literature

S. Holmes Adventure one, chapter three

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Upon reaching the station, Lestrade was bombarded with reporters who had questions about the murders. When Sheryl stepped out of the vehicle, the reporters froze – their wide eyes aimed at the frail appearing woman. With a bated breath, they watched as she righted herself and stepped up onto the curb.
“…You can call my office at – OI!” Lestrade protested when the mass of reporters left him to swarm around Sheryl.

In a joint movement a dozen voice recorders were shoved in Sheryl’s personal space.
“Ms. Holmes, how does it feel to be back?”
“…Have you made any headway with the Scotland Yard?”
“Can you disclose details about your recovery?”
“Have they caught the terror group responsible for your injury?”
The reporters continued to shoot off questions until the point when one couldn’t be heard from the other.
“Gentlemen,” Sheryl cut in, kindly. “I’ll answer your questions one at a time. Mr. Walsh, you were saying?”

John walked around the crowd to stand with Lestrade.
“Multi faced git…” the detective inspector grumbled and dug around in his pocket, popping a piece of nicotine gum in his mouth a moment later.
“She can be charismatic when she wants to be.” John agreed.
Lestrade snorted. “Could put an actor to shame.” He said and scrubbed his face. “Piece of advice, don’t keep track of her personas. The number can give anyone a headache.”
John blinked and nodded, realizing that the number he already had seen in the past two hours were giving him mental whiplash.
Both men watched as the reporters’ shot one question after another. It was only when John saw Sheryl swaying that he intervened.
“Sherlock,” he called over to her with an expression that commanded she get off her feet at once. Instead of excusing herself, she pulled the horde toward a bench so she could sit. This time, John swore softly and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Lestrade chuckled and smacked John’s shoulder. “Welcome to the ‘Sherlock doesn’t listen to me’ club, mate.”
“Is there a way for me to revoke membership?” John groaned.
The phrase made Lestrade roar in laughter and threw him off balance.

“Ms. Holmes-”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have to get back to the hunt.” Sheryl cut in before the fiftieth question could be asked. “If you have any further questions you can come to 221B Baker Street for an interview or can call my number.”
The men nodded like sullen children. Sheryl stood and started toward the Yard’s front door.
“Ms. Holmes, we just have one final question,” a reporter from the Guardian said. “Is 221b Baker Street open for business?”
Sheryl turned on her heel with a smile. “Of course it’s open. When was it’s doors ever closed to cases, Richard? As long as I’m breathing, the doors will always be open.” She said.

*

The Scotland Yard was a mixture of groans and excitement when Sheryl stepped into the Homicide Department. At the first sign of complaint, Lestrade glowered at them but remained silent. After Sheryl’s return was announced the heads of the other departments arrived to confirm the whispers in the hall. As soon as others saw it was true, they gave the detective inspector an arm squeeze to show their sympathy. A small few, however, pooled pocket change together and called around to order pizzas and a celebratory cake.

Meanwhile, Sheryl gave the ruckus little attention. Instead of partaking in the conversations, she focused on the evidence. The lists of suspects were short; only three profiles were pinned to a board. A stack of ten other files showed that they were removed from the board.
“These are the black market sellers who are directly in London. We’re currently working on tracking them down and looking into any thefts that involve snakes or benzene.” Tobias explained while Sheryl read over the information. When a man dressed in a noble uniform he straightened. “Sir Roberts,” he said in greeting.
Sheryl looked away from the board with a disgusted expression. The chief superintendent stood with a snobbish air about him, an air that commanded obedience despite his gullible and ignorant appearance.
“I want raids happening within the hour.” Sir Roberts ordered.
“You won’t get the information you’re seeking.” Sheryl cut in. “The Russian, Bohemian, and Italian mafia won’t give you their buyers if you take it by force.”
“Thank you for the input, Ms. Holmes.” Sir Roberts said off handedly. “Lestrade-”
“Why are you wasting time, Sir Roberts?” Sheryl interrupted. All eyes fell on her. “Not to mention you’re wasting money from your budget every time you call me in here and then choose to ignore half of the facts that I and your men assembled for the case.”
“We have proof that the mafia is the seller.” Sir Roberts protested.
“We haven’t had the time to see what thefts there have been so how can you say with absolute certainty that you’ll find what we need to find?” Sheryl questioned.

