. “Good night, John.”

 

John arrived at the specified building at 10:24 on Tuesday morning, his Sig safely hidden beneath his jumper and his coat. The door was windowless; he tried the handle, found it unlocked, and stepped inside.

It was in surprisingly good condition for a building that had been abandoned for the last seven years. The front corridor was dark and dusty, but dry. He went in the direction of the faint light, and found himself in a perfectly normal-looking reception room.

“Identification, please,” the secretary said.

John fumbled in his wallet and handed over his ID card for the hospital. “Will this do?”

Silently, the secretary studied the card, and handed it back. “Through the hallway,” he said, indicating a doorway behind him, “around the corner, third door on the right after the corner.”

“Thanks.”

All the doors John passed were closed and unlabeled. The third door on the right after the corner was unlocked, and behind it was a large, mostly empty room. “If I hadn't figured it out,” he asked, “were you going to kidnap me again?”

Anthea turned around. “Yes,” she said, and smiled innocently.

The room was an indoor shooting gallery, long and narrow. Anthea was standing at the firing line. John joined her and drew his Sig. “I didn't bring any extra bullets, I'm afraid.”

“I did.” She began to unload the large canvas bag on the counter in front of her. In addition to three boxes of 9mm Luger bullets, she handed him a set of earplugs, a pair of earmuffs, and safety goggles. John put the last three on, then happened to glance at what else she was taking out of the bag:

the Browning Hi-Power he knew, from brief encounters with the SAS, but the long-barreled pistol and the smaller, sleeker gun he didn't recognize at all. Finally, she took off her blazer, drew another small pistol from its holster, and added it to the collection in front of her. She looked up, caught John staring, and put the long pistol in front of him. He took off his ear protection hastily. “Have a go with this one,” she said, put another box of bullets in front of him, and donned her own earmuffs.

John loaded the long gun: the engraving on the barrel proclaimed it an HK USP Elite, and it took .45s. It was more accurate than anything he'd ever shot before, and the recoil was much less. Still, after using half the box, he put down the HK and picked up his Sig. He glanced over at Anthea; she put down the small pistol that she regularly carried, and picked up the Browning. He concentrated on his own shooting. The range was fully automated, and he could bring up a new target with the flick of a switch.

His groupings weren't as clean as he'd liked, or as clean as they'd once been, but that was to be expected. When he'd reported his pistol as missing on the battlefield, and enlisted Bill's help to get it home, he'd been on strong drugs and not considering how he would either buy bullets, or practice with his weapon. John had never regretted the decision to smuggle his service pistol out of Afghanistan, though the lack of regret been for very different reasons before and after Sherlock, respectively. He reloaded.

He'd noticed enough improvement to please himself by the time he was out of ammunition. Anthea was just putting down the Browning. She looked over, saw him watching, and handed him the last gun from her collection, the small, sleek one. When she took off her ear protection, he followed suit. “Want to try this one?”

John turned it over. “Are all these yours?”

“No.” She placed another box of bullets in front of him, and put her earmuffs back on. John took out the magazine, loaded it, replaced his ear protection, and aimed at the target. This gun fired nicely, and he achieved a tight grouping. After reloading twice more, he put the gun down, and took off his earmuffs and earplugs.

“Do you have the things to clean them with?”

“I'll do that later. Are you done?”

“Yes.” He returned her gun. “Thank you.”

She looked up from putting away the guns and goggles, and smiled. “You're welcome, John.”

“Is, er... are things back to normal for you, then?”

“Normal?”

“Well. As normal as they get, I suppose.”

“Mostly. Mycroft made short work of Rosemary's accomplices.” She put the last box of bullets in her bag. “There's been turmoil in more than one ministry office since he got out of the hospital.”

“Hmm.”

Anthea turned and walked quickly out of the range; John hurried to catch up and then walked along beside her. “Do you do this frequently, then?”

“Regularly. Sometimes I practice with the field agents.”