Sir Roberts face was red with anger. “Who bloody cares what we find! We finally have the grounds to tie them up in legal formalities for several years.” He roared.
The room watched with a bated breath as Sheryl turned on her heel.
“Your mentor, Richard Devereux would be ashamed to hear those words from your mouth.” Sheryl hissed while unpinning the ID from her shirt. She slapped the piece of plastic into the man’s hand. “My grandfather taught you better but it seems like only one of us has the courage to follow the words he said a million times at the academy.” She said as she walked past. Motioning to John that they were leaving, the doctor headed out first.
Upon reaching the door, Sheryl stopped and looked over her shoulder. “I will tell you that you won’t be finding the big boys in London this time of year. The streets’ bosses are back in their home countries to strength deals and alliances. My advice to you is not to start a war with them out of the need for revenge, Sir Roberts.” She said then closed the door behind her.

***

When the front door of 221 slammed open the next day, John looked up at Sheryl questioningly as she shot to her feet and grabbed the first book within reach. The mail she had been reading scattered on the floor from the quick movement.
Moments later Mycroft stormed into the flat, his face red with rage and several newspapers clenched in his fist. Without any comment he threw them in John’s lap.
“I said progression, not…THIS!” He fumed. When he saw Sheryl standing, he pointed to the nearest chair. “Sit. Down.”
“Not on your life, brother.” Sheryl shot back.
John looked at the headlines of the papers and gossip magazines Mycroft had dumped in his lap. Many said things like “Back from retirement,” “Sherlock Holmes is back,” and “221B is open again!”
“The activity is good for Sheryl.” John said in hopes it would diffuse the situation.
Mycroft rounded on the doctor. “I will not have my delicate sister running after criminals and dodging bullets-”

Before Mycroft could finish what he was saying, he found himself thrown to the floor and pinned – a thoroughly smug Sheryl sat on her brother’s chest while her fingers twirled a small handgun on her index finger. The book that she had nabbed before his arrival lay open, abandoned, and hallow.
“Don’t mind me, my sexist brother. I’ll just continue looking fragile while playing with the gun that killed five assassins while I lived in Prague.” Sheryl said then stopped twirling the handgun.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said in warning.
Crisp blue eyes looked down at blue green eyes. Sheryl pushed herself off of him none too gently and went to go pick up the hallowed out book. Pivoting on one foot, she glared at her brother. “If you ever looked at my file from MI6 you wouldn’t dare say such things. Mum would wallop you if she knew you said that without even seeing my file.” Sheryl noted coldly.
“One of us has to have a sense of self-preservation since yours is nonexistent, Sherlock.” Mycroft shot back.
“Prague, 2003 – I was sent undercover to spy on the mafia and flush out terror cells that were rooted in their ranks. If I didn’t know self-preservation I would never have been sent in there, Mycroft.” Sheryl responded. “Just because you didn’t go undercover doesn’t mean you have the better senses between us.”
“That was before…before…” Mycroft’s face reflected a brief glimmer of pain as he tried to phrase his response.
“Before I decided to take on a suicide mission to make sure that the country’s next defense minster wouldn’t die prematurely.” Sheryl said with no emotion or even a shred of decency.

Seeing that the siblings needed to clear the air, John dismissed himself to go see if Mrs. Hudson needed help with anything.
Upon hearing the door close, Sheryl looked at the mass on the floor that was her brother. The man looked at her with a mixture of rage ebbed with sorrow. It reminded her of when they were children and the tugs of war ended with the object breaking.
“You don’t have to degrade your value just to speak to me.” Mycroft said, his voice hinting of an aching heart. “You aren’t below me, Sherlock. Stop acting like you are.”
Sheryl slid the book back on the shelf. Her gaze straying to her raised hand, she clenched it tight and drew a deep breath. “Look at me, Mikey. Just stop and look.” She said then sat down and lifted her hands. “I gave up privilege to protect and serve the crown in the only way I knew how. I abandoned our father’s expectations and begged our grandfather and mother to get me into the academy. I had nothing but my name, my skills, and my breath.” She trailed off and looked at her calloused hands while comparing them to Mycroft’s soft, clean hands. Blue eyes looked up into her twin’s. “You, however, choose to stay privilege and protect the crown by being the face of things. Look at our hands. Please tell me that you see the difference between them.”