“Right.” They left the building for a back alley; there was a familiar black car there, and Anthea opened the door and put the bag in the back seat. “Well, thanks again. I suppose I'll... see you next time Sherlock wants to piss off his brother.”

Anthea slid through and opened the other door.

He blinked. “Er.”

She smiled innocently. “Get in the car, John.”

“You know,” he said, as she drove through the streets of London, “there are ways to get someone to go somewhere that don't involve kidnapping them.”

“I didn't kidnap you. This time.”

“Or frightening their bosses.”

“He'll be fine.”

“Isn't that an abuse of power?”

She gave him her don't-be-an-idiot look. It wasn't as acerbic as Sherlock's, but it was still quite effective.

“No, right, your boss uses his resources to keep tabs on his little brother. What was I thinking? Is there any point in my asking where we're going, this time?”

“Mycroft's flat,” Anthea said, pulling up to the pavement. John looked round and blinked: yes, it was the familiar townhouse. “You're meeting Sherlock.”

“How long have they been there together?” he asked, following her up the steps.

“The windows are still intact. Oh--” Anthea entered the code at the front door, which clicked open, and the first thing John heard was-- music. “We're a bit early,” she said softly, and John barely heard her.

Someone was playing the piano; someone was playing the violin. John didn't recognize the piece, but he thought he recognized the violin, or rather, what were the chances that Mycroft knew two musical virtuosos? Which meant, by the process of elimination, that Mycroft had to be playing the piano. Where had the piano come from? He was sure there hadn't been one in the flat when he'd been treating Sherlock for snake venom. Then he listened more carefully, and forgot about everything else, because the music was breathtakingly beautiful. The piano played a few stormy chords and then stopped, leaving the violin to sing by itself, low and sweet and melancholy, for half a minute. When the piano began to play again, John remembered to breathe.

The piece came to an end; Anthea began to climb the stairs, and he followed her. Even though he'd heard Sherlock play before, he still found himself puzzling over how Sherlock and Mycroft, of all people, could play... like that, not just with technical perfection but with pathos. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, the quiet moment of musical concord had evaporated. “I couldn't possibly,” Sherlock said, laying his violin in its case. “Out of the question.”

“It's a very delicate mission, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glanced up. “John couldn't take the time off of work.”

Mycroft looked taken aback. “If you feel you need him on this case,” Mycroft said slowly, “I'm sure something could be arranged. He's been working double shifts for the past... eight days, John?”

John shifted his weight and nodded once, shortly. He looked Mycroft over: the gunshot seemed to have healed without complications.

“I can't, not at this time of year. It's entirely the wrong season for the place.” Sherlock went to the window and looked out.

“Where?” John asked, dreading the answer, because after what Mycroft had said about needing him, Sherlock was sure to drag John off to some god-forsaken locale just to spite his brother. John was dreading Mycroft's 'delicate mission' in Finland, or Siberia, or the Falklands.

“Nice,” Sherlock said, spitting the word out as if it offended him.

John blinked. “Nice is... quite nice this time of year, actually.”

“Exactly! It'll be full of... tourists, revelling drunkenly and mostly nude on the beaches.”

“Part of the attraction, for some people,” John said.

“Not in January, Sherlock,” Mycroft said at the same time. “And the tourists will provide cover for you.”

“What's the case?” John asked.

“One of my agents has... left,” Mycroft said.

John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft. “What, you mean he's turned traitor?”

“Not exactly. The evidence seems to indicate that she's joined a traveling... circus.” He pronounced the last word carefully, with a bit of disdain.

“Oh,” John said after a moment. “So you think Sherlock...”

“My brother does have a talent for unravelling the most unusual situations, yes.”

“It's simple, if you'd only bother to do your own bloody legwork, Mycroft. Or if you had competent agents to do it for you.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I'm sure they'll be up to the task, once I release it to them. I was saving it for you, but...” He studied his fingernails.

“What's she doing in the circus?” John asked.

“If my sources are accurate, she's taken over as primary caretaker for the animals.”

“Er.”

“She also seems to have discovered a talent as a tattoo artist.” Mycroft smiled at John. Behind him, Sherlock turned his head to look at Mycroft.

“And you, you don't think it could be related to... whatever she's in Nice for?”

“Agent Carson was assigned to protection duty for the ambassador's wife's elderly grandmother. There could be a connection, but I rather think not.”

“That's... not something you hear about every day.”

Mycroft smiled thinly. “Most of my agents do try to avoid publicity, yes.”

John closed his mouth before he started to sputter that that wasn't the meaning he had intended.

Mycroft stood. “I'm afraid I need to meet with the assistant to the shadow secretary of state for education in half an hour, so you'll have to find your own way back. Good-bye, Sherlock. John.”

“Send our tickets round,” Sherlock said. “You'll need to make arrangements for John's Sig.” He picked up his violin case. “Come on, John!”

John looked after him, then glanced over his shoulder and shrugged apologetically before following his flatmate out. “Why'd you change your mind about the case?” he asked when they were sitting in a taxi.

Sherlock didn't answer. He was checking something on his phone. “How was your date?”

“What? It wasn't a date.”

“'It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun,'” Sherlock quoted.

“No. It wasn't-- No. Not a date. No.” John cleared his throat. “No. Sherlock, you knew who that text was from, didn't you?”

“You would have known too, if you'd only thought about it. It was obvious.”

“And you couldn't be bothered to tell me?”

“I presumed you could take care of yourself.”

“Sherlock--” John began, and then gave up.

Three days later, he got a text: You should be back from Nice in two weeks. Tuesday, same time?

 

 

 

A/N: Sherlock's remark about infinitely stranger is paraphrased from the Arthur Conan Doyle short story, “The Case of Identity.”

To find out why I've written John as having a Sig when Moriarty calls it a Browning, read this excellent post on the identity of John's gun: http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/1165186.html

In “The Great Game,” John says that he's met the secret service, which means MI5 and MI6, not the SAS; MI5 and MI6 are not known for carrying Browning Hi-Powers. However, it's not outside the realm of possibility that he encountered members of the SAS while in Afghanistan, or serving somewhere else. In my mind, Anthea's four guns are a Browning Hi-Power, a USP Elite, a Nighthawk T3, and a USP Compact as the one she actually carries; however, I don't know much about guns, and the details aren't particularly relevant. I don't know if the other three are actually hers-- I suspect she borrows them on a regular basis for target practice. And yes, the USPs are American-styled guns: I'm guessing someone in Mycroft's employ would have her pick of weapons.

I've written John as someone who is not a gun enthusiast for two reasons. Of course, the resetting of the Sherlock Holmes stories from Victorian England to 21st-century London means that John's service gun is now highly illegal, but he has it anyway; this is probably something the writers chose to overlook for narratorial convenience, but it does turn John Watson from a mostly law-abiding character (well, sort of-- he does aid and abet Holmes in some rather shady endeavors) to someone who went out of his way to do something highly illegal. Why? Because he craves danger? Because he was contemplating suicide? Probably some of both.

Anyway, there are two moments in “The Great Game” that made me stop and think. One is at the planetarium: the Golem is suffocating Sherlock, yet John still takes the time to say, slowly, “Golem! Let him go, or I will kill you.” It seemed to me like Golem had already seen the gun and was not particularly daunted by it, so why does John take the time to say that? Then, at Joe Harrison's flat, John is clearly pointing a pistol at Joe, but he still says “Don't! Don't.” Combine this with Sherlock's observation from “Didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though,” and I believe you have a picture of a man who doesn't like to fire unless absolutely necessary. His reluctance could just be because such a shooting is bound to attract attention, but then why doesn't he react more when Sherlock is very obviously shooting at the wall? So I've written John as someone who would want to stay a good shooter because he has a gun in the first place, but not as someone who would necessarily go to the range for fun.

The idea for Mycroft and Sherlock's duet was inspired by coryphaeusrex's Sonata, which is very good and which I recommend.

Finally, thanks for reading! I hope you've enjoyed the story.