“Wilhelmina…” Mycroft stopped and shook his head.
“Death knows my fondly, Mikey. I once was the giver of it and I mingle with men who call it their closest friend. I protect this country with wit and as a cold-hearted killer. I thank whomever is listening that you end up protecting this country with a pen.” Sheryl continued, cutting him off and effectively riling him.
“You are not that!” Mycroft protested.
“Tabor, April 2003” Sheryl recounted numbly, “Triple homicide. The victims were terrorists that had squeezed into the mafia. The victims’ hits were given to a new recruit of the Russian mob – a recruit that was an undercover agent. Orders were to make it as bloody as possible to send a message. The front lawn was coated with the splatters.”
“Stop it,” Mycroft hissed.
“Breclav, 2005. A whole operation was slaughtered, fifteen terrorists and ten rouge mafia.” Sheryl continued with a straight face. “Edirne-”

“SHERLOCK, STOP IT!” Mycroft snapped, his head held in his hands. Sheryl went mum and watched as the man struggled to mentally grasp the information.
“I am a solder, Mikey. I am the person who dirties their hands to keep men in your position clean. This is what I was trained to do, to deny me this is to take away the only way I know how to live.” Sheryl said.
Mycroft glanced up through his fingers.

*

When things grew quiet shortly after another slam of the front door, John was up on a ladder replacing the last light bulb for Mrs. Hudson. After the shouts were heard throughout the building, the landlady pointed out some light bulbs that she needed help replacing. He finished twisting the bulb in and climbed down.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Hudson said with a smile and a cookie to go. “I’d have done it myself but my grip isn’t what it used to be.”
“It’s no problem.” John said. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Mrs. Hudson smiled and then paused, she peered out the window and tsked. “I’m going to have a word with that boy’s father…” she grumbled.

John peeked out the window in time to see a boy cutting across the flowerbed to reach the front door sooner.
“I’ll pick up seeds from the shop.” John promised.

*

Upstairs, Sheryl sighed and went back to looking at her mail. Many were potential clients giving her their cases. When there was a timid knock on the doorframe, she looked up.
“Daniil,” she said in greeting in an accent that would have made a native Russian proud. She waved for the boy to come in.
“Man on street told me to deliver this.” Daniil said while holding an object in his cupped hands. When Sheryl extended both of hers, the boy dropped a paperweight with a dried Iris inside the glass into her hand. Daniil then pulled a letter from his pocket. “He gave me enough money for a pizza if I gave you this too.”
“Thank you, Daniil.” Sheryl said and took the offered letter. With a welcoming smile she motioned to the kitchen. “I have sweets if you want to help yourself.”
The boy beamed and dashed for the kitchen. While he stuffed his face and pockets with candies and cookies, Sheryl opened the letter.

It read, “You are brave yesterday, Ms. Holmes. Though I hope you won’t give up on this case. Fide sed cui vide, beloved detective.”
‘Trust, but in whom take care.’ Sheryl translated. It was the old Holmes family war cry from centuries past. Seeing it on the note was disturbing…
“Daniil, the man who gave you this to deliver, what did he look like?” Sheryl asked.
Daniil chugged a glass of milk to clear his mouth of the cake he was devouring. “Tall, rich man. He ‘as dressed like the boss.”
Sheryl nodded and the boy went back to helping himself to the treats people had been dropping off all day.

Taking a second look at the paperweight, Sheryl saw an engraving on the bottom.
In Gaelic letters it said, “Never be afraid of the dark, love.”
With the tv on in the background, reporting the raid on the black market, Sheryl stared at the message and documented everything for her mind palace.
She instantly grabbed her cell phone. After scrolling through her contacts she came across the name she sought.
“Grandfather, I need some help.” Sheryl said the instant she heard the phone on the other end pick up. A friendly chuckle echoed.
Apologies for the delay and any bad formatting/grammar. Printer's been out and I'm an old school editor with a red pen (only way I seem to catch my oopses.)
Not my favorite filler chapter but ooo the symbolism. ;) Stalker guy is good at giving pushes.

Flower translation
Iris: message ("my compliments. I have a message for you.")
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Lovely as always. I am enjoying this ride and look forward to see where it takes me. The sibling relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft is fascinating to see